by Ruth Rendell
It seemed that the positive steps had paid off yet suddenly she felt near to tears. ‘It wasn’t a joke but it could be one. I don’t want to go to the police. I hate the idea.’ The tears didn’t come. She had stopped them without touching her eyes, stopped them by an effort of will. ‘Take me out to dinner, Preston. Please. We can talk about all this. We’ve never really talked about it. And then we can come back here afterwards.’
‘All right,’ he said, ‘if that’s what you want.’
Since he had put the bolts on the door, Huguette had several times come to his room. It was easy for her, almost as easy as to have him come to her flat, for all she had to do was pick a day when she was visiting her parents, and after saying goodbye to them and leaving the house, slip down the area steps and be admitted by Henry. Then he slid the bolts across.
It gave him a severe shock when he heard footsteps on the tiled passage and saw his door handle turn. Whoever it was (as Huguette put it) went away after trying again.
‘Doesn’t my dad knock on the door? Does he just expect to walk in?’
Henry couldn’t say it wasn’t her father but her mother.
‘If you’d only let me tell him we’re engaged.’
We’re not, thought Henry. ‘It wouldn’t do for him to find you here.’
‘I don’t understand why you can’t have your privacy. It’s medieval just walking in here without knocking, it’s treating you like a slave.’
Henry started laughing. ‘That’s why he won’t let you marry me. Because I’m a slave.’ His mobile was ringing. He reached for it. ‘Very good, My Lord. Ten minutes’ time at the Peers’ Entrance.’
She seemed not to realise that if it was her father on the phone in the House of Lords it couldn’t have been her father outside the door five minutes before.
The semi-detached house in Acton owned by Abram Siddiqui, his mortgage now paid off, was to Rabia a far more comfortable place to be than number 7 Hexam Place. But number 7 contained Thomas and number 15 Grenville Road, Acton, did not. She worried about Thomas while he was away from her and with his mother or his father. There was no doubt Mr Still loved his children but it seemed to Rabia that the only way he knew to show love was by finding spots on their faces.
She would have disliked it if Khalid Iqbal had shown anything approaching love but his behaviour had been exemplary. He had arrived at the precise time he said he would, spoken to her with great politeness and not, of course, attempted to shake hands with her. No man had ever touched her but her father and her late husband. Mr Iqbal accepted a cup of tea and just one of the sugary cakes provided by Rabia’s father, refusing to take a second. Perhaps Abram Siddiqui had told him how much she disliked greed. Mr Iqbal talked very entertainingly about the Christmas-tree trade at the Belgrave Nursery and the new lines they were offering for the first time: pink poinsettias, an innovation, holly wreaths and amaryllis, tall plants with improbably bold and beautiful flowers borne in pairs on a succulent stem.
The conversation turned to the family and an explanation was given, quite lucid and easy to follow, of the ramifications of the Siddiqui–Iqbal–Ali clan and exactly what was the precise relationship between Khalid and Rabia. Not too close, she was glad to note, and as she noted it asked herself what she was thinking of. It could mean nothing to her if he was her third cousin once removed. He rose to go after three-quarters of an hour, made her a little bow and left, saying what a pleasure it had been to meet her away from business matters.
‘I think you liked him, my daughter,’ said her father as they watched Khalid’s tall upright figure pass the window, heading for the bus stop.
‘He’s very nice, Father. I always knew he was very nice.’
‘I have a feeling he would make a good husband. I have a gift for detecting these things, you know.’
‘For some other lucky woman,’ she said, smiling.
As he always did when she had been visiting him at home, her father drove her back to Hexam Place. She went in by way of the basement door and heard Mr Still’s voice coming from Montserrat’s flat but she thought nothing of it. Hers was not a suspicious nature. The children were with Lucy, the girls watching television in the morning room, Thomas lying on the sofa, fretfully half asleep. It was ten o’clock.
It was a good feeling to have four people pleased to see you. Hero and Matilda were tired and bored with their programme. Rabia was someone new to talk to and always interested in their activities. Thomas woke up, jumped off the sofa and ran to her. Lucy was simply relieved.
‘Oh God, you don’t know how pleased I am to see you. It’s been a nightmare. This little demon has been giving me hell.’
‘Never mind,’ said Rabia. ‘We’ll go upstairs now and leave you in peace.’
‘There’s been a man here wanting a job clearing up the garden. Deck or Dex Something. I told him he should ask Mr Still but he didn’t seem to understand Preston isn’t living here.’
Rabia said nothing about hearing Mr Still’s voice downstairs. ‘Yes, I know Dex. Montserrat knows more about him than I do. I’ll ask her, shall I?’
‘Oh, please do, darling. You’re such an angel. What would I do without you? I don’t dare think of it.’
Those were very welcome words. Like a magic spell they banished her fears even though she knew how unreliable Lucy was. ‘I’ll speak to Dex or Montserrat will and give him Mr Still’s address. Would that be the best thing?’
‘Of course it would. Absolutely. And now I’m so exhausted I really must rest.’
Rabia had felt the weight of the cigarette case all afternoon. She put her hand into her pocket, closed her fingers over it and brought it out. She handed it to Lucy, said, ‘This was in the house, at the top of the basement stairs.’
Holding it in a trembling hand, Lucy looked at it. ‘What am I supposed to do with it?’
Rabia didn’t know. She said nothing but left the room with the children while Lucy stared at the initials on the silver.
Next day, chancing to encounter Mr Still when he dropped in for the inevitable papers on his way to work, Rabia mentioned Dex to him. He was in a better mood than usual for that time of the morning and said she could pass on his phone number. By coincidence, Montserrat also told him Dex was looking for work when she met him that evening. This plea went down less well. He snapped at her, said he was sick of that man’s name and wanted to hear no more about it. If this Dex came to Medway Manor Court he intended to tell the porter to say he was unavailable.
Dex’s reading and writing skills were not of the first order and although he could answer his phone when it rang he didn’t know how to put a name and phone number or address into it for future use. He had managed to write down Preston Still’s address as Meddymankurt but he knew what he meant and found Medway Manor Court without trouble. No one was at home, the porter in the lobby told him in a very lofty and contemptuous way. It was useless to wait. Mr Still would not be available. Nevertheless, Dex sat down on the broad flight of steps that mounted to the double glass doors and resigned himself to a long wait, using the time to call numbers that might put him through to Peach. He tried one combination of numbers after another in the hope of getting lucky or, really, of Peach deciding that this was the one to answer. The fourth one he tried did so and a voice which must be Peach told him to press 1 if he wanted to speak to an operator, 2 if he had an enquiry, 3 if he wanted to discuss his account or 4 if he knew the extension he required. Dex didn’t know what the last two meant and the second one frightened him, so he pressed 1. The phone rang and rang and he was still listening and hoping it would stop or a voice answer when the porter came out of the front doors and told him to move on, it was useless waiting for Mr Still.
The bolts that were bought and screwed in place to set Henry’s mind at rest had failed to do the job. The attempt on his door, though unsuccessful, frightened him just as much – well, almost as much – as if Huguette’s mother had opened it and walked in. Driving Huguette to the Palace of Westmin
ster two days later, he told her he would have to come to her in future. It was the only safe way.
‘If we were married anywhere would be safe.’
‘Your dad’ll never say yes to that.’
‘He doesn’t have to. I’m over sixteen – I’m over eighteen. If you don’t let me ask him – well, tell him – he’ll get me married to someone else. D’you know why I’m going in there now? It’s to have a drink with him and the youngest Tory backbencher in the Commons. Filthy rich and needless to say not married.’
‘Why didn’t you say no then?’
Huguette made no direct reply. ‘I want to see if he’s as good-looking as you or if he’s maybe better. D’you know something? You’ve never said you love me, Henry Copley.’
Negotiating the seized-up traffic, the lights and jaywalking pedestrians of Parliament Square, Henry was silent for a moment or two. In the passage that constitutes a police barrier and is known as the security lane, wide enough for one car to get through, when Huguette had shown the woman officer her pass, he said, ‘Of course I love you. You know I do. I’ll come and see you tomorrow afternoon and I’ll show you and you can make me jealous about the backbencher, whatever that may be.’
‘Darling Henry,’ said Huguette, sounding uncannily like her mother, even to a nuance of Oceane’s accent.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Beacon had several times in the past done little jobs for Mr Still he didn’t like doing himself. Speaking to Zinnia, for instance, when the former cleaning lady left and a replacement was needed. Mrs Still never did anything, that was well known. Beacon had even found Rabia, though it was Mr Still himself who had interviewed her. Now he was asking Beacon about Dex Flitch.
‘He’s mental, sir,’ said Beacon. ‘He stuck a knife in his mother, only luckily for him she didn’t die.’
‘Dr Jefferson employs him and so does Mr Neville-Smith.’
‘With all due respect, sir, though Dr Jefferson’s a real saint, kindness itself to everybody, he does take on people you wouldn’t have set foot in your home.’
‘All right. I believe you. What is it about this Dex?’
‘He looks like a hobgoblin but he hunts evil spirits. He’s got a god lives in his mobile and he does what the god says. He calls it Peach like the communications service people. I call it blasphemy. I’m sorry, sir, but you did ask.’
‘Yes,’ said Mr Still. ‘Thank you, Beacon. I’ll steer clear of him.’
But Mr Still didn’t steer clear of him. Beacon knew that because while he was giving the Audi a wash in the mews next day Jimmy came out of the back garden of number 3 and said he had heard Dex was coming to do the garden at number 7.
‘Not that it doesn’t need it,’ Jimmy said, ‘and I did tell Mr Still to think again. He came round while Dr Jefferson was at work and asked for his mobile number. Dex’s, I mean. I had to give it to him, didn’t I? I mean, it went against the grain but I had to give it to him.’
‘I warned Mr Still myself, I don’t mind telling you.’
‘Maybe I should have told him about Peach.’
‘I did that,’ said Beacon. ‘Disgusting irreligious rubbish.’
‘Canapés,’ said Roland. ‘Not pineapple and cheese or celery with faux caviar, not rubbish. We had in mind quails’ eggs and foie gras, that sort of thing.’
Thea said, ‘Have you thought about caterers? It’s getting near Christmas.’
Glancing out of the window, she saw that the first flakes of the predicted snow were falling. Snow in November! Unheard of.
‘You mean they’ll all be booked up? Well, my dear, the thing is we thought you might do it.’
Canapés for fifty guests, somehow get all the raw materials in, carry them up the stairs, for no one else would. Marry Jimmy and she’d never have to do it again – except perhaps for her own wedding.
‘All right,’ she said, ‘if that’s what you want.’
The snow began to fall while Dex was working in Dr Jefferson’s garden. Using his narrow trowel with the sharp pointed tip, he was removing from earthenware tubs the plants the frost had killed, first wilting their leaves, then blackening them. Dex loosened the soil around the dead plants and dropped their roots and shrivelled stems into a black plastic bag supplied by Jimmy. When the last tub was done, the first flakes floated out of a heavy grey sky. First they scattered like petals on the soil, then covered it with a thin white sheet. Dex began packing up. He cleaned off his tools under the outside tap, put them into his tool bag and knocked on the back door to tell Jimmy no work could be done in this weather.
‘You tell Dr Jefferson I did my best but it snowed. Will he still pay me?’
‘He left your money.’ Jimmy produced an envelope and handed it over. ‘He would. I wouldn’t, I don’t mind telling you, but he’s like that.’
Dex’s mobile rang when he was turning into Ebury Bridge Street. This was a rare happening. He answered it just with his name as Dr Mettage had taught him was the best way. Then people knew they had the right number.
‘Dex,’ he said.
‘Peach,’ a voice said. It seemed to come from very far away but it was a beautiful voice, different from any he had heard before, the voice of a god who lived in the sunset. But Peach had many voices.
Dex said his own name again. He didn’t know what else to say. He couldn’t go on walking while his god spoke to him. The snow was falling on his hands and on his phone. There was a bus shelter a few yards on. He crept into it and crouched on the narrow bench.
‘Peach,’ the voice said again. ‘Are you still there, Dex?’
Dex nodded, then realising Peach couldn’t see him, said, ‘Yes, I am.’
‘Listen to me. There’s an evil spirit you must destroy,’ Peach said and when Dex had said yes and what must he do, said, ‘It’s a woman. I mean, it looks like a woman. It’s about the same height as you and it’s got a lot of thick dark hair, long hair. It lives at number 7 Hexam Place and you must follow it. Follow it and destroy it. Tell no one.’
‘I won’t tell anyone.’
‘Do it soon,’ said Peach. ‘I will reward you.’
Dex wasn’t sure what a reward meant, what the word meant. Perhaps one of those messages which appeared and said Peach was going to give him ten free calls. He knew better than to tell anyone. He had tried talking about his god in the past, to Beacon for instance, who spoke angrily to him and said a long word beginning with b that he had never heard before. Jimmy wasn’t angry when he told him about Peach but said he was mad. Dex knew that already, ever since he went to that place where everyone was mad, so he must be. Neither Beacon nor Jimmy understood. Dex got up and walked out on to the pavement, enjoying the feeling of the cold flakes falling on his face and hands, now his mobile was safely in his pocket.
December came in bitterly cold. The pond froze over in St James’s Park and the pelicans all huddled on their island. During a sunny spell while the snow held off and the sky was blue, Rabia pushed Thomas to Harrods along pavements sticky with thaw and red grit and bought him a scarlet quilted coat with a hood. It was trimmed in grey fur, not white, to avoid making him look like a baby Father Christmas.
Having left her car out in Hexam Place overnight, Montserrat found the door handles frozen shut, so she went out on foot to buy snow boots. Unable to afford Uggs, she bought a cheap imitation, pale blue suede with white fleece tops, at a shoe shop in Victoria Street. She took a bus back, climbing to the upper deck, and looking over her shoulder, saw Dex get on behind her. Perhaps he’d got that gardening job with Preston after all but he was nowhere to be seen when she came to get off. Beacon, walking by, said to use a hairdryer on the frozen door handles, only possible of course if she had an extension lead long enough to reach from an electric point inside her flat, up the area stairs and out into the street. She asked him what time he expected to bring Mr Still home that evening.
‘That’s not your business,’ he said. ‘What d’you want to know for, anyway? You ask Mrs Still if you want to
know things like that.’
Montserrat went inside to look for an extension lead. Zinnia didn’t even know what she meant, Rabia was out with Thomas and Lucy was out to lunch. Montserrat tried heating up the car key but only succeeded in burning her fingers. Best wait for the thaw and take the Tube to Preston’s. After that evening when he took her out to dinner at her request and, again at her request, came back to Hexam Place to spend the night with her, she had heard nothing from him. Yet he had been nice to her, had talked to her in quite a cheerful pleasant way over dinner and when they were in the taxi going back, kissed her in a passionate way – well, passionate for him. Only when they were turning into Hexam Place did he start behaving cautiously. He got the driver to drop him outside the Dugong while he took her on to number 7. There she waited for him in the area but he came into the house via the front steps and the front door. Five minutes later he came to the flat. Montserrat thought they were by now sufficiently close for her to ask him why but all he said, with a reversion to his old manner, was that it was his house and he was damned if he was going in by the servants’ entrance. That was the first time she had heard anyone say ‘damned’ since her grandfather said it when she was a little girl.
She had expected him to phone next day. By this time she ought to be used to him not phoning when anyone else would but she wasn’t. She was scared to call him at work and when she left messages for him at the flat in Medway Manor Court he never answered them. It was time he talked to her about his divorce, she thought, and her moving in with him, even mentioned marriage as something to be thought about. She had to see him and preferably tonight. A face-to-face talk was needed. She would steer him towards planning for the future.
Perhaps it was just as well that she hadn’t succeeded in thawing out the handles on the car doors because it was snowing again and her mobile told her that a heavy overnight frost was forecast. The car would look like an igloo by the morning. Her new boots were not glamorous or elegant enough for meeting Preston, so she put on black pumps, but leather rather than suede and with a heel only an inch high. Now was no time to break her ankle. Her only thick coat, black wool with faux baby lamb lapels, was shabby but the warmest thing she had. The first thing she’d get Preston to buy her when they were living together was a real fur coat.
