Destroy Unopened

by Anabel Donald

  ‘Would it be a good investment?’

  ‘Not really. I don’t think so, because there’s down-market housing all round it, so the location isn’t much cop, and the yard bit is right under the tube line, so it would be humungously noisy, and probably dirty too – though it is on the fringes of a good area come to think.’ She paused triumphantly. ‘Anyway, I absolutely convinced him I had money burning a hole in my pocket and I said my enquiry agent and surveyor would be right on to it.’

  ‘Well done, Poll,’ I said.

  ‘So what are you going to do now?’

  ‘Tip off the police.’

  ‘And do you really think one of those men is the Killer?’

  ‘No. But I have to behave as if I do, just in case. Which means telling the Met.’

  ‘Before you go in and meet the three men?’

  ‘Yes. A.s.a.p. Then I’ve done the decent thing and the police can work on it – not that I think there’s anything to work on – while I identify which of the three is the illegitimate son of my client’s late husband.’

  ‘So you’ll ring Eddy?’

  ‘Yep.’ I reached for the phone, then put it down as I remembered. ‘I can’t ring Eddy. He’s gone to Florida.’

  That was when I felt abandoned. Really, abandoned. Bereft. The same feeling I’d had when I watched the red tail lights of the Harley swoop away into the fog.

  I’m not at all intuitive – not usually. I don’t get feelings – not of dread or hope or anything much. I work from the facts. I feel dread when any sensible person would, and hope when any sensible person would. I don’t pulse with New Age sensitivity. Come to that, what had happened to the New Age? First we were going to have it and everything was crystals and peace and love and optimism, then it vanished like all the other media crazes that swirl around for a bit, then drain away unnoticed, while the media tap gushes different rubbish.

  Polly was looking at me expectantly. ‘So, what will you do?’

  ‘Make a cup of coffee,’ I said.

  ‘Hang on a moment,’ she said. ‘I expect you’re going to be busy for the rest of the day?’

  There was a purposeful tone to that, not just her usual friendly exasperation with my obsession with work, so I said, ‘Do you want me for something?’

  ‘Just to talk.’

  ‘About anything in particular?’

  She hesitated and looked awkward, the way I’d seen her look when she thought she was going to upset someone.

  ‘Something you want to break to me?’ I said, to help her and to speed up the process. ‘Because if so, tell me straight out.’

  ‘How did you know?’

  I shook my head. ‘Just don’t take up poker, Polly.’

  ‘I’m rather good at poker,’ she said, miffed. ‘But yes, you’re right, I do want to tell you something. I’ve decided to sell my flat.’

  ‘Why?’ I said.

  She squirmed. ‘Because I . . .’

  ‘Just say it, whatever it is.’

  ‘Because property prices are picking up so I’ll make a bit, and I want somewhere – um, bigger.’

  ‘And smarter?’

  ‘Yes, smarter,’ she said, relieved. ‘Just near here, of course, I don’t want to be too far away from you. I’ve loved sharing the house, so I thought I’d just move up the Hill a bit, but I wanted to tell you before I put it on the market, and—’

  She moved over to hug me and, with an effort, I didn’t pull away. I’m an unconvincing huggee and I wasn’t as upset as I should have been. But I am fond of Polly so I hugged her in return and waited for her to pull away. When she did, I said, ‘Thanks for telling me. It’s OK, Poll. Really. We’ll still be mates.’

  ‘Of course we will.’ She hugged me again, then patted me and let me go. ‘You’ve got a lot on, haven’t you? With Nick away, and all?’

  ‘True,’ I said.

  ‘And you could use an assistant?’

  ‘Well, yes—’

  ‘So I’ll help you,’ she said, triumphantly. ‘I’ll do whatever you say. I’m yours till noon tomorrow, with time out for a party this evening.’

  She looked so pleased with her offer that I couldn’t talk it away.

  ‘Great,’ I said. ‘Great.’

  ‘So what do you want me to do?’

  I couldn’t think of anything, yet. Nothing was clear to me. I felt as if London’s fog had seeped into my brain.

  Polly saw this and tactfully removed herself downstairs to her flat. She said she’d be back in an hour and then we’d go to the Cafe Rouge and have lunch, because we’d have to have lunch no matter what, and talk about it then. I think she thought I was upset about her moving out and needed time to recover myself, and I was happy to let her think that. It was easier.

  I wandered into the kitchen to make myself a cup of coffee and found myself drinking a glass of milk. Weird. I don’t like milk, much.

  I put that oddity aside when I noticed the accumulation of limescale round the taps in my sink. I got scouring powder, a screwdriver and a J-cloth, and started chipping away.

  When I next looked at the clock thirty minutes had passed and I still hadn’t got rid of every trace of limescale. I was appalled at myself: I wasn’t concentrating, I wasn’t deciding.

  Back at the telephone, I rang Peter, my ex-boyfriend and Eddy’s son. The odds were against him being at home – he’s a cameraman who travels a lot – and I intended to leave a message, but he picked up.

  We spent a few minutes on the how-are-you bit, then I told him what I wanted: the name of Eddy’s hotel in Florida. He gave it to me. ‘They won’t have arrived yet,’ he said. ‘They’re on the noon plane. You could leave a message, but I shouldn’t think he’ll be back to you until the early hours tomorrow. Is it urgent?’

  ‘Fairly.’

  ‘Can I help?’

  ‘Nah. It’s police stuff.’

  ‘Take care of yourself,’ he said. ‘If there’s anything I can do, just say the word.’

  I was touched he’d offered. As I replaced the receiver, I felt encouraged by his protectiveness, and annoyed by my response to it: usually, I resented any male suggestion that poor little Alex needed a big man to take care of her. An adolescent reaction, probably. Maybe it was time to grow out of it and accept any help I could get.

  Chapter Eleven

  ‘I think I’m sickening for something,’ I said, pushing the menu away. We were in the Cafe Rouge, a local restaurant, part of a chain which advertised itself as having French food which I suspected a French person wouldn’t recognize. I liked it though because it served good coffee and cakes at all hours and you could just get a drink, or eat if you wanted to, and they didn’t disturb you. I also liked its eclectic clientele: as the area near me gets smarter all the time, most of the watering holes have become the province of particular cliques, with style standards I don’t want to meet.

  Polly, by contrast, was feeling greedy. ‘I’ll have pate first, then Toulouse sausage,’ she said.

  That made me feel sick. I ordered soup and bread and a lager. But when the lager came I couldn’t drink it and had to drink water instead.

  ‘What do you think you’re sickening for?’

  ‘Don’t know. I just feel peculiar. Woolly-headed and sick.’

  ‘English sick or American sick?’

  ‘English sick, of course. You’ve been in Hong Kong too long.’

  ‘Well if you’re going to be English sick, the loos are downstairs here, so better leave yourself time. I’ve got some ideas, do you want to hear them?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘OK. After lunch, I ring the estate agent and get him to fix an appointment for you with the owner on a residential enquiry, yes? As soon as he’s available.’

  ‘That makes sense. But I was going to wait until I told the Met, remember? And I can’t do that until Eddy rings me back, late tonight. Early tomorrow morning, actually.’

  Polly looked disappointed. I’d shot down her first idea. ‘Go on,’
I said, determined to accept her next suggestion if it wasn’t entirely idiotic.

  ‘Well, I thought what I should do is take a look at the woman’s letters.’

  I shut my teeth on the first response which sprung to mind, that Alan and I had already done that. ‘Mmhm,’ I said encouragingly.

  ‘Because, face it, I’m your authority on extramarital affairs.’

  That was true enough. Polly’s track record so far was exclusively as the Other Woman. On the only occasion, to my knowledge, that she’d been On the Road to Wifedom in her own right, the man had been gay.

  ‘So I have a sporting chance of spotting things that you won’t, because I’ve Been There.’

  ‘Talking of which, how’s Richard?’ Richard was her boss, and her latest.

  ‘Same as usual. Fine most of the time. Every now and then guilt breaks through, because he likes his wife. D’you want some more bread?’

  ‘No thanks.’

  ‘I’m starving. It must be excitement . . . So anyway, I spend the afternoon going through the letters, and you, can get organized doing the other things which need your expertise.’

  That might be useful and would keep her out of mischief I gave her the go ahead.

  ‘Now tell me about you,’ she said.‘When are you getting married? How’s Barty?’

  ‘Barty’s fine,’ I said. ‘As far as I know. He’s in Zaire with a crew.’

  ‘Isn’t that very dangerous at present? Where in Zaire is he?’

  ‘Not sure. Eastern Zaire I think, with the refugee camps.’ Yes, I supposed it was dangerous, but I have faith in Barty. I reckon he can look after himself in most situations and, besides, it’s his life investigating and exposing things, and you can’t do all of that from Notting Hill, not the kinds of things he exposes: UN incompetence, government corruption.

  ‘And when are you getting married? Come on, you dodged the question. What is it, Alex, are you having second thoughts? He’s such a terrific man and you do love him, I know you do, I’m not going to eat another mouthful until you answer.’

  She looked at me, sausage-laden fork in mid-air. ‘I’m not having second thoughts,’ I said in what I knew would be a futile attempt to head her off, because Polly enjoys conversation about feelings. For her, with friends and lovers and anybody she comes into contact with, however briefly, to talk about feelings is to bond.

  I don’t like the process. Almost always, I end up diminished and angry and entirely unbonded, and I’ve told Polly that often enough. She just doesn’t believe it. I particularly didn’t want to discuss me and Barty, because I’m not clear about it myself. I don’t think I’m in love with him but I’m not sure that matters. Except for Eddy’s son Peter, when I’ve thought myself in love before it’s not lasted long and, when it went, it went completely and I found myself looking at a human being I didn’t rate and counting the seconds till I could disentangle myself. It’d never be like that, with Barty. The worst that could happen is that I’d disappoint him, by not loving him enough. He says he loves me and I think he does, though I don’t understand why. My low self-esteem? Or his self-delusion? I know he fancies beautiful charming posh tall blondes. That’s what his first wife was like. But we do get on. We almost never fight, and when he isn’t there I don’t exactly miss him but I often think, I must tell Barty that, or want to share a joke.

  All that would sound intolerably lukewarm to Polly, and set her off on a further quest to make me admit the emotions she was sure I had because she would have had them. She was still eating, watching me, waiting for me to go on.

  ‘You are going to ask me to the wedding, aren’t you? I so want to be there, Alex. OK, not a bridesmaid – though I’d love to if you wanted me – but I expect knowing you it’ll be a registry office job with as few people as possible and a cup of coffee at your flat afterwards, though Barty’ll never let you get away with that, thank heavens we can rely on him for decent champagne, and I so want to help you choose clothes because you dress up terrifically well.’

  ‘We’re getting married when Barty gets back,’ I said, making it sound more definite than it actually was. ‘Early December some time. And, of course, as soon as we’ve fixed the exact date, I’ll let you know.’

  ‘Promise promise?’

  ‘Cross my heart and hope to die.’

  ‘Pale green, what do you think? It looks so great with your eyes ...’

  We finished lunch chatting amicably. When she’d exhausted my wedding outfit we moved on to what kind of person I could bear to buy Polly’s flat, and I reassured her that I really didn’t mind her selling, though I minded enough for her not to be hurt. And actually I didn’t. I sort of knew in a way that when Barty and I were married it wouldn’t make sense for us not to live in his whacking great house in Camden Hill, and for me to let my flat. I wouldn’t sell it, just in case. But I’d let it and make a tidy profit over what I was still paying on the mortgage and pay off the mortgage quicker, then I’d own it outright.

  ‘Alex? Had we better get to work?’ Polly’d paid the bill and was looking at me expectantly.

  So we went back to my flat and she took the letters and settled down at the desk near my phone, so she could answer it if necessary, she said. She liked playing Girl Assistant, I thought rather meanly.

  I couldn’t stay in and watch her work, so I went back to the office and checked the phone for messages. Two requests for a call back from potential new clients. I noted the names and numbers for Nick to deal with. Monday would be soon enough to get back to them. Lastly, a message from Pauline Eyre asking if we’d made any progress. Nothing from Nick.

  At least now I’d got the message from the Golden Kid, I knew where she was. I needed her here, though. I tried her mobile number again. Still out of service. Then I got on to Directory Enquiries for the number of her maths professor in Oxford – I had it already, but back in my Polly-occupied flat.

  Ring ring ring ring. No answer, no answering machine, no call-minder. That was par for the course, for him. Most likely, he and Nick would be sitting at his squalid kitchen table amid the debris of several weeks no-housekeeping, working on a maths problem and ignoring the telephone. Briefly, I considered going down to Oxford and hauling her back by the scruff of the neck, but that was irritation, not a considered judgement on the best use of my time.

  In her absence I’d have to do her work, and actually I was worried about Samantha Eyre, obvious bait for the Killer, who according to the Kid was staying on the estate. The same estate where my other client thought the Killer might live. It was all thoughts and ifs, but the coincidence worried me. The sooner I laid hands on Sam Eyre and got her to phone home, the sooner my responsibility – Nick’s actually – would be discharged, and the happier I’d feel.

  So I booted up the computer and accessed the file of Nick’s casuals. It would be expensive to use them, but it would probably be quick.

  The Golden Kid I already knew was out of the picture till tomorrow. Lil was being elusive. I’d use her if she turned up. Then there was Jonno and Solange.

  Jonno runs a mobile car valet service and spends his whole time on the local streets. What he does is log streets for noise and activity, so wherever he works, he susses it, and then when Nick needs information on a particular street for a residential enquiry, she pays him. I’ve only met him once and he’d made no impression on me at all. I wouldn’t be able to pick him out of a line-up of youngish white males.

  I tried to remember if Nick’d ever used him for missing persons. I’d got the impression she didn’t like him, but that could just be because she doesn’t on the whole trust or rate men. Anyway, that didn’t matter. I wasn’t looking for a holiday companion, just a warm body who could knock on doors, ask questions and give me the answers. Pauline Eyre was paying way over the odds for her investigation and the more bodies I put on it, the better, so I called Jonno’s mobile number. He was only three streets away and just finishing a job, so he said he’d be straight in.

  While I
waited, I called Solange, the last person on the list. She was just up the road and said she’d take a tea break and be right in.

  Less than a minute later, she was, and the office seemed suddenly smaller.

  I like Solange. She’s mid-twenties, mid-height, almost as wide as she’s tall, with a fine head covered in corn-rows glistening with oil. All her visible skin glistens, probably with sweat, but she always smells faintly exotic and sweet. She smells how I imagine the West Indies to smell: a combination of soul food sweating through her pores and the particular perfumes she chose to wear, but as I’ve never been to the West Indies I wouldn’t know if it is what they smell of.

  Her traffic-warden’s uniform is always immaculate, as are her teeth, and as she laughs so much they’re all readily available for inspection. Most of her laughter is apparently unprompted, and seems to me to reflect her sense of the absurdity of the British in general and Notting Hill motorists in particular.

  ‘You look stressed, girl,’ she said. ‘Give me a mug of tea, three sugars, and tell me about it.’

  I went into the back hall area just outside the toilet and brewed up on the work surface beside the washbasin. She followed me, and her bulk made it impossible to turn round in the tiny space. ‘Where’s Nick?’ she said.

  ‘Away till tomorrow, and I’ve got a rush job on. You available?’

  ‘Tonight?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I’m on till six thirty, then I had plans for the evening. Depends what you want me to do and what you’re going to pay me.’

  As I gave her the mug and moved back into the office, I knew I had to make a decision about that. I trusted Solange but not Jonno, and whatever deal I made had better go for the both of them.

  By this time Jonno had arrived. I gave him the extra mug of tea I’d made, waited while he helped himself to sugar and we settled down. I looked at both of them.

  Solange was laughing. Jonno wasn’t. He’s somewhere in his thirties, tall and stringy with long limbs, long lank greasy brown hair and a long dirty neck. He was wearing once-black jeans, a grey roll-neck sweater and a grey anorak. He looked like grubby spaghetti, and I moved my chair closer to Solange to breathe in her soul-food smell and avoid Jonno’s vintage sweat.