Ordinary Thunderstorms

2

RITA NASHE WAS TRYING to explain to Vikram why she so hated cricket, why cricket in any form, ancient or contemporary, was anathema to her, when the call came through. They were parked just off the King’s Road round the corner from a Starbucks where they had managed to grab a couple of coffees before it closed. Rita acknowledged the call — they were on their way to a ‘cocktail party’ in Anne Boleyn House, Sloane Avenue. She jotted down the details in her notebook, then started the car.

“Cocktail party,” she said to Vikram.

“Sorry?”

“Domestic. That’s what we call them in Chelsea.”

“Cool. I’ll remember that: ‘cocktail party’.”

She drove easily to Sloane Avenue — no need for lights or siren. A woman had called the station complaining about loud thuds and hangings in the flat above and then small stains appearing in her ceiling. She pulled up opposite the entryway and headed for the front lobby, Vikram following some way behind — he seemed to have become stuck in his seat belt — not the most agile of young men. Her mobile rang.

“Rita, I can’t find my specs.”

“Dad, I’m working. What about your spares?”

“I don’t have a fucking spare set, that’s the point. I wouldn’t be calling you if I had.”

She paused at the front door to let Vikram catch up with her.

“Have you looked,” she asked her father, her voice full of impromptu speculation, “in the front bulkhead cupboard where we keep the tins?” She could practically hear his brain churning faster.

“Why,” he said, angrily, “why would they be in the bulkhead cupboard with the tins?…”

“You left them there once before, I remember.”

“Did I? Oh…OK, I’ll check.”

She closed her phone, smiling: she had hidden his spectacles in the front bulkhead cupboard, herself, to punish him for his general rudeness and selfish behaviour. Ninety per cent of the nagging irritants in his life were her responsibility — he had no idea — and he had never noticed how these irritants diminished as his moods became sunnier. He was an intelligent man, she told herself as she and Vikram pushed through the glass doors into the lobby, he really should have figured it out by now.

At the wide marble counter the porter looked surprised to see two police — a policewoman and a policeman — confronting him and, when told the trivial reason for their presence, couldn’t understand why the complainant (difficult old woman) hadn’t simply called down to the front desk — that’s what he was there for, after all. Rita said there was some mention of stains appearing on the ceiling — she checked her notebook. Flat F 14.

“What flat’s above F 14?”

“G 14.”

She and Vikram travelled upwards in the lift.

“Wouldn’t mind a little place here,” Vikram said. “Studio apartment, Chelsea, King’s Road…”

“Wouldn’t we all, Vik, wouldn’t we all.”

The door to G 14 was slightly ajar — Rita thought that was strange. She told Vikram to wait outside and she went in — lights were on and the place had been thoroughly ransacked. Burglary, she thought at once, though the widespread trashing seemed to say that someone had been looking for something specific and hadn’t found it. TV still there, DVD player. Maybe not…

When she saw the dead man in the bedroom, lying supine on the soaking red sheets, she realised the source of the stains on the ceiling below — she had seen a few dead and injured bodies in her police career but was always surprised at the amount of blood the average human being could spill. She held her nose and swallowed, feeling a small swoon of light-headedness hit her. She breathed shallowly as she stood in the door, letting the sudden tremble in her body subside, and looked around quickly — again, everything turned upside down and the paned door to the small balcony was open, she could hear the traffic on Sloane Avenue, and the muslin curtains stirred and filled like sails in the night breeze.

She walked carefully back through the flat to the main door where she clicked on her PR and called the station duty officer at Chelsea.

“Anything interesting?” Vikram asked.