If Benjamin Kerran was alive and at home, then of course he was likely to have lights on at this time in the evening.
But if he was at home and lying dead in the bathroom, it was at least as likely that he wouldn’t have had the strength to heave himself to his feet in order to switch off the lights that she must have left burning nine days ago. There had only been a candle burning in the living room, she remembered that: but all the lights had been on in the bathroom and the hall.
She congratulated herself on reaching those brilliant conclusions, then plucked up courage, crossed over the street and tried the entrance door.
It was not locked. She hesitated for a moment, then opened it and went into the courtyard. Paused and looked around.
A dark-haired young woman appeared, carrying a basket of newly washed clothes. There was a smell of cooking coming from an open window on the ground floor on the right. The old wrought-iron lantern in the corner by the bicycle stands was switched on, as were the small yellow lamps over the various staircases. The woman went in through one of them, but that wasn’t Benjamin Kerran’s door. Monica took a deep breath and established that there was no stench of rotting flesh lurking in the air in the courtyard, only that cooking smell. Something with mushrooms and garlic, no doubt, and she suddenly felt hungry. She hadn’t had a cooked meal for over a week now, so that was hardly surprising. Not surprising at all.
She scanned the façade of the building from this side as well, from the inside as it were, but didn’t bother to try to work out which windows were relevant. It looked as if people were at home in most flats, in about two-thirds of them in fact, she estimated. Some of the windows were even open — it was such a warm evening, so why not? She could hear noises from televisions and radios here and there, and the occasional conversation, muted somewhat by the thick walls and the dense atmosphere of. . well, of middle-class civilization. She noted that the overall impression was of unambiguous homeliness — a feeling of homeliness impervious to pressures from the outside — and she could feel a lump forming in her throat.
I mustn’t start crying now, she thought — and at that same moment she realized that she couldn’t remember the name on the door of the flat.
It had been something different: not Kerran. . But the name of a lodger who had since moved out, and she hadn’t a clue as to what that name was. How come she had overlooked this state of affairs? Until now?
In other words, was she sure that she would be able to find the right door? And come to think of it, how about the entrance doors out here in the courtyard, leading up to the various staircases? Surely they wouldn’t be unlocked as late as this in the evening, allowing any old riff-raff to gain entry?
Hell’s bells, she thought. I must have forgotten that I’m just an idiot. What am I doing here? What the hell was that for a daft impulse, sending me back to the scene of the crime? Standing here in the courtyard like a halfwit, totally unable to take any steps likely to throw light on the fate of the dead body!
She shook her head, walked forward and tried the door in question — the one she thought she remembered, at least.
Locked. Just as anybody with a brain more functional than a walnut could have worked out. I might just as well give up, she thought. Just as well go home and continue to stare up at the ceiling, waiting for my collapse, the arrival of the social services and the Day of Judgement. . Bloody fucking hell!
She was just about to turn on her heel and turn this decision into reality when a light was switched on, visible through the small, frosted glass panes in the upper part of the door.
She had no time to consider. To make a decision. A balding, middle-aged man in tracksuit and trainers came out. Nodded to her, ran out into the courtyard and vanished into the street within three seconds.
She managed to catch the door before it closed and automatically locked itself, and before she knew where she was, she found herself inside. Paused for a moment and felt a sort of whirlpool welling up inside her. Gritted her teeth and clasped her hands. Looked around.
Now, she thought. Please, God, give me a chance.
On the wall to the left, before the stairs up to the lift, was a noticeboard inside a glass case, with the names of the tenants, floor by floor: and when she read it, she suddenly remembered — she recognized the name of the student. On the fourth floor, just as she had thought. At the top of the building.
If the circumstances had been different and her head clearer, she might have wondered why his name wasn’t here either, just that of the student lodger who had moved out some time ago — wondered for a moment about whether there was something odd about the correct name not being displayed in such obvious places.
But she didn’t. She didn’t question anything at all. The whirlpool inside her was too strong. Having come this far, Monica didn’t give herself time to reflect about anything. Even forgot to check the state of the mailboxes, which were lined up on the wall opposite the list of names.
Simply stepped into the lift — it was a well-lit and inviting old-fashioned wooden lift with folding seats covered in red velvet. She remembered it. Closed the noisy barred door and pressed the button.
The lift cage, which presumably dated back to. . did he say 1905?. . started moving and slowly, rattling and squeaking, raised her up inside the building — and as she stood there, swaying from side to side and watching floor after floor pass by, she remembered to start sniffing, wondering if she would be able to recognize the smell.
The sweetish smell of her lover’s rotting body.
But she didn’t smell it at all. Not even when she stepped out of the lift and stood in front of his door was there any trace of a suspicious stench.
Nor was there any sign of a chink of light under the door to his flat. But then, that would have been impossible in any circumstances, she realized, because there wasn’t so much as a millimetre’s gap under the bottom of the door. On the contrary, the door was just as dark and well-fitting and solid as everything else in the building, and the keyhole was certainly not of the type that you could peer through. Definitely not.
Monica swallowed, and stood there with her arms dangling by her sides. She felt that the whirlpool was fading away, and that she was once more close to crying — but at that very moment she heard footsteps on the staircase below.
She hadn’t heard a door opening and closing again, but perhaps somebody had come in through the door while she was still in the noisy lift.
Somebody was on the way up the stairs. She looked around, and wondered what to do. There was one more door on the landing where she was standing, a bit further down a short corridor. And four steps up was a solid-looking door made of iron or steel. Presumably leading into the attic space. It looked as securely locked as a safe in Switzerland.
She listened. The footsteps continued to approach.
Getting closer.
You are standing at the door of the flat in which you murdered your lover, an inner voice informed her. Somebody is on his way up the stairs, and he’ll discover you within the next ten seconds. .
Unless that Somebody isn’t on his way up to the top floor.
She pressed herself close to the wall next to the door and held her breath.
The footsteps paused on the landing below, and she heard the sound of a man coughing — then the jingling sound of keys being taken out of a jacket pocket.