“Wasn’t what?”
“The things you said to La Reckman. And the photograph you gave her. Did I really deserve that?”
“Of course you did, the way you’ve treated me.”
A wail came from the bathroom and Eugenie walked in, wearing her nightdress and dressing gown. She looked at Jims as a householder might look at a dog turd on the doorstep but said nothing. “I’m not getting him out of the bath,” she said to Zillah. “He’s your responsibility, as I keep telling you. He says his tummy hurts.”
Zillah went. So, after a moment or two, did Eugenie, returning in a few seconds with a book. Jims’s world had ended but he meant to die bravely, triumphantly exacting vengeance. He took out of his pocket a packet of cigarettes and lit one. It was the first he’d had for six months and it made him feel a bit faint, but he savored it and thought he might start smoking seriously again. Nobody would admonish him now, no one would ask questions in the Commons Chamber about disgusting habits, no one would suggest he set a good example. He inhaled and his vision swam. If he hadn’t been sitting down he’d have fallen over. Jordan’s yelling heralded his entry into the room.
Zillah came after him. “Why are you smoking?”
“Because I like it,” said Jims. “Put that child to bed.”
“There’s no need to talk like that. He hasn’t done you any harm.”
“No, his mother has.” He got up and switched on the television. A cartoon happened to be on and for five minutes Jordan was quiet.
“Give me a cigarette, please.”
“Buy your own. God knows, I give you enough money.” Jims drew showily on his cigarette, blowing smoke into Zillah’s face. “I don’t expect you to be out of here until Friday,” he said. “I am, in fact, giving you a week’s notice.”
“Now, wait a minute. You can’t do that. If anyone goes, you do. You’re married to me, remember? I’m your legal wife. I’ve got children and therefore a right to your home.”
“You didn’t really believe in that marriage ceremony, did you, my dear? I wouldn’t have credited that the wool could so easily be pulled over your eyes. You believed Kate Carew was a registrar? You actually swallowed Kevin Jebb as a witness? You and I haven’t even been cohabiting. Neither of our so-called marriages was consummated. You’re just a friend I’ve taken in when you hadn’t a roof over your head. Out of the goodness of my heart.”
Zillah stared at him. She couldn’t speak.
“But I grant you’ve grounds for expecting some sort of maintenance from me. So I spent the morning negotiating a purchase with an estate agent. I’ve also had a pleasant chat with the owner. That’s why I was so late back. And I’m glad to say the sale’s been agreed. I’ve bought Willow Cottage for you. Aren’t you pleased?”
As Zillah began to scream, Eugenie looked up from the floor and said, “Mummy, do you mind? I can’t hear the TV.”
Chapter 28
A BOY DELIVERING papers found Eileen Dring’s body at six forty-five on Sunday morning. He was just sixteen and it gave him a bad shock. The body was still on the seat where Eileen Dring had settled for the night. But for the blood that had soaked through her clothes and the blanket with which she had covered herself, she would have seemed asleep. Perhaps she had been stabbed in her sleep and had known nothing about it.
The police knew her. There were no problems of identification. For several years she had had a room in Jakarta Road off Mill Lane in West Hampstead, paid for by Camden Council, but she had seldom lived in it, preferring to wander the streets and sleep out of doors, at least in summer. Kilburn and Maida Vale and Paddington Recreation Ground were among her haunts. They had never known her to come as far west as this. But Eileen was known to love flowers and had once been observed sleeping in the doorway of an empty building that had formerly been a bank, on the corner of Maida Vale and Clifton Road. It happened to be very close to where the flower and plant seller would pitch his stall in the morning, and perhaps she’d chosen it in anticipation of waking up to the scent of carnations and roses in the morning. The site of her death, the seat on which she was lying, was just in front of a crescent-shaped flower bed, at present red, white, and pink with geraniums, among which lay the detritus of meals and drinks consumed on the street.
It took only a short time to establish that the knife used to stab her was very similar to the one that killed Jeffrey Leach. Similar but not identical. Possibly one of a pair bought at the same time. So advanced are forensics by now that investigators can tell precisely the shape and size of a weapon used in these circumstances, the nicks, if any, on its blade, any minuscule unevenness in that blade’s surface, for a knife itself is unique. So they knew it wasn’t the knife but its twin.
The motive for the killing of Jeffrey Leach remained obscure but the motive for this one at first seemed transparent. The holdall Eileen carried with her, which lay under her head, usually held a blanket and a cardigan and scarf, a can of fizzy drink-she was strictly teetotal-a sandwich or two as well as her pension book. It was empty. There should also have been money, for Eileen had drawn two weeks’ pension the day before and had spent only a little of it on the food and drink. Does anyone do murder for £140? Violent Crimes knows it’s done for half that, for a quarter; it’s done for the price of ten grams of cannabis.
On the other hand, they were sure Eileen was the victim of Jeffrey Leach’s killer and the question of financial profit hadn’t entered into that. So were there any links between the two victims apart from the close similarity of the weapons used? How about West Hampstead?
Leach had been living there for the six months prior to his death. Jakarta Road was two streets away from Holmdale Road, running parallel to it but linked by a cross street, Athena Road. Although they were yet to discover whether Eileen had ever frequented Holmdale, West Hampstead police-the police station was in Fortune Green Road-knew Athena Road to be a favorite pitch of hers. Twice they’d moved her on when she’d been found sleeping on someone’s front lawn between the flower borders. Had she tried the same experiment in camping in the gardens of Holmdale Road?
Sunday had passed without Jims addressing a word to her. He stayed at home, but in silence. It was as if he’d lost the use of his tongue. Zillah wouldn’t have believed until she experienced it that anyone could behave like that, not simply not speaking, but acting as if he were alone in the place. The children and she might have been inanimate objects or pieces of furniture for all the notice he took of them. It was as if they had become inaudible and invisible, and she’d hardly have been surprised if, seeking a chair to settle himself into, he’d sat on one of them or on her.
This policy of ignoring them made her, against her will and determination, conciliatory toward him. She prepared quite a nice lunch of scrambled eggs and smoked salmon with a salad, offered him the dishes, poured him a glass of wine. He took no notice of any of it but went to the kitchen, returning with a sandwich he’d made himself and beer which he drank out of the can. She found herself looking wistfully at him and forced her head to turn away. The afternoon he spent at his desk, apparently writing letters. She couldn’t help thinking that if only he’d been of a different sexual orientation she could have won him over, seduced him, charmed him, but if he’d been different she knew very well she wouldn’t have been with him in the first place.
At about five Moon and Stars Television rang. Eugenie answered and gave the response she always did if Zillah failed to get to the phone first.