The article indicated that this particular individual had been seen leaving the crime scene in Abney Park Cemetery and, reading this, Bella dug out an old A-Z from the bookshelves in the dining room. She located this place in Stoke Newington, and the very fact of Stoke Newington, miles upon miles from Putney, gave her pause. She was in the midst of this pause when she heard the front door being unlocked and steps coming down the corridor in her direction.
She said, “Frazer, luv?” and didn’t wait for his reply. She made it her business to know the comings and goings of her lodgers, and it was the hour at which Frazer Chaplin returned from his day job to freshen up and change his clothes for his evening employment. She greatly admired this about the young man: the fact that he had two jobs. Industrious people were the sort of people she liked letting rooms to. “Got a moment?”
Frazer came to the doorway as she looked up from the A-Z. He raised an eyebrow-black like his hair, which was thick and curly and spoke of Spain at the time of the Moors although the boy himself was Irish-and he said, “Blazing today, eh? Every kid in Bayswater was at the ice and bowl, Mrs. McH.”
“No doubt,” Bella said. “Have a look in here, luv.”
She took him to the kitchen and showed him the paper. He scanned the article then looked at her. “And?” He sounded perplexed.
“What do you mean ‘And?’ Young woman, dressed nicely, dead…”
He twigged then, and his expression altered. “Oh no. I don’ think so,” he said although he did sound slightly hesitant when he went on with, “Really, it can’t be, Mrs. McH.”
“Why not?”
“Because why would she be up in Stoke Newington? And why in a cemetery, for God’s good love?” He looked at the photographs once again. He looked at the e-fit as well. He shook his head slowly. “No. No. Truly. More likely she’s just gone somewhere for a break, to get away from the heat. To the sea or something, don’t you think? Who could blame her, like?”
“She would have said. She wouldn’t have wanted anyone to worry. I expect you know that.”
Frazer raised his head from his study of the newspaper photos, alarm in his eyes, a fact that Bella noted with gratification. There were few things in life she loathed more than a slow learner, and she gave Frazer high marks for his ability to infer. He said, “I’ve not broken the rule again. I might not be the brightest coin in the collection plate, but I’m not-”
“I know, luv,” Bella said quickly. God knew he was a good boy at heart. Easily led, perhaps. Rather too much taken when it came to a bit of skirt. But still good in all the important ways. “I know, I know. But sometimes young women can be barracudas, as you’ve seen for yourself.”
“Not this time. And not this young woman.”
“But you were friendly with her, yes?”
“Like I’m friendly with Paolo. Like I’m friendly with you.”
“Given,” Bella said, although she couldn’t help feeling a wee bit warmed by his declaration of friendship towards herself. “But being friendly gives one access to people, to what’s going on inside them. So don’t you think she seemed different lately? Didn’t she seem to have something on her mind?”
Frazer rubbed his hand along his jaw as he considered the question. Bella could hear the scritch of his whiskers against his palm. He’d have to shave before he went off to work. “I’ve not much talent for reading people,” he finally said. “Not like you.” He was quiet again. Bella liked this about him as well. He didn’t rush forward with foolish opinions based on nothing, like so many young people. He was thoughtful and unafraid to take his time. He said, “Could be-if it is her and I’m not saying it is because it hardly makes sense, really-she went up there to think. Needing a quiet place, it being a cemetery.”
“To think?” Bella said. “All the way to Stoke Newington in order to think? She can think anywhere. She can think in the garden. She can think in her bedroom. She can think if she takes a walk by the river.”
“All right. Then what?” Frazer asked. “Saying it’s her. Why would she go?”
“She’s been secretive lately. Not her usual self. If it’s her, she went up there for no good reason.”
“Such as?”
“Such as meeting someone. Such as meeting someone who killed her.”
“That’s dead mad, that is.”
“It may be, but I’m phoning anyway.”
“Who?”
“The cops, luv. They’re asking for information and we have it, you and I.”
“What? That there’s a lodger hasn’t come home in two nights? I expect there’s situations like that all over town.”
“May well be. But this particular lodger has a brown eye and a green one, and I doubt you’re going to find that description common to anyone else who’s gone missing.”
“But if it’s her and if she’s dead…” Frazer said nothing more and Bella looked up from the paper. There was certainly something in his tone, and Bella’s suspicions were roused. But her concerns were assuaged when he went on with, “She’s such a grand girl, Mrs. McH. She’s always been open and friendly, hasn’t she. She’s never acted like someone with secrets. So if it’s her, the question isn’t so much why was she there but who on God’s green earth would want to kill her?”
“Some madman, luv,” Bella replied. “You and I know London’s crawling with them.”
BELOW HIM, HE could hear the usual noise: acoustic guitars and electric guitars, both played badly. The acoustic guitars were bearable as the hesitant chords at least were not amplified. As for the electric guitars, it seemed to him that the worse the player, the louder the amplification employed. It was as if whoever the student was, he or she enjoyed being bad. Or perhaps the instructor enjoyed allowing the student to be bad and at maximum volume, as if there were a lesson being taught that had nothing to do with music. He couldn’t sort out why this might be the case, but he’d long ago given up trying to understand the people among whom he lived.
If you declared, you would understand. If you showed yourself as who you could be. Nine orders but we- we-are the highest. Distort God’s plan and you fall like the others. Do you wish to-
A shriek from a chord gone very wrong. It dispelled the voices. There was blessing in that. He needed to be out of this place, as he usually was, for the hours that the shop beneath him was open for business. But he hadn’t been able to leave for two days. It had taken that long to remove the blood.
He had a bed-sit and he’d used its washbasin. It was tiny, though, and tucked into the corner of the room. It was also within sight of the window, so he’d had to be careful because although it was unlikely that someone would see him through the wispy curtains, there was always a chance that a breeze could blow them away from the aperture at the moment when he was wringing cherry-stained water from the shirt or the jacket or even the trousers. Still, he wanted a breeze even as he knew a breeze would be dangerous to him. He’d opened the window in the first place because it was so hot in the bed-sit that he hadn’t been able to breathe properly and useless to us now unless you show yourself had battered against his eardrums and the thought of air had him stumbling to the window and shoving it open. He’d done it at night, he had done it at night, which meant he was able to make distinctions and we are not intended to battle each other. We are meant to battle the sons of Darkness. Do you not see-
He shoved the earpieces into his ears and turned up the volume. Intermittently, he’d been playing the “Ode to Joy” because he knew it was capable of taking up so much space in his brain that he could have no thoughts that were not those sounds and he could hear no voices that were not the chorus. That was what he needed to see him through, until he could return to the street.
Because of the heat, his clothes had dried quickly, which was a blessing. This had allowed him to soak them a second and third time. Ultimately, the water had altered from bright crimson to cherry to the pale pink of spring blossoms, and while the shirt would not be white again without bleaching or professional laundering, the worst of the staining was gone. And on the trousers and jacket, it couldn’t be seen at all. What remained was the ironing, and he had an iron because how he appeared was important to him. He didn’t like people to be put off. He wanted them near, he wanted them listening, and he wanted them to know him as he really was. But that couldn’t happen if he was disheveled, with filthy clothes suggesting poverty and sleeping rough. Neither of those was accurate. He’d chosen his life. He wanted people to know that.