The Saint Zita Society

by Ruth Rendell

  She went into the back garden where it was Dex’s second day at work and looked on approvingly as he dug over the flower bed he had painstakingly rid of dandelions, ash-tree seedings and groundsel. He seemed, she thought, as if he was enjoying himself and she knew from her own life experience that you do better work if you like what you do. Ten pounds an hour, which Jimmy, who seemed to have appointed himself Dex’s agent, had told her she must pay. It seemed exorbitant but she could afford it.

  Dex had already followed the evil spirit that morning. He was unsure whether Moloch, as he now called him, would take the same route every day or even if he would jog every day. All that was certain was that when he came back he would go to work at being a banker, a job which, Dex had been many times told by the television and almost everyone he spoke to, was the wickedest and most cruel occupation anyone could have. He must be far worse than Brad Smith had ever been.

  Moloch had run down Lower Sloane Street, along Pimlico Road, along Ebury Street, up Eaton Terrace and home. Not very far. Dex wondered why he did it but there was no knowing. The ways of evil spirits were strange. What he would like best would be for Moloch to go into the grounds of the Royal Hospital. He would follow him there.

  Tomorrow he would be working for Mrs Neville-Smith. It was a pity about her name but he had decided the ‘Neville’ part took away the evil of ‘Smith’. The bulbs he had planted in Mr Jefferson’s garden were not only pushing through the earth now but breaking into bloom, the daffodils first, bright yellow and pale yellow and some with golden petals and white bells. It pleased him that those he had set deep in the earth were doing better than the ones planted in tubs by that man from the Belgrave Nursery.

  In Hexam Place the staff were changing. Jimmy, while still Dr Jefferson’s driver, had become a resident of number 3 and been heard to refer to himself as the doctor’s ‘housemate’. Montserrat had gone, was said to be living with Ciaran O’Hara in a flat in Alderney Street, and a new au pair taken on at number 7 by Preston Still. Pauline, the most sociable of the Merrie Maids, told June this woman was a Dane called Inge and so fair in colouring that she personally believed her to be an albino.

  ‘Has she got pink eyes?’ June asked.

  Pauline was shocked. ‘I expect it’s your age but it’s not politically correct saying that.’

  June went indoors. She made a mental note to stop employing the Merrie Maids and take on the wife of one of the builders. When you’ve got a lot of money, she was discovering, you could please yourself about things like that. Anyway, there was no point in having a cleaner at number 6. The house was full of builders, tearing walls down and floors up. They were all Polish, their English poor but their manners perfect and they called her ‘madam’, the way she used to address the Princess. June hadn’t been so happy for years. She even enjoyed the hammering and drilling, and when Roland complained about the noise, told him that you could hear building going on wherever you lived in London.

  It wasn’t long before she encountered Inge whose English was a great deal better than that of the Poles. And her eyes were midnight blue. June took her into the Dugong for a drink and Inge said she would like a schnapps but they hadn’t got any. They drank gin instead. Inge confided in her that she loved the basement flat at number 7, Lucy and the children were angels, but she didn’t care at all for Mr Still who snapped at her whenever they met. She’d do anything for Lucy, she said, but she wasn’t going to put herself out for him.

  ‘I don’t blame you,’ said June.

  ‘No, but he does. He came back from his run this morning and acted like it was my fault there was no hot water for his shower. What do I know about the hot water? I called a plumber and when the man said he couldn’t come till tomorrow Mr Still got very nasty.’

  ‘Oh, ignore him,’ said June.

  ‘That nanny is very nice. We don’t have many Muslims in Denmark but she is so nice.’

  Rabia thought Inge was very nice too. Quiet and well mannered and she obviously adored Thomas. Having kept earlier hours for several weeks, Mr Still had now reverted to leaving number 7 at eight in the morning and often not returning until ten at night. At least, Rabia thought, there could be no more adultery with that Rad Sothern. If it was wrong to be glad someone was dead, well, she was sorry but she couldn’t help her feelings.

  Mr Still continued to go out jogging but from being every morning it had gone down to every other morning and by April was only Saturdays and Sundays. Perhaps he had lost heart because, as far as Rabia could see, he hadn’t lost any weight.

  ‘You would have to run from here to – oh, I don’t know the names – every day to lose weight,’ said Inge, who as a Scandinavian was considered in the Dugong to be a fitness expert.

  ‘Here to John o’ Groats,’ said Jimmy.

  Inge said she didn’t know where that was. Mr Still would be out late that evening – it was Friday – and she had a job to do for Lucy. When first asked she had thought doing such a thing might be wrong but when she considered that she liked Lucy and disliked Mr Still, she said an unqualified yes. The man she had to let into number 7 and take upstairs to Lucy’s bedroom was having a drink with Damian and Roland at number 8. Inge watched him come across the road and down the area steps. Very good-looking, she thought, a great improvement on Mr Still.

  ‘Martin Gifford,’ he said when she let him in.

  Dr Jefferson’s kitchen was very big and the gas hob was at the garden end next to the Aga. Dex had been seated about thirty feet away at the table on the paediatrician’s instructions while Jimmy, also on Dr Jefferson’s instructions or at his request, made him a cup of hot chocolate. The milk would boil over if Jimmy took his eyes off it for a second, so Dex took advantage of his turned back to help himself to a sharp fruit knife, which he slipped into his tool bag.

  ‘He’s doing this out of the kindness of his heart.’ Jimmy set down the mug of chocolate with a bang. A dribble slopped onto the table. ‘Now you be careful with that,’ he said as if Dex had spilt it.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Dex politely.

  ‘A saint in human form is Dr Jefferson.’

  While Moloch was a demon in human form, thought Dex. He had no gardening to do that day. He had only come to collect his money and the hot chocolate was a surprise. Better go now as Moloch was due to emerge from number 7 at any minute and today was the day set for his destruction. Mr Neville-Smith was in his front garden, putting out a recycling bag which Dex knew no one would collect until at least next Tuesday. He hung back a bit, avoiding being seen, but he was near enough to hear Moloch call out a cheerful ‘Good morning, Ivor’.

  It was the voice of Peach, upper class, soft and low, but Dex knew better than to be deceived by that. Evil spirits can assume the voices of whom they please just as they can take human shape. Mr Neville-Smith said, ‘How are you, Preston?’ and went back into his house without waiting for a reply. Moloch began to jog along and Dex followed him, younger and thinner than he and well able to keep up.

  Rabia had heard the voice of Lucy’s new lover and it had dismayed her. The children, she thought, the effect this might have on the children. If Mr Still had stayed away, if there had been a divorce, if for some reason he had never come back, there would at least have been no question of adultery. Lucy might even have remarried and to someone she loved and could be faithful to. But now she herself was going and what little she might have done to protect the children was at an end.

  For she knew that in the absence of Mr Still Lucy would keep her and she would be able to tell Khalid she couldn’t marry him. She had to stay with Thomas and the girls. If only it could be. But it was bad enough being glad Rad Sothern was dead without wishing Mr Still might be. Rabia prayed silently not to have sinful thoughts and while she sat with her head bent and her eyes closed, Thomas climbed on to her lap, put his arms round her neck and said, ‘Say sweetheart.’

  People who are jogging never look round. Dex had observed this truth and that Moloch ran on, staring steadfastly ahead
of him. He had no idea and never had that he was followed and followed by someone who knew it would be right to rid the world of him. And Moloch was going to do what Dex had hoped during all these weeks of pursuit that he would do. He was turning into the gardens of the Royal Hospital, gratifying Dex further by taking a path between bushes and under trees, now starting to come into leaf. There was a sweet fresh smell of spring and a pale sun was coming out.

  Dex felt for the knife in his pocket and as he did so Moloch stopped. He bent down to retie his shoelace which had come undone. Silently, relentlessly, Dex closed on him, a firm grasp on the knife he had stolen from Dr Jefferson’s kitchen.