No Kiss For The Devil

21

The afternoon was fading by the time Palmer turned south off the King’s Road into Beaufort Street. The choke of exhaust fumes had been washed away on a sharp breeze from the Thames, replaced by the tinny, sour tang of the river itself a couple of hundred yards away. Only a few pedestrians were about, leaving him a clear view of the street all the way down to Battersea Bridge.

There were no obvious signs of a police presence, no figures lurking in doorways, and he turned into the block where Helen Bellamy had lived with the easy manner of someone who belonged.

After leaving Natalya Fisher, he had told Riley he had things to do, and that he’d see her later. He knew she hadn’t believed he was going home to a lunchtime nap and a cup of Earl Grey, but she hadn’t pressed him for an explanation.

The front entrance was locked, as he’d expected. He pressed one of the buttons on the security keypad and waited.

‘Yes?’ A woman’s voice screeched out of the box, tinny and stressed.

‘Police. Sorry to bother you.’

‘God, haven’t you lot finished? Okay.’ The door buzzed and Palmer stepped inside, grateful for the influence of cop shows and easy assumptions wrongly made.

He walked up the stairs, waiting for a door to open, for a head to appear. But whoever had admitted him was clearly uninterested or too busy.

Helen’s flat was on the second floor. There was no tape across the door, no signs that the police might have been here other than the woman’s comment and Palmer’s knowledge of their methods. He waited for his breathing to settle and for the sounds of the building to become familiar and recognisable. If the police — or anyone — were keeping an eye on the place, they wouldn’t be far away and Palmer would know it.

He allowed a few seconds to tick by, then took out a ‘soft’ key and inserted it in the lock. He flexed it gently from side to side, feeling the resistance change as the tumblers moved under the pressure. There was a click and the door opened.

The familiar smell washed over him. Helen’s perfume, softly fragrant and warm, still hung in the air. He closed the door and stood still, absorbing the atmosphere.

He suddenly wished he were somewhere else, far from here. A car horn sounded in the street, jolting him. He had to move, to get on with this. The police might decide to come back. He stepped left into the sitting room, and stopped.

The place had been trashed.

In an instant, what should have been familiar was gone. What should have been comfortable was dispersed like smoke. He stepped over a broken picture frame which had been ground into the carpet. A large, dusty footprint showed across the broken glass. A man’s shoe.

The photo was of Mrs Demelzer and Helen, smiling up at him, squinting against the sunlight. Nearby, a small vase was in fragments on the floor, and books had been pulled from their shelves, pages opened and scattered like wounded birds. The television lay on its face, the back ripped off, and several cushions were in tatters around the room, foam stuffing littering the carpet like brown soap suds.

The kitchen was the same. Drawers had been emptied, storage boxes up-ended and even the fridge and oven left gaping, like mouths opened in shock. He moved quickly through to the bathroom. The same treatment there, with a snowfall of talcum powder and pills to add to the disarray. He swallowed, remembering Helen’s pride in her home. It hadn’t mattered that she had spent more time out of it on jobs than inside; it was her sanctuary whenever she needed it. Or had been.

He’d deliberately left the bedroom until last. This had been Helen’s inner sanctum. But it hadn’t escaped the storm. The bed was ripped, the bedclothes flung across the floor, the wardrobe opened and gutted, with every piece of Helen’s clothing tipped out, the shelves laid bare. Drawers lay tumbled upside down, some on the floor, others on the bed, showing the trail the intruder had created. Even the carpet had been peeled back.

Palmer noted the personal effects, the papers, the clothing, the soft and the delicate, the workaday and utilitarian, all tipped out into the light with no respect, no thought for the owner.

He felt the resurgence of a deep, intense anger.

He turned back to the living room. There was no point in looking further. If there had been anything to find, a search like this would have uncovered it.

He picked up the broken photo frame, and fragments of glass fell to the floor, tinkling like mournful music. The back had already been torn off, revealing the white reverse side of the photo. It was dated three years ago, in black ink. And a notation.

Christine D and me.

A slim blue book caught Palmer’s eye. It was closed and had been placed on the edge of a coffee table, the positioning out of sync, almost, with the rest of the room. He picked it up and let it fall open.

It was an address book, divided alphabetically, two pages per tab. The tabs were made of coloured plastic. He flicked through it. There weren’t many entries, mostly phone numbers and a few email addresses. Helen would probably have had more on her mobile than in here. Some entries had been crossed through in a deliberate, end-of-an- era style, some altered to reflect new numbers or address details.

His own name had a line drawn through from left to right. Not heavy, he noted. Not angry. Simply drawn through. With regret, maybe? He tried not to think about it, and wondered why the police hadn’t taken the book with them.

Unless the man who’d trashed the place had found it afterwards.

On an impulse, he checked the G tab. There was one entry, followed by a familiar phone number and Riley’s name. Underneath had been written: Any contacts?

Palmer stared at it. Helen must have been thinking of calling Riley about work. Johnson was right: she’d been getting restless. It explained why the Post-it was in her car.

He was about to close the book when he noticed a gap in the pages. The D tab was gone, a ragged edge where the pages had been ripped out. He saw why. An envelope lay on the floor near the coffee table. A friendship card lay next to it, a simple coloured wash with a piece of verse. It was signed Christine.

Christine Demelzer.

His neck went cold. The card, the photo and the address book. The intruder had made the connection and removed the details.

In its place he had inserted a folded toffee wrapper to mark the page.

Long Cottage huddled silent and still in the darkness of Cotton Hill. Palmer stopped his car a hundred yards away and stepped out, allowing the door to click shut. He listened for night noises, sounds he was familiar with from hundreds of night-time surveillance jobs, hunched in his car or under cover, listening to nature all around him. All he heard was the wind through the trees and a motorbike engine clattering in the distance. No birds, no foxes. Nothing.

He let the minutes drift by, breathing in the smells carried on the air. A hint of wood smoke, the sweet aroma of cut vegetation, the faintest tang of cooked food.

He left the car and walked along the edge of the road. Once he was close to the house, he stepped onto the verge to muffle his footsteps, his shoes swishing faintly through the grass. He felt as if he was being watched, but pressed on, the feeling familiar. The night could play tricks, no matter how experienced you were, and if you gave into it each time, you’d do better to stay at home and do crossword puzzles.

He walked down the side of the cottage and stepped over the back gate, which was little more than knee high. The flagstones in the path felt uneven and partially overgrown. He trod carefully, easing his toes forward to feel for obstacles in his way.

The back door was locked. A pale glow of blue-ish light showed from inside, reflected through from the front room. Palmer walked round to the front and knocked softly on the door.

‘Oh, it’s you.’ Mrs Demelzer stood in the narrow gap. She looked wary but calm.

‘Sorry,’ said Palmer softly. ‘I didn’t mean to startle you. You really shouldn’t answer your door to strangers without using the chain.’

‘You didn’t startle me. And it’s my door.’ The elderly woman stood aside to let him in. She sounded tired and her shoulders were slumped, as if she had been carrying a heavy load. ‘I heard about Helen,’ she said in explanation, and shuffled through to the kitchen. She switched on the kettle, then turned to face him, her eyes moist and accusing. She was rubbing her hands together in agitation, as if they itched. ‘You should have told me.’

Palmer nodded. ‘I’m sorry. I wanted to, but I wasn’t supposed to know.’

She sat down at the table and signalled for him to do likewise. In the background, the kettle roared like an old steam engine. She toyed with a fold in her dress for a while, then looked at him with keen eyes.

‘The police came. They said Helen’s death was suspicious and it was being investigated. They wouldn’t give me any details, though, and said I should avoid reading the papers. I think they were being kind. They asked me if I knew anything about Helen’s recent movements. Her friends.’

Palmer didn’t say anything.

‘I didn’t tell them about the papers I sent you. Or your visit. Was that wise? I mean, I don’t really know you. But you were Helen’s friend and I know she liked you a lot. She told me not long ago that she was sorry it had ended. She said you made her smile.’

The kettle clicked off noisily, a forced punctuation, and she got up to make the tea. Palmer felt as if he’d been kicked in the stomach.

She came back to the table with two mugs and set them down.

‘Has anyone else been here?’ Palmer asked. He had difficulty speaking calmly. A car rumbled by outside, and he felt the hairs on his neck stir.

‘No. Not that I’ve seen. Why?’

On the drive down, he’d thought about what he could say to this woman. Whatever he told her would be alien to her world, as dark and unlikely as anything she could imagine, set against this picture-perfect cottage and the garden she tended so lovingly. But leaving her here was unthinkable, especially after the way Helen’s flat had been turned upside down. Whoever had done that would eventually come here. It was the law of all search patterns: when all the most obvious possibilities have been covered, you start in on the rest.

And Mrs Demelzer’s name was top of the list.

‘Is there somewhere you could go for a few days?’ he asked her. ‘A friend, perhaps?’

She was no fool. She gave him a knowing look. ‘Why? Is my life in danger? Something to do with Helen’s death?’

‘I don’t know. It could be.’ He explained about Helen’s flat and how whoever had searched the place now knew her address and what she looked like.

‘Really?’ She seemed incredulous. ‘But why would they come looking for me? It was only a greetings card.’

‘It was enough,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what they were looking for, but they found the card and made the connection with your address book and the back of the photo.’

‘But what could I tell them? I don’t know anything about Helen’s work. It is about her work, I suppose?’

‘I think so. She may have got involved in something dangerous. I’m trying to find out what it was.’

Mrs Demelzer stood up, the tea forgotten. Her manner was suddenly brisk and decisive. ‘I’d better go and pack a bag, hadn’t I? If you can take me to my sister’s house — she lives about ten miles away — I’ll be safe enough there. Even if they ask anyone around here, they won’t be able to tell them anything.’ She started towards the stairs, then stopped and turned to Palmer with a strange expression. ‘What are you going to do?’

Palmer took a deep breath. ‘Find them,’ he said honestly. ‘Find the people responsible. Who did it, and why. After that,’ He shrugged enigmatically. ‘We’ll see.’

It seemed to be enough. Mrs Demelzer nodded and patted him on the arm with great tenderness. ‘I’m glad. I’m sure you’ll do what you think best.’ She smiled with enormous sadness and went to pack.