by Jane Adams
The feeling was similar to the one she’d had at the dig site; that moment that was almost like remembering and too vivid for imagination. Her grandfather had always suggested it was a kind of expanded intuition. There had been a time when Rozlyn had thought that believing in or following your intuition was a phony kind of thing to do, until she’d realised that to a greater or lesser extent all of her colleagues seemed to do so. Some called it copper’s nose. Others suggested this was all that was going on with so-called profiling. Whatever, it seemed born of some blend of instinct and knowledge and Rozlyn had come to accept her own experiences as simply a rather odd manifestation of this same phenomenon.
Sighing, Rozlyn dragged the red band from her hair and shook it loose. Curls fell about her face, sprang, halo like to frame her head, softening Rozlyn’s habitually stern expression. Softer than her Nigerian father’s hair, more tightly sprung than her mother’s blonde waves, she wore it always as long as it would grow, which was just past her shoulders. Then she ruthlessly confined it. No one, but no one, ever saw it loose.
Aside from the small oak table, the phone and the dish, the hall was empty. Cream walls, bare of pictures, original Victorian tiles covering the floor in a red, black and white mosaic. She went through to the kitchen. Pale, limed wood and a lot of chrome, out of keeping with the rest of the house. It had been like that when Rozlyn moved in three years before. It was functional and she liked the range-style oven, so she left it alone.
Rozlyn filled the kettle, then shrugged out of her jacket. She hung it on the back of a dining chair and extracted Charlie’s address book from the pocket. It smelt of Charlie. Peppermints and the faintest whiff of cigarette smoke. Charlie smoked rollups. Or, at least, he made rollups, carefully and precisely, with one of those little machines that looked like a wide rubber band wrapped round rollers. More often than not, he’d then leave them to go out in the ashtray; hands too busy gesticulating to hold a cigarette.
The only time Charlie’s hands were still or quiet was when he rolled his skinny little smokes.
Rozlyn made a pot of tea. Earl Grey, tonight, because she could drink that black, a swift check of the fridge having informed her she’d run out of milk again. She drank her coffee black too but had long ago adopted her mother’s habit of never drinking coffee after six at night. And she thought about food. Hungry, but not sure she could be bothered to cook; knowing she’d regret it later if she didn’t eat. She never could sleep hungry. Water on to boil for the pasta, she blanched, peeled and chopped tomatoes, crushed garlic and sliced olives, drinking her tea as she cooked, remembering she had half a bottle of wine from the night before to go with her meal. The capers had hidden at the back of the cupboard again. She dragged them out, adding a scant teaspoon, stirred anchovies into the mix and finished with fresh torn basil. Never touch it with a blade, her mother had told her, and she smiled at the memory.
She grew salad leaves, along with herbs in the tiny conservatory — more of a lean-to really, but as it was big enough to hold a chair, she’d decided it deserved the promotion. She dressed the salad in the bowl, drizzling it with olive oil, lemon juice and more fresh herbs. Satisfied with the result, she put the cooking pots in the dishwasher before sitting down to eat. Then, fork poised in hand, she opened Charlie’s little book. Mindful of her grandfather’s prohibition on reading at the table, she mentally apologised to the old man and began to do just that.
An hour later found her still sitting at the table. The crockery had joined the rest of the cooking things in the washer and only the bottle and glass remained. Charlie had been meticulous. Of the two dozen or so numbers listed, most had an explanation beside. J.D, for instance, was his bookmaker and three of the numbers were the pubs he cleaned for — usefully listed as work one, two and three. Thanks to Jenny’s call, Rozlyn could now identify ‘Mrs C, Downstairs’ and there were a half dozen others that she could guess at, being acquaintances Charlie had mentioned. She could follow those up in the morning.
Four numbers puzzled her. One had no name next to it and when Rozlyn tried it, she just got a ring tone, then an automated message telling her that this number was no longer in use but that A1 Taxis could be reached on . . . She hung up and tried the next. That had the initials C.T. next to it and proved to be a Chinese takeaway. C.T. Fair enough, Rozlyn thought, and Mr T. Thompson wasn’t available on his mobile. Then there was the one marked Donovan. Rozlyn tried this too, but again there was no reply. An answerphone clicked in after a half-dozen rings and a man’s voice instructed her to leave a message. Rozlyn was about to comply, explain who she was and about Charlie Higgins, when some instinct warned her off. She put the phone down and stared hard. If her guess was right then someone had wanted their name erased from Charlie’s records and, so far, Donovan and Mr Thompson were the only contacts for which Rozlyn could not account.
She glanced at her watch. Almost nine, too late to do anything tonight. She’d need a warrant to trace the number and chances were, she wouldn’t get hold of anyone now that would be willing to give her one until Monday. She couldn’t, off hand, think of any weight of evidence that would convince a magistrate this was worth bothering with on a Saturday night.
Mouse Man would know who Mr Thompson was and probably Donovan too. Rozlyn looked at her watch again, trying to think where Mouse would likely be at 9 p.m. on a Saturday. She drew a blank. She could go and look, she supposed, but the idea of tramping the streets searching for Mouse as she had on the previous evening held little appeal, especially as she could make a good guess where Mouse would be the following morning.
Rozlyn went back into the kitchen to retrieve her wine and carried what remained of the bottle through to the living room. The walls were lined with videos and music and DVDs. Above the fireplace was a framed poster; The Ramones, posed carelessly with their instruments in front of CBGB, beneath the sign for Bowery and Bleecker. She had a second version of this poster hanging on her bedroom wall. An image of a very young Rozlyn, posing alone and nervous, beneath the same Manhattan sign.
In the living room, a leather sofa nestled in the bay window, ready for the occasional guest; a matching chair had been positioned centre stage, in the sweet spot where the sound from the speakers converged and the music was at its most potent. She selected a Wynton Marsalis CD and sat back in the chair, cueing ‘Angel Eyes’, hoping that the light, fast intro, sensuous melody and insistent percussion that followed would conspire to purge her thoughts of the day’s rudeness. Marsalis, she had found, was not a musician that left you with any space for thinking.
But tonight, even this familiar remedy refused to help. The events she had witnessed kept on intruding. The spear, the names in the address book. The clinical tidiness of Charlie’s flat that reminded her so much of her own home and that brief image of the watchtower, if that’s what it was, up on that damned hill. That and the odd familiarity of the man who stood beside it, gazing down into the valley as though master of it all.
CHAPTER 9
THEADING. YEAR OF GRACE 878
“I should not be here.”
She stood, nervous, not quite willing to enter the birch grove.
“I’ll not seek to stop you should you wish to go.” He took a small step closer to her, noting the way the autumn sun caught the loose strands of hair that blew about her face, the low, bright rays finding the red that glowed among the brown.
“Cate.” He spoke her name softly. Almost within reach now, he raised a hand towards her, beckoning her on; then dropped it to his side as she skittered back. “I would not hurt you. How could I hurt you?”
“I don’t know.” She met his gaze, briefly, and then looked away, gazing down at the grassy, leaf-littered ground. At the birch leaves scattered like gold coins beneath her feet. Autumn had arrived in a mood of spectacular glee and had, with a sweep of her hand, turned the whole world red and gold.
“Cate,” Hugh said again. “Come here to me.” He spoke with an insistent softness that he knew instinctively
she could not resist and so indeed did not. She stepped forward into the birch grove, laying one hand on the white barked tree beside her and extending the other towards Hugh as though to have him share in this so momentous decision.
Hugh took her hand and drew her to him and she stood still, eyes downcast, as he loosed her hair and only then, shy and uncertain and yet, he saw in her eyes, oh so eager, did she lift her face to receive his kiss.
* * *
BILLINGTON. PRESENT DAY
“Hey! Mouse Man!” Rozlyn watched him skittering down the street after emerging from the little chapel he attended every Sunday. Mouse kept close to the house walls, running nervously on tippy toe with many an anxious glance from side to side, looking for all the world like one of the small rodents he so adored. Rozlyn had been surprised at Mouse’s religious leanings, but knew he attended chapel for the ten o’clock service almost weekly, staying to drink coffee with the other parishioners. Rozlyn had often wondered what they thought of the smell he carried with him and if the bill for air freshener outweighed that of communion wine.
Mouse started, hearing Rozlyn call. He swung around to face her, feet square planted on the floor, head down and hands raised as though poised for flight.
“Oh, it’s you.” He composed himself, the drop in his tension reflected in a small relaxation of the hands as he trotted across the road. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to see you.”
“How did you know where to find me?”
“You told me you came here on a Sunday. Hey, what’s with you? You’re jumpy as one of those little animals of yours.”
“They have a right to be jumpy. The whole world is out to get them.”
“Well, that may be, but that’s not exactly true for you, is it?” She studied Mouse’s reaction closely. The man was even more on edge than usual. “Well? Is it?”
“How should I know?” Mouse man replied. “But it’s best to be careful, that’s what I always say.”
Rozlyn shrugged and began to walk, Mouse falling into step beside her.
“Why did you want to see me?”
“I’ve been looking at Charlie’s flat. His address books in particular.”
“Books? He had more than one?”
Rozlyn paused and stared at him. “That significant, Mouse Man?”
“I don’t know enough people to fill even the one, that’s all.” Mouse shrugged and moved on and Rozlyn let it lie.
“I found a few names I’ve not managed to follow up. I figured you might be able to help me out.”
“What makes you think that?”
“You knew Charlie better than most. He might have mentioned something.”
“Charlie liked to talk. I like to listen,” he said.
“Meaning, I didn’t.”
Mouse shrugged again but didn’t deny it. “So,” he said. “What names?”
“There are two,” Rozlyn told him. “One is someone called Mr T. Thompson. Mean anything to you?”
Mouse nodded enthusiastically. “Thomas Thompson,” he said. “Parents with no imagination. He runs a house business.”
“House business?”
“Yes, you know, people rent them, then they go away again. Move out, move on. He rents them out again.”
“Oh, so he’s a landlord?”
“Landlords run pubs, he has a house business.”
Rozlyn decided not to split hairs. Mouse Man definitions were frequently a little contrary. “And what connection did Charlie have with him?”
“Charlie cleaned. When the people moved out and moved on, Charlie cleaned ready for the next. Thomas Thompson knew he could trust Charlie to clean. He let Charlie keep anything that got left behind and he paid him over a hundred pounds every time he did it.”
Judging by Charlie’s flat it was probably worth every penny, Rozlyn thought. “Charlie listed his work numbers as work numbers, Mouse. Works one, two and three in his book. You got any idea why he’d not list Mr T that way?”
Mouse man nodded. “Sure,” he said. “Because it wasn’t like other work he did. He did work for two pubs, the Queen’s, the Ship and a working man’s club. He paid taxes on those.”
Mouse Man sounded impressed at the idea of paying tax. “Mr Thomas Thompson gave him money in an envelope. That’s why he didn’t put it in his book as a work number. Charlie wasn’t stupid.”
“How often did he clean for Mr T?”
“Two, three times a month, I think.”
“You’re sure? That’s a lot of moving on for people to be doing.”
Mouse Man shrugged again, this time with an injured air as though hurt that Rozlyn expressed such disbelief. “Like I told you, people come, then they go somewhere else. Charlie cleaned and kept anything they left behind.”
Alarm bells were ringing in Rozlyn’s head. Maybe Mouse Man’s insistence that this man was not a landlord meant more than just his off-kilter way of defining things. “Do you know where any of these houses were, Mouse, and what sort of things got left behind? Things that Charlie kept?"
Mouse had to stand still to think about that one, unable to process complex information and walk at the same time. “Charlie wanted to tell you about it,” he said, “but if he had done, he would have lost the work and he had dependants, you see?”
“Dependants? I know about the old lady on the third floor, Charlie paid her phone bills.”
“Yes, she was one. But Charlie couldn’t tell you about the houses. He said there was something funny about the way people came and then went on somewhere else. He said he had to clean really well in these houses and sometimes he found things that had been left behind that people wouldn’t usually leave behind.”
“Like what, Mouse?”
Mouse Man’s face grew anxious. “He didn’t tell me.” Then he brightened. “He gave me a radio once. A little radio. I’ve still got it if you want to see? It had writing on it in a funny language, Charlie told me it was Chinese. But I can still get Radio Two in the morning, so I don’t mind if it’s a foreign radio.”
Rozlyn was momentarily distracted. “Radio Two?”
“Terry Wogan,” Mouse told her as though it was such an obvious thing it didn’t need explaining. “We both like Terry Wogan, Charlie and me. Listen every day. My radio broke and then Charlie gave me this little one with the foreign writing on it.” He turned fully to look at Rozlyn, a sudden cloud of anxiety darkening his pale blue eyes. “If I showed you the radio, you’d take it away from me, wouldn’t you? You’d say it was evidence?”
“I thought Terry Wogan was dead,” Rozlyn said.
Mouse shook his head emphatically. “I know that’s what people say,” he told her. “But it isn’t true.”
Rozlyn thought it best to let that one go. “Mouse,” Rozlyn found herself saying. “If, for any reason, I had to take your radio away, I’d give you a new one to take its place. I wouldn’t leave you without your music, or your Terry Wogan. I promise. Now, these houses, Charlie cleaned. You can tell me where?”
Mouse studied her for a moment as though to make certain she was telling the truth, then he nodded and the shadow passed from his watery eyes. “I can show you one,” he said. “Maybe two. I don’t know the others. Charlie said there were more than two.”
“Near here?”
“Two near here. I don’t know about the rest. But I wouldn’t go too close, Inspector Priest. Charlie said it was OK for him to go and clean, but only when the places were empty. If they had people there, before they went on somewhere else, he had to stay off from them.”
I’ll bet he did, Rozlyn thought. “Mouse, did Charlie ever mention someone called Donovan to you?”
Mouse Man halted again and began to turn away.
“Hey, where are you going?”
“I told you enough, Inspector Priest. I don’t want any trouble.”
“Has this Donovan got anything to do with the houses Charlie cleaned?”
Mouse shook his head.
“Then what
? Hey, Mouse Man, don’t run out on me now. I’m trying to find who killed our Charlie. You want to help me do that, don’t you?”
Reluctantly, Mouse turned back. He seemed to brace himself as though expecting a physical blow. He stepped closer to Rozlyn, so close that the smell of him overwhelmed Rozlyn’s senses and brought tears to her eyes. “I’ll show you the houses,” he said. “I’ll tell you everything Charlie told me about Mr Thomas Thompson, and I’ll let you take my little radio with the foreign letters on it, so long as you give me another one. But I don’t know nothing about Donovan. And I won’t tell nothing neither. Donovan is a bad man and Charlie said I didn’t want to know about him. He was going to tell you when he knew enough, he said. It was a big thing he could tell you about old antique things. The things Donovan does are about old antique things, selling old antique things, not about the people that go to the houses. Charlie said this Donovan knew about the houses but he didn’t bring the people there. Charlie didn’t clean for Donovan. He said that Donovan was a bad man and I didn’t want to know no more.”
He was shaking in his boots, quite literally. Rozlyn, though always reluctant to touch the Mouse Man, laid a soothing hand on his greasy arm. “It’s OK, Mouse,” she said. “I won’t ask you more about him. You just show me the houses, all right? Then you can go off home and feed your friends. Listen to your radio.”
Mouse Man nodded rapidly, then took a deep breath. “If I knew any more, I’d tell you, Inspector Priest,” he said. “Charlie was my friend. I want you to get who killed him. But be careful. Donovan’s a bad man. You’re not careful enough, he might get you too.”
