Minty looked helplessly at Laf. “Will you do it for me?”
He sighed but said in a hearty voice, “Of course I will, you leave it to me.”
“What does she mean, not voices telling me?” Sonovia said when Laf had seen Minty out. “She really is going crazy, she’s worse than ever.”
Unhappily, Laf shook his head, then nodded. “It’ll be easy finding out where Jeffrey Leach is buried, it’s done in five minutes, but do I want to, Sonn? I mean, what am I going to tell her? ‘Oh, yes, he’s up in Highgate or whatever but he wasn’t really Jock, he was the one murdered in the cinema and his name was Leach’? As I’ve said, that I won’t do.”
“You’ll just have to pass it off.”
“That’s what you always say but it’s not so easy. She’ll ask me again, won’t she?” And then, he thought, but didn’t say aloud, Am I going to say anything to the DI? I mean, the guy was stabbed, murdered, and she’d been his girlfriend, she’d been, or thought she’d been, engaged to him. But she’s my neighbor, she’s my friend, I can’t do that to her. She’s not right in the head but as for murder, well, she’d no more do murder than I would. He shivered.
“Not cold, are you?”
“I’m getting that way. And the mosquitoes are coming out.”
Sonovia gathered the sleeping cat up in her arms. “Dear God, I’ve forgotten to tell you. Mr. Kroot’s dead. He passed away this morning. It went straight out of my head. Picking up the cat reminded me.”
“Poor old boy.” Charitable Laf looked doleful. “I dare say he’s better off where he is. Keep Blackie, shall we?”
“I wouldn’t leave him to the tender mercies of Gertrude Pierce.”
When Minty had let herself into it, her own house had a ghostly feel. Perhaps any empty house is like that at dusk, until the lights are on, the curtains are closed, or laughter breaks through. No laughter but such silence, such stillness, such a sense of waiting for things to happen. The house is holding its breath, bracing itself for what will come in.
Instead of switching the hall light on, any light on, Minty walked slowly about, challenging the house to show its ghosts. She was a little afraid to turn round but she did, walking back the way she had come, going round and round. At the foot of the stairs she looked up them, as up a well by night, for there was no light at the top. Out of the deep shade Jock came down. He was just the same ghost as he’d been when she first saw him. It was as if she’d never got rid of him. It only worked for a little while. For three or four months, she thought, as she met his pale, stony eyes.
She closed her own eyes and slowly turned round so that her back was toward him. There was absolute silence. If he touched her, his hand on her neck or his breath cold against her cheek, she thought she would die. Nothing happened and she turned round again, forcing her eyes open as if strength were needed to push the eyelids up. No one was there, he had gone. From outside came the sound of a car moving along the street, its windows open and rock music thudding out. She thought, He comes back because I can’t find his grave, because I can’t put flowers on it like I do on Auntie’s.
“Now listen, Minty,” Laf said when he’d brought round the papers. “I’ve done that bit of detective work you wanted. Your Jock wasn’t buried. He was cremated and his ashes scattered.” Up to a point, this was true. Laf always tried very hard not to tell lies, only straying from the straight and narrow path when the truth was too cruel. For instance, Jeffrey Leach had indeed been cremated but his ashes had been collected from the undertakers by Fiona Harrington, who had told a police officer acquaintance of Laf’s what she intended to do with them. “Somewhere in West Hampstead,” he said, and was disappointed to see Minty’s face fall.
“Where could I put my flowers?”
Laf had a picture of a cellophane-wrapped bunch of chrysanthemums lying isolated and forlorn on the pavement in West End Lane. It would be as if someone had died there. Though he wasn’t usually so cynical on the subject of human nature, he wondered how long it would be before a dozen other similarly wrapped bouquets joined it, the “mourners” having no idea to whom they were paying homage.
“Well, Fortune Green was what she said.”
A sort of green triangle with trees, he thought vaguely. He expected more requests or even demands from Minty but when one came it was very different from what he anticipated.
“Will you get Sonovia to phone the builders again?”
“Give them time, Minty,” he said, rather taken aback.
She seemed to be listening for something as she stared into a corner. Then she shook herself like someone coming out of a daze. “You said the beginning of the week is Thursday and the end of the week next Monday but Monday’s gone and they haven’t come. I’m never going to get my shower at this rate.”
Chapter 34
ONE OF THE LAST sightings of Jims was in Le Tobsil restaurant in Marrakesh. A Liberal Democrat MP, visiting that city with his wife as part of a Moroccan tour, saw him through the window. He couldn’t have afforded to eat there himself. The MP wouldn’t have been surprised to have found him with a young and handsome male companion, but Jims was alone. He mentioned this interesting glimpse to a friend in an e-mail and the friend told a newspaper. That was the beginning of the ongoing and endlessly fascinating “Disappearance of Gay MP” story.
In late August a journalist claimed to have encountered him in Seoul, where Jims granted him an interview. But everyone who knew Jims was highly skeptical about this as none of them could imagine him setting foot in Korea, while the text itself with its admissions of shame, regret, and contrition sounded very unlike him. Neither his agent nor, naturally, his bank was prepared to divulge anything of his whereabouts, though presumably they had some idea. Attempts were made to get the truth out of Zillah, though it took a while to find her as by this time she had let Willow Cottage on a year’s lease to an American novelist and moved into Long Fredington Manor with Sir Ronald Grasmere.
“I’ve always wanted to come back here,” said Eugenie, “and now we’re moving out again.”
But no one took any notice, as usual.
Zillah had no idea where Jims was and cared less. From now on, all her efforts were to make Ronnie happy and convince him he was mistaken when he said that, following his recent divorce, he was done with marriage forever.
From time to time Violent Crimes or Miss Demeanor appeared on television-the only slot they got was two minutes at the end of Newsroom Southeast-to tell an apathetic public that they would never give up the hunt for the Cinema Slayer and killer of Eileen Dring. An arrest would be made in the not-too-far-distant future. They had many leads on which their team was working day and night. Fiona and Matthew and Michelle sometimes watched these programs but without much anxiety or sense of involvement. Their ordeals were over. The police had shown no interest in any of them for weeks now. Their neighbors once more passed the time of day with them, no one crossed the street when they approached, and Fiona had had the graffiti on her gateposts removed and painted over.
Gradually, she was recovering. She no longer expected it to be Jeff when the doorbell rang or to find him waiting for her when she came home. The time was past when she woke from her sedative-induced sleep to wonder why he wasn’t lying there beside her. These days she could agree with friends she had thought unkind that after all, she’d only known him for eight months. It wasn’t really long enough to be sure of one’s feelings. Knowing what she now knew of him, she’d never have been able to trust him, he’d deceived her so often and told so many lies. Sometimes she asked Michelle if she was forgiven for categorizing her and Matthew as among Jeff’s enemies, and although Michelle always said yes, of course, and to forget all about it, Fiona went on asking her as if she doubted the sincerity of her replies.