The Water Room

7. HOME AND DRY

‘You don’t understand what it’s like, and I have no way of explaining to you,’ said April. Hands trembling faintly, she relit her cigarette. Her purloined Michelin ashtray had filled with Silk Cut in the last half-hour. It was the only untidied thing in a room filled with carefully arranged mementoes from a happier life. ‘I know Arthur meant well, but I just can’t do it.’

‘I’m trying to understand,’ said John May. ‘Please, let me help you.’

She shook out her hair as though the idea was preposterous. ‘How? What can you do? You have no idea.’ Her pale fringe fell forward, hiding her face. She appeared healthier than he had expected, but the off-kilter body language that had so long hinted at some unspecified disquiet had become habit, so that she appeared hunched. She had been living in the shadow of the past for so long that it seemed any emergence into daylight might melt her away.

‘April, I’ve been in the police force all my life, I’ve dealt with every kind of situation imaginable. In my experience-’

‘That’s the problem, this isn’t in your experience. It’s not something that can be cured by making an arrest.’ Her voice was as thin and cracked as spring ice. ‘You’ve had a lifetime of good health, you think you’re invincible, you come from a generation that doesn’t understand why people can’t just pull themselves together, but it’s not that simple.’

‘I know it’s been tough for you-’

‘Why do you talk as if it’s in the past? It’s still tough for me. I want to work. I want to stand outside, beneath a vast blue sky. I want to be able to pass a stranger in the street without feeling terrified. But I open the front door and the world comes in like a tidal wave.’ She hid her eyes behind her hand. He recalled the fierce methylene blue of her irises as a child. It seemed that the colour had faded from them since.

Agoraphobia was the latest spectre to haunt April in her battle to cope with her mother’s death. John May’s granddaughter had grown ill soon after Elizabeth died. Years of therapy had made little difference to her. John loved her with the desperation of someone who had seen too many others fall, but saw a damaging blankness inside her heart that no one could fill. Lost siblings, dead parents, the whispered cruelties of children drawn too close-May’s family had been so unlucky that it was hard not to believe that some dark star trailed them, bringing harm and hardship in its wake.

Three months earlier, following signs of improvement and a positive report from her doctor, Arthur Bryant had put April forward as a candidate for a new law-enforcement training initiative. The Chief Association of Police Officers had invited non-professionals to train alongside detectives in an exercise designed to bridge the widening gulf between police and public. It had seemed an ideal opportunity to protect April while allowing her to rediscover some independence, but now she had suffered a relapse, retreating further back into the shadows of her bleakly pristine flat.

‘You know none of us like you living here by yourself, April.’ The Holloway Road was a railed-off corridor of run-down pubs and short-lease shops selling a curious mixture of plastic bins and mobile-phone covers, an area where too many lives were lived at discount rates.

‘I’m not earning, Granddad-I can’t afford to move anywhere else.’

‘You need a place you can call home, somewhere safe and light. I told you I’d help you financially-and could you not call me that?’

‘You think you’re going to stay young for ever, just because Arthur is three years older and acts his age. You have such conviction. You always knew who you wanted to be. I never had the faintest idea.’ She stubbed out the cigarette and thought for a moment. ‘I’m starting to wonder if I exist beyond the walls of this flat. I could go out into the open air and vanish.’

Observation is a habit officers find hard to turn off. May could see how the apartment reflected April’s state of mind, with its numbingly neat compositions of disinfected crockery and cutlery, forks all set in the same direction in their drying rack. Here, she could control her environment. Outside was only the stomach-churning panic of disorder. May’s granddaughter was twenty-three, but already the damage ran so deep that he feared she might never find a way to restore her spirit. As a child she had been untamed and tomboyish, a noisy, messy, natural force. Looking at the polished shelves of paperbacks coordinated by their spines, the towels and rugs stiff with overwashing, he could find no trace of the wild girl he’d loved. The problem was exacerbated by the fact that it could never be discussed. Her mother’s death was a sealed subject; to speak of it would require an acknowledgement of guilt that would destroy the little faith April had left in him. Perhaps there would come a time when an honest exploration of the past would prove healing. Until then, they would have to step warily around the events of the terrible night that lay between them like an open mineshaft.

‘Arthur reckons you’d be a good liaison officer with the unit. He thinks you’re a very perceptive young woman. He believes there are skills that can’t be taught. He wouldn’t have proposed you if he thought you couldn’t handle it.’

She raised her eyes as if seeing him for the first time, and for a moment it seemed he might win her over. ‘Uncle Arthur.’ The hint of a smile appeared. ‘I remember the smell of his pipe. Everything was scented with eucalyptus for days after he’d visited. He used to leave sweets under my pillow.’

Bryant had always believed in her, even during her darkest moments. He had insisted on taking April to visit one of his oldest friends, Maggie Armitage, leader of the Coven of St James the Elder, who was as much a student of human nature as she was of white witchcraft. Maggie had pressed her hands over April’s and told him that her subject feared loss of control, that she quickly needed to regain her sense of identity. When people lose confidence in themselves, Maggie had warned, they can be overwhelmed by powerful forces, possibly satanic in origin. Maggie had at least hit the button psychologically, so the detectives conspired to bring their favourite granddaughter back into the embrace of the world.

‘Will you at least consider it? We could take things slowly. Some part-time work, then if things pan out, you could join us on a more permanent basis. You’d start making new friends.’

‘Let’s talk about something else.’ She tapped out another cigarette. ‘Janice told me you have a murder case.’

May was relieved by the change of subject. ‘It may not be murder, that’s the trouble. Arthur took the job to help out an old pal, and I wish he hadn’t. We’ve no motive, no cause of death, no leads, no prints, nothing.’

April’s interest was piqued. ‘You’ve always told me that every murderer leaves something behind.’

‘Yes, but unfortunately the house is thick with dust. I was hoping we could collate microfibres from a laser-scan of the floor, but the chance of finding anything has to be weighed against the expense of running tests. If Raymond Land discovers what Arthur is up to, doing favours for friends, he’ll blow a gasket. At least it’s good to be back in our own building.’

April smiled. ‘Perhaps you’re a little agoraphobic, too. It’s a very English habit, the preference for familiar surroundings. The victim lived in Kentish Town, yes? Did you know it now has an official gangsta name, K-Town? Because kids are shooting tickets in the high street. The dealers are selling wraps of powdered ketamine folded inside lottery tickets. Kids can snort it straight from the palm of the hand without being noticed. It’s referred to locally as Cat Valium.’

‘How do you know that? You never go out.’

‘No, but I have friends who do.’

‘You see how good you’d be at the job? Arthur and I are completely out of touch. He still uses his network of street misfits and fringe-dwellers, but I don’t think someone who reads psychic auras from bins and paving stones is a very reliable informant. Just think about the job, April, that’s all we’re asking.’

‘I understand that. And I’ll try, I promise.’ Her eye had been taken by some white silk roses on the window ledge. She was unable to resist realigning them until they stood as regimented as pencils in a box, and barely acknowledged her grandfather’s silent departure.

‘She’s right, it is a very English habit, not going out much,’ said Bryant, hanging his Bangkok spirit-beater behind his half-buried desk. ‘My father wore his unadventurous spirit like a badge. “Take your jacket off, you won’t feel the benefit when you go back out.” “I could never live in a country where you can’t buy Marmite.” “Looks like rain, we’d better not chance it.” If it hadn’t been for the War, he’d never have met people from other countries, although of course he had to kill them. Before 1940, the average English family had travelled less than nine miles from their home. Many never got beyond the end of their street. Now look at us-we can’t stay in one place for more than two minutes. April will come around in her own time, you’ll see. You can’t force these things.’

He pulled an old Sharp’s toffee hammer from his drawer and nailed an effigy of a Tasmanian dog-demon beside his knotted whaler’s rope made from human hair. On the mantelpiece he had placed the silver-chased Tibetan skull, with moonstones for eyeballs that looked like drum-polished cataracts. Beside it were several leatherbound copies of The East Anglian Book Of Civil Magicke, the collected essays of G. K. Chesterton and a privately circulated volume entitled Gardening Secrets of Curates’ Wives. His office was brand spanking new, but had already begun to look like some kind of esoteric rural museum.

‘A nation of shopkeepers.’ Bryant dragged a letter off his desk with a derisive snort. ‘Greedy little proprietors.’

‘What now?’ May looked up from his computer screen, only mildly interested. Bryant’s background monologues formed the soundtrack of his office life.

‘Those property bods, Garrett and Moss. They’re at it again. They moved in for a quick kill in Balaklava Street, and now they’re hounding some poor old dear in the next road. In the absence of any other suspects in the Singh case, I ran a quick check into their past history. Lots of local complaints, a couple of lawsuits that even reached the courts, but no actual prosecutions.’

‘You didn’t touch my computer?’ May asked hesitantly.

‘It may surprise you to know that there are other methods of accessing information apart from the Internet. I talked to a couple of their past victims.’ Bryant dropped back into his chair. Despite the scorching air from the fan heater blasting his legs, he had layered his clothes more heavily than ever. Shirt, sweater, two coats and the disgusting scarf he refuses to throw away, May marvelled. Alma knitted it for him, and he can’t bear to part with it. The poor landlady was distraught about her dismissal, but he hadn’t yet summoned the nerve to raise the subject with Arthur.

‘Of course, London’s always been full of that type,’ Bryant continued. ‘It’s a very selfish city. For centuries, ships bearing treasures from all over the world sailed into the Thames, but two-thirds of their cargoes never made it any further than the docks. For all of our much-vaunted honesty, we’re a nation of blasted thieves. I remember hearing stories of factory owners who delayed sending their staff down to the shelters during the Blitz in order to maintain productivity levels. They refused to sound their sirens until the last possible moment, said they were concerned for the city’s economic survival, if you please.’

‘Your naivety is touching, Arthur. Garrett and Moss are required to be opportunists by the nature of their employment. You can’t paint everyone with the same brush.’ Although the detectives were in public service, May’s sensibilities veered toward industry, while Bryant’s favoured the artist. It was a mark of their respect for each other that the division actually improved their relationship. ‘Look at your Mr Singh, he kept his promise and sold to the young lady, didn’t he? Didn’t you say he’s even going to let her move in prior to completion?’

‘He feels sorry for her having to sleep on a couch. Benjamin is a gentleman of the old school. He acted against my advice, but he knows a hawk from a handsaw. He recognizes honesty when he sees it, and it’s lucky for her that he does. These days, the innocent are routinely victimized by the rapacious.’

‘She succeeded in getting the property where Garrett and Moss failed,’ remarked May. ‘Perhaps the girl isn’t as innocent as she makes out.’

‘Well, there are no tidy moral lines any more,’ Bryant grumped. ‘Everything is so tainted now. The best you can do is follow a personal code of practice.’

‘I will never understand how someone as open-minded as you can be such a closet Victorian, Arthur. If it was left to you, the police would still be walking about in their Number Ones.’ Metropolitan police officers had been required to keep a Number One uniform for ceremonial duties, consisting of a high-necked tunic, heavy belt and cape. The Victorian outfit had only been phased out in 1971.

‘Not at all. Victorians were ghastly hypocrites, but there was an appealing sense of order.’

‘Remember you’re from working-class stock. You’d have been a boot-black.’

‘God, it’s freezing in here. I’ve got two T-shirts on,’ Bryant complained. ‘Look.’ He unbuttoned his coat and cardigan to reveal a logo that read TRUST NO ONE UNDER SEVENTY. ‘I’ve always had thin blood. Where do I have to go for a smoke?’

‘I keep telling you, out on the fire escape. But I wouldn’t-it’s pouring.’

‘I need to think. The verdict on Ruth Singh is bothering me.’

Since the investigation of Mrs Singh had ended with the pathologist’s open verdict on her death, there was no just cause for further analysis, and the file had been discreetly closed. Leaving the final arrangements of the property transfer in the hands of his lawyer, Benjamin Singh was preparing to head for Brisbane in order to be with his daughter’s family.

‘You’ll have to let it go some time. You heard what Kershaw said.’ The young forensic scientist had come up with an ingenious solution to the water found in Mrs Singh’s mouth. He had speculated on the possibility that she might have inhaled dust containing dried residue from the river, reconstituted into a thin fluid by the mucus in her lungs brought about by a coughing fit. It seemed no less likely than any of their other scenarios, except that the solution had been found in quantity, and lacked the necessary viscosity.

‘Well, it’s bloody odd that I’ve never come across anything like it in fifty years. I knew about London getting blasts of Sahara sand under certain weather conditions, and I had a boring conversation with Banbury about the creation of dust patterns in urban environments, but I’ve never heard of anyone accidentally inhaling a river bed.’

‘You can’t make a mystery out of everything, Arthur. Death by natural causes can be strange. Sometimes the heart just stops beating for no apparent reason. Look at SDS.’ No one had yet discovered what caused Sudden Death Syndrome, or why it so often affected young males in perfect health.

‘So you’re saying I should just accept some things as inexplicable.’

‘Nothing’s cut and dried these days, you said so yourself.’

‘Fine.’ Bryant returned to his case-files, only to look over the tops of his reading glasses at May. ‘So I should let it go.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake.’ May looked up in annoyance. ‘According to Janice, nobody saw anything, nobody came or went, nobody visited the house the night before, she was in there alone. It’s all in the notes, and you know exactly who’s been there since the body was discovered, because I showed you the Scene Log, OK?’

‘Then you clearly don’t know that a man called at her front door on Sunday night,’ said Bryant triumphantly. ‘Medium height, dressed in some kind of peculiar old-fashioned coat. He was seen speaking to Ruth Singh on her step.’

‘Who told you this? Have you done something you’re not supposed to?’

‘I merely sent Colin Bimsley back to pick up the remaining interviews. I’m entitled to do that. Besides, we need to occupy the staff in order to keep them out of the Met’s claws. This so-called “Camden Bin-bag Murderer” is operating a little too close to Westminster. Why else would Scotland Yard be giving television briefings every five minutes? Land will be under pressure to rent us out, and you know how easily he gives in. We fought long and hard to hire staff, and once we lose them, we won’t be able to get them back. Remember, we don’t answer to the Met any more, so if you and I can keep the unit on late shifts and full time-sheets, they won’t be able to poach us.’

‘What else did Bimsley find out?’

‘That’s pretty much all. One of his interviewees was a television producer called Avery. He spotted the pair of them talking in the doorway of number 5 as he was coming back from a takeaway outlet in the high street.’

‘Perhaps it was just another neighbour.’

‘Possibly-Avery couldn’t tell. He had no reason to be looking in the first place.’

‘God, Arthur, it’s not much to go on, is it? An anonymous visitor with rotten dress sense. Why did he recall the coat?’

‘He remembered thinking it didn’t fit properly. The weather broke on Sunday evening,’ Bryant reminded him. ‘It rained solidly for several hours. Avery was on the other side of the road and didn’t get a good look-you know how it’s difficult to concentrate when you’re carrying a box of fried chicken-but he can at least place the time close to Ruth Singh’s death.’

‘So the verdict’s been settled, and now you have a possible suspect. You do realize that we can’t go any further beyond this point.’

‘Understood,’ Bryant agreed. ‘Absolutely against the rules, not worth the risk, we’re publicly accountable, God knows what would happen if Raymond Land found out.’ He patted various pockets for his pipe, his shredded winter-mixture and his matches. ‘Don’t worry, I fully appreciate that the case is now “officially” off limits.’

May heard the parenthesis in his partner’s voice and bridled. ‘Arthur, wait! You come back here!’ But Bryant’s selective deafness had muffled everything except a song from the first act of The Gondoliers, which he hummed as he set off for the freedom of the fire escape.

May walked to the window and wiped a clear arc through the condensation, looking down into the glistening street. He needed to think of another way to keep the unit fully occupied until the Met’s senior officers stopped eyeing up his bright new team. Luckily, it didn’t take him long to think of a solution.