Flea looked at the sofa. Two long-haired tabbies were curled among a pile of stuffed toys. Under them the leather was dry and split with a salty stain across it that looked like sweat or sea water. She moved the toys and sat next to the cats. One made a small grunt and wriggled closer into its partner. She felt the warmth against her leg and liked the comfort of it.
‘A drink? S’pose you want a drink?’
A black glass and chrome bar stood in the corner, coloured tumblers balanced on their rims, a gold ice bucket, mixers lined up. Flea took stock of the bottles of spirits at the back. ‘Yes.’ She put her cap on the arm of the chair. ‘I’ll have what you’re having.’
Mrs Lindermilk wiped her hands on her shirt and went to the bar. She upended two tumblers, put her hand on a bottle of Bacardi, stopped and gave Flea a sickly smile, as if to say, You almost caught me. Almost. Not quite. ‘Coke, then,’ she said. She got two cans from under the bar, snapped off the ring pulls and poured. Gave one to Flea.
‘Mrs Lindermilk-’
‘Ruth. You can call me Ruth, if you want.’
‘OK, Ruth. Is there a Mr Lindermilk?’
‘Was.’ She took her drink and settled into a worn recliner next to a rickety occasional table on which lay a remote control and an ashtray. Her bare legs in the heels were tanned, and sinewy, blackish clusters of spider veins dotted up and down them. ‘It’s just me and Stevie now.’
‘Your son?’
‘Yeah – that’s him.’ She nodded to the walls. Some of the framed photographs were of boats. One or two showed a much younger Ruth at the helm, wearing her jaunty cap next to a grey-haired man in a Hawaiian shirt. Another showed a younger man, in a white wife-beater and baseball cap with an anchor insignia, at the helm of a small boat, gazing straight into the camera. His hair was thick and blond, and he was very tanned, but there was something closed about his mouth that stopped him being good-looking. ‘Got his own business now. Doing well for himself, our Stevie.’
‘Ruth, the police came a few years back. You and one of the neighbours?’
‘How the hell do you know about that?’
‘We have access to that sort of thing.’
‘It wasn’t me who started it. Have you got access to that part? Eh?’
‘It didn’t say.’
‘Well, it was his fault. He was poisoning the squirrels. He knew my cats might eat the poison, knew it would wind me up. And it did. He got what was coming.’
‘You pulled a gun on him?’
‘A BB gun. Not exactly an AK47, is it?’
‘It’s still a gun. Could do a lot of harm.’
Ruth Lindermilk held up her hand. ‘No. You’re not going to discredit me. No effing way are you going to come in here without an appointment and try to discredit me.’
‘OK, OK.’ Flea kept her voice level. She wanted to look up at the telescope but she focused her eyes on Ruth. ‘I’m not trying to discredit you. I’m really not. I’m trying to build a picture of your situation.’
‘How much more of a picture do you want? You’ve got the letters I wrote you, haven’t you?’
‘Yes. I… Do you spend a lot of time watching the road?’
‘Most nights.’
‘What time do you go to bed?’
‘Late.’
‘When you say late?’
She shifted in her chair. ‘Are you here to help me or not?’ She raised her eyebrows challengingly. ‘Hmmm?’
Flea’s eyes went to the glass she was holding. Ruth Lindermilk was absently sloshing the Coke around in it with a circular motion. The way you would if there was booze in it. This was going to be uphill all the way. But the drink. She definitely had a drink problem. It might be useful for them. ‘Can I have a look through the camera?’ she asked. ‘The telescope?’
Lindermilk didn’t answer. She went on studying Flea thoughtfully. Her eyes went to the combats again. To the ID tucked inside her T-shirt.
‘Ruth? The camera?’
She smiled. ‘Of course you can have a look.’
She stood and opened the french windows. They stepped out into a day that had exploded into light. Sun was bouncing off the dew in the grass, the trees. One or two cats followed them, dropped on to the drying patio and lay blinking. Flea stood on tiptoe and squinted into the camera viewfinder. It was trained on the road below. Not on the site of the accident, but further up nearer where she’d left the car. She clicked the button on to ‘quick view’ and scrolled. There were only twenty or so photos, showing cats, a sunset, a badger eating cat food, all of which looked to have been taken in the back garden. There were no pictures of her just now, standing next to the Clio on the road.
Flea switched the camera back to photo mode, stepped sideways and put her eye to the telescope. It was trained on the road too.
‘Know how to use it?’ Ruth Lindermilk said.
‘Yes. The focus is here, right?’
‘It’s a good one. A nautical one. The neighbours hate me using it.’
Flea made a show of getting the adjustments right. She moved the telescope, letting it scan the hillside above the rapeseed field, down the track that went up the side, along the edge of the road. She moved it slightly to the right. Hit something pink.
She looked up. Ruth Lindermilk had walked a few paces on to the lawn and was standing with her hands on her hips, grinning at the telescope. There was a chipped tooth at the top of her mouth, next to the canine. ‘Get a good look?’
‘Yes.’
‘Notice anything?’
‘Just you. In the way.’
‘But anything special about me? Go on – tell me what you noticed.’
That you’re mad? That you’re an alcoholic? ‘What am I supposed to notice?’
‘That I’m not fuckin’ stupid.’ She came back to the telescope and pulled it away from Flea, snapping on the lens cover. ‘That’s what you’re supposed to notice.’
‘I’m just trying to do my job, Mrs Lindermilk.’
‘No, you’re not. You’re not trying to do your job because you’re not from the fuckin’ council. You’re not from the Highways Agency and not from the council, either.’
‘Of course I am.’
‘Do you think I was born yesterday? It’s them’s sent you, isn’t it?’ She turned, gesturing at the hamlet. ‘Neighbours ganging up on me, wanting to get a spy of my house. Go on – say it. Say, “Yes, they sent me.”’
‘I told you. I’m from the council.’
‘Well, if you are, you’re not from the department that wants to help me. You’re from bleedin’ environmental health, aren’t you?’
‘No.’
‘Then tell me about the letters I sent. When was the last one? What was the date?’
‘I handle several cases like this a week. I can’t remember exact dates.’
‘Then tell me what the letters are about.’
‘The road.’
‘What about the road?’
Flea put her hands in her pockets, stood on tiptoe and looked at the horizon.
‘If you’re really from the council you’ll tell me why I’m interested in the road.’
Flea dropped back on to her heels, and turned her eyes to meet the other woman’s. ‘I don’t know,’ she admitted. ‘Just don’t know.’
‘Jesus fuckin’ wept.’
‘Tell me what you’ve seen down there. That’s what I want to know.’
Ruth Lindermilk grabbed the tripod, collapsed it, tucked the bits under her arm, took them to the french windows and put them inside the room. ‘Go on, get out of here. Want to see your hiney heading down that path right now.’