Later, as I sorted through a jumble of clean clothes that were stiff from drying in the sun, I began to explore the new picture for myself. If Derek had killed Janice, a pretty good bet, given the way it was splashed all over the front page, then Fraser and Martin were off the hook. All my disturbing fantasies about it happening at that Cheadle house were just the product of an overactive imagination. I could forget it all, bar the letter.
I carried a heap of Tom’s clothes upstairs and put them on his shelves. Across in my room, I got the long white envelope out of my bag. Inside was the letter Janice had left to me in trust for her son. I imagined steaming it open but it was pure fantasy. I was nervous about what might be inside, how it might move me. Besides, I felt guilty enough about Janice’s death, without adding to the burden. I slipped it back into my bag and made my way downstairs for the next armful, wondering what had happened to the clothes basket.
What was the situation if the suspected murderer was dead? Would there be a trial or would it be covered in Janice’s inquest? Who would have to be convinced of Derek’s guilt? Or did his death mean that no hearing about his crime could be held?
What of his death? The paper said preliminary autopsy reports showed that Derek had drowned and that a substantial level of crack cocaine had been found in his bloodstream. It read like suicide or accidental death. No mention anymore of the drug war.
I carried Maddie’s pile upstairs. What would forensics be looking for? Samples of his skin under Janice’s fingernails, hairs in her car? Had there been any sexual assault? The details began to chill me. I pushed that line of thought away.
Okay. Suppose Derek did it, say all the evidence led to Derek Carlton…Why didn’t it make me feel any better? Just ‘cos it hadn’t matched up with my own pet theories, was that why? I’d thought Janice’s death and Martin’s new life were bound up together – she was found near Cheadle, he lived there; must be him or Fraser or a crony. Wrong. It was coincidence, not connection. I said it aloud.
I still wasn’t convinced. Too many loose threads went wandering across, making it impossible to pull Derek and Janice out of the basket without tugging on lots of others. Leanne…she knew JB, now dead; Derek, now dead; Martin…and Smiley had known them all. I was getting tangled.
Fingering Derek for the murder released a swarm of questions. One buzzed louder than the rest, making me shake my head. Why? Over and over again, why? Why would Derek batter Janice Brookes to death?
‘You stupid fucking bitch.’ The words spat hoarsely down the phone were so unexpected, that for a split second I thought I’d misheard.
‘It won’t be paint next time, bitch.’ What on earth did he mean? Was this some crank? Paint what?
‘It’ll be blood. Yours, maybe the kiddies’.’ I saw my office, lilac emulsion, crimson splashes. Outrage rose like bile in my throat. How dare he!
‘Now look here…’
‘Shut it,’ he rapped, ‘and keep your fucking nose out, you got that? Keep your fucking nose out, cunt.’
‘Out of what?’ I screamed into the receiver, but already I could hear the drone of the dialling tone. I put the phone down and sat on the bottom step. My right knee was trembling, a spasm I had no control over. My face was burning. I sat and rocked a little, took ten deep breaths, let them out slowly. Then cramps sent me racing for the toilet.
I found Ray in the cellar. He was carving lengths of wood with some new moulding tools that left fancy edges behind. I sat on the high stool and fingered the curls of wood shavings. Ray looked up.
‘I just got a threatening phone call.’ I told him the gist of it. He blanched, then dull spots of colour rose in his cheeks. ‘Jesus Christ.’ He put down the piece of wood he held and moved round the work-bench to me.
‘Are you okay?’
‘Yes.’ By the time the word was out, I was bawling like a toddler. Ray pulled my head to his chest, hugged me. I could smell the gingery scent of his sweat, feel the grains of sawdust pitting my cheek. I was glad he was there even though there was that stiffness in his embrace, the embarrassment of bodily contact. I was glad he was there but I really wanted someone else to be holding me tight. As the realisation dawned, it set me off afresh. I wanted my Mum.
So Leanne had told Smiley. Willingly? Eagerly, even? Had she gone trotting off as soon as I’d left or had Smiley come asking again, sensed she was keeping something back, shaken it out of her?
Tea in hand, face washed and nose blown, I sat opposite Ray at the kitchen table. He was lecturing me, insisting I cease whatever I was doing to warrant the heavy phone call. What did he think I was going to do, go looking for trouble? Did he really think me that stupid – or that brave?
‘Of course I’ll pack it in – I’m not going to put the kids at risk, Ray! For Christ’s sake, it’s over.’ No more visits to Leanne, not even to ask if she blew the whistle, no more questions about JB Finito. ‘I just wish I could let the bastard know. Total surrender. Maybe I should put an ad in the paper, send it out on Piccadilly:
SMILEY – I QUIT. LOVE SAL.’
‘You could drape a white sheet out the window.’
‘Yeah,’ I sighed. ‘Bit rude though, issuing an ultimatum like that and not waiting for an answer.’
I was pulling on clean, if crinkled, clothes, getting ready to go round to Diane’s, when the phone rang again. My stomach corkscrewed. I didn’t want to answer it. Ray was downstairs and he called up, ‘For you, Sal.’
He held out the receiver and whispered, ‘A woman – American, I think.’
‘Hello, Nina?’
‘Sal.’ Her voice was gravel-thick.
‘Are you okay? You sound awful.’
‘I’m sorry, oh…’ The words were slurred.
‘Nina, what’s wrong? What’s the matter?’
She moaned, then there was a clatter as the phone was dropped. I couldn’t get an answer from her. Shit.
I raced back into my room and pulled a sweatshirt on over my jeans and T-shirt. Ray was in the shower. I called out to him that I had to go out, work, I’d leave the address downstairs. I scrawled the Zaleski’s address on the back of an envelope with a wax crayon.
‘It’s not anything to do with that nutter, is it?’ he called from the top of the stairs.
‘No way, Ray.’
CHAPTER THIRTY THREE
There were no lights on at Nina’s. The drive had taken me fifteen minutes, during which time I’d imagined every horror under the sun to account for the aborted phone call. I parked in front of the veranda. I looked about before getting out of the car but the twilight played games with the shapes and shadows.
As I stepped up onto the veranda steps, an intruder light snapped on, flooding the porch and beyond with glaring sodium light. I fought the impulse to flee and knocked loudly with the lion’s paw. Somewhere in the back of the house, the dog Fang set up a rhythmic barking. I knocked again and again. In between the steady woofs, I listened, ears cocked for any other sounds. I heard a car on the road slowing down, slow enough to turn into the drive. I skipped down from the door and listened in the dark. The car was nearby but not coming up Nina’s drive. I heard the rattle of gravel, next door’s perhaps.
I jumped back into the limelight and made my way round the side of the house. I’d hoped to peer in through windows but elaborate shutters covered them all, except for a small frosted glass rectangle towards the back of the house, on the right-hand side.
I hesitated for a few seconds. Would it be better to go and find a phone box, try rousing Nina that way? But I was too worried to delay any longer. Nina had been distressed; she could be lying in there, bleeding to death. There were a couple of hideous wrought-iron sculptures at either side of the veranda steps. I picked one up and carried it round to the glass window. Fang was quiet.