Adam and Eve and Pinch Me (18 page)

Sleepy Hollow
hadn’t frightened her and this one didn’t. It was a disappointment. If these film people had had her experience of ghosts they’d know more about making things frightening. She wished she’d gone to
The Green Mile,
but it was too late now. Anyway, if she had, Jock’s ghost mightn’t have been there and she wouldn’t have had the chance of banishing him once and for all. When the film was about three-quarters of the way through she got up and left. The man in the back row left too, so she wasn’t the only one who hadn’t liked it.

Outside it was still hot and sunny. She looked at her hands to see if there was any mess on them but she’d wiped what there was off on the seat when she’d wiped the knife. Still she shivered because when she lifted her fingers up to her nose she could smell something that was like blood but stronger, she thought, more bitter and
unholy.
Spots and splashes of it were all over her clothes but they weren’t noticeable to anyone but herself because her trousers were dark red and her T-shirt was a red and blue and yellow pattern. Not that Minty much worried about anyone seeing; it was for herself that she cared. She’d never been concerned about what other people thought of her. They ought to be thinking about what
she
thought of
them.

But she didn’t want to get on a bus. Sitting with that ghost juice on her would somehow be worse than walking in the fresh air. For one thing, it would be all around her, close to her, pressing on her, and for another she’d smell it more. The stench of it began to make her miserable, to make her want to tear her clothes off and plunge into water, any water. That wasn’t possible. So she walked. Up Edgware Road in the heat and the smell from the Middle Eastern takeaway restaurants, along the start of Harrow Road and through the underpass into Warwick Avenue. There was no longer any fear of meeting Jock there.

This was familiar territory, home ground. The people you passed never took any notice of you and they never sniffed, trying to smell you. Everyone sweated, there was no escaping it, but she hated it happening to her, the feel of the beads of moisture breaking out on her upper lip and forehead, the trickle of it dripping down her chest like tears. It wouldn’t smell, not with all the deodorant she used. But how could you be sure you hadn’t missed out a little bit of skin surface? She imagined the sweat leaking out of that little bit inside her armpit and that awful meaty, oniony smell breathing on to the air. Almost crying now with the filth that covered her, her own perspiration and the splashed ghost juice, she let herself into the house. She ran upstairs and fell into the bath. It was half an hour later that she boiled the knife. The clothes she’d worn were beyond saving, far far beyond washing. She wrapped them in newspaper, then in plastic, and put them into a black waste bag. Knowing they’d be there, albeit outside, for another four days, sent her out again. The heat met her, it was like opening an oven door. She walked slowly, shrinking her body to keep the sweat in, and dropped the bag into the big council rubbish bin a few yards up the road.

Chapter 15

MICHELLE SET OUT wineglasses on the coffee table, a heart-shaped dish filled with vegetable crisps that would neither thin down nor fatten up, and a rather larger oval one with dry-roasted peanuts. Fiona had said she liked the crisps and she hoped to persuade Matthew to eat a few as well. She, of course, would eat nothing, not even the pink and orange slivers of root vegetable, and would go sparingly on the wine. After her shower that morning she had stood on the scales, hardly daring to look, but found she’d lost three pounds. The week before it had been four pounds. Could there be any greater tonic to an overweight woman than to find she’d lost seven pounds in a fortnight? She’d been singing while she dressed herself and Matthew had smiled lovingly at her.

He and she had been out shopping in the afternoon and bought the wine. Michelle knew nothing about wine but Matthew did—in her opinion he was an expert on everything—and he’d chosen a meursault. Fiona was coming, and Michelle knew she preferred white wine over any other alcoholic drink. There wasn’t much food to buy, just the few things Matthew would eat, and today he’d agreed to try a bit of chicken, another suggestion of Fiona’s, the kind you get at a delicatessen counter and which looks like a close-textured white loaf, from which the assistant saws wafer-thin slices. It would do for her too, along with some green leaves. The shopping bags were about twenty pounds lighter than usual.

It was such a lovely day that Michelle had suggested she drive them both up to the Heath, where they could sit in the sunshine and look at the view. So she’d done this and they’d stayed up there a long time, talking about Matthew’s TV successes. He was due to have lunch with a producer who planned to make a short series on the lines of the pilot program.

“When he said ‘lunch,’ ” Matthew said, “I started laughing, darling, I couldn’t help it. I thought,
me
having lunch with someone. In a
restaurant.
He thought I was laughing with pleasure at the idea of a series.”

“Can you do it?” Michelle was all concern. “Eat with someone in a restaurant, I mean? I know you can do the series.”

“I’m going to try. Before we start I’m going to remind him what I am and just why I got the job. And then I’ll eat salad and a bit of dry bread. By eat I mean nibble and leave three-quarters.”

When Michelle looked at her watch, it was past four and they had to get back. She hadn’t given Fiona a definite time, just said to come in for a drink when she returned from work. Jeff hadn’t been mentioned but Michelle knew that when people were a couple you had to accept the uncongenial one along with the one you liked.

“Still, I hope he’s out somewhere and not expected home till seven,” she said to Matthew as she put the two bottles of wine in the fridge.

Matthew looked up from his computer. “I don’t think he’ll be rude to you in my presence, darling. If he is I shall tell him to watch his tongue.”

“Oh, Matthew, we mustn’t upset Fiona.”

“He mustn’t upset you,” said Matthew.

Still, if it hadn’t been for Jeff, Michelle thought, she wouldn’t be losing weight now. Every time she was tempted by a croissant or a slice of quiche she remembered his hurtful words and turned away from the dangerous food. It was rather odd, to dislike someone yet feel indebted to him.

A little after five-thirty Fiona rang the bell. “You should have come in the back way,” said Michelle. “No need to be formal.”

“All right, I won’t next time. Jeff’s out somewhere. He’s gone for a job interview. Well, actually, two job interviews, one over lunch and the other at four this afternoon.”

Michelle said nothing. She didn’t believe in these possible jobs but thought Jeff Leigh perfectly capable of saying he’d found lucrative employment; this in order to get himself out of the house for regular periods each day while pursuing whatever nefarious occupations provided him with an income.

“I’ve left him a note telling him to come in here when he gets home. I hope that’s all right.”

“Of course.”

There was a chill in Michelle’s tone and Fiona noticed it. But she smiled uncertainly, told Michelle she was looking remarkably well, and wasn’t she right in thinking she’d lost weight?

“A few pounds,” said Michelle comfortably.

Matthew shut down his computer and poured the wine. He passed Fiona the dish of peanuts and ate two himself. Michelle had sparkling water. She watched in amazement as Matthew poured himself half a glass of wine and sipped it like a person who hadn’t an eating problem, raising his glass to Fiona and saying, “To your future happiness.”

The talk turned to Fiona’s wedding, who’d be invited, what she’d wear, where they’d go for their honeymoon. Michelle noticed she still had no engagement ring and then castigated herself for being a censorious bitch. Maybe engagement rings were no longer fashionable or Fiona just didn’t like them. Fiona began talking about a vegan she knew who was bringing up her children as vegans, which she, Fiona, didn’t think was right. How could she be sure they’d get enough protein? But she’d wondered if Matthew would think the vegan woman suitable to go on his program.

Matthew laughed and said it was early days yet. “I haven’t got a program till I’ve talked to the producer and perhaps not even then.”

“Oh, everyone knows you will have. That first one was so good. Well, I don’t know where Jeff’s got to. Did you hear my phone ringing a minute ago? That may have been him.”

Michelle occasionally heard the ringing of Fiona’s phone through the wall but hadn’t this time. She saw Fiona to the door and kissed her as they said good-bye.

“There you are, darling,” Matthew said. “He’s no more keen on our company than we are on his.”

Because it was past seven when she let herself into her house, Fiona checked her answering machine for messages and then she checked her mobile. Nothing. Jeff might have phoned, of course, and not left a message. That would mean he’d soon be home. She’d very little food in the house and didn’t feel like going out to buy some, so she called a restaurant they both liked at Swiss Cottage and booked a table for dinner at eight-thirty.

“Wake up,” said Eugenie, shaking Zillah. “If you go to bed in the daytime you won’t sleep tonight.”

Zillah opened her eyes sluggishly and sat up with a groan. It was half past five and she’d slept since eleven. For a moment she hardly knew where she was or why she was there. Then she heard Jordan crying. “Where’s Mrs. Peacock?”

“You gave her a key and she let us in. If you hadn’t I expect we’d have been out there on the doormat all night. In the cold. Why don’t you give me a key, Mummy?”

“Because seven-year-olds don’t have keys. And it isn’t cold, it’s probably the hottest day of the year. Where’s Mrs. Peacock?”

“Out there.” Eugenie pointed to the door. “I wouldn’t let her come into your bedroom because you might not have any clothes on.”

Zillah got up and, noticing she was wearing only a bra and panties, put on her dressing gown. Outside the bedroom door, Jordan sat on the floor in tears. She picked him up and he buried his wet face in her neck.

Mrs. Peacock was sitting in the living room, in the window seat with its magnificent view of the sunlit Palace of Westminster, drinking from a large glass of what was evidently cream sherry. “I helped myself,” she said, not at all abashed. “I needed it.”

“Mrs. Peacock took us to McDonald’s and then to a movie,” said Eugenie. “We saw
Toy Story 2.
And please don’t say you shouldn’t go to the cinema when the sun’s shining because we did and we loved it, didn’t we, Jordan?”

“I cried.” He dug his fingers into his mother’s neck till she winced.

“I must owe you a lot of money,” Zillah said to Mrs. Peacock.

“Yes, you do, rather. I’ll just have another Bristol Cream and then we’ll tot it up, shall we?”

Zillah paid Mrs. Peacock double her usual rate as well as for the cinema and the lunch. Somewhat unsteady on her feet by this time, she meandered into the lift. Zillah shut the front door. Where was Jims? With Leonardo, no doubt. Or had he gone down to his constituency? Most likely he was in Fredington Crucis and had Leonardo with him. She wondered how on earth she was going to pass the weekend. It was as bad as being in Long Fredington. Because there was no Annie or Lynn here, no Titus and Rosalba, it was worse.

The body of Jeffrey John Leach lay on the floor of the cinema, on the right-hand side between rows M and N, for nearly two hours before it was discovered. No one leaving a cinema looks along an empty row even if the lights are on. The next performance of
The House on Haunted Hill
was due to begin at six-ten and there would be a final screening, the most popular, at eight forty-five. But the six-ten showing was fairly well attended—or would have been if the two eighteen-year-old girls hadn’t entered row M at a quarter to. They told no one what they saw. They screamed.

Immediately the cinema was cleared and patrons’ ticket money refunded. An ambulance came, but it was too late for that. The police arrived. Jeffrey Leach had taken a little while to die, it came out later at the inquest, as his lifeblood seeped away into the carpet. Police noticed the blood all over one of the seats, as if the perpetrator had wiped the weapon on its upholstery. It was at this point that the whole cinema, not only this particular theater, was closed to the public.

Within an hour they knew that Jeff had died between three and four-thirty. None of the staff remembered who had sat in that row nor any patron leaving early. One said he thought he recalled a man leaving around five and another vaguely remembered a woman slipping out at ten past. Both were unable to describe these people or even make a guess at their ages. The cinema was searched for the weapon, a long, sharp carving knife. When that yielded nothing, the search was extended and Edgware Road closed from Marble Arch to Sussex Gardens, causing the worst traffic jam in central London for ten years.

The body was removed. The bloodstained seat and those on either side of it were also taken away for DNA testing, in case the perpetrator had left behind a hair, a flake of skin, a drop of his or her own blood. The police might have saved themselves the trouble. All the hairs that ever fell from Minty’s head came out when she washed it, as she did once or twice a day, and disappeared down the plughole. Any flakes of skin had been scrubbed off with a nailbrush and a loofah in hot soapy water. She left no more DNA behind her than would a plastic doll fresh from its manufacturer’s. The principle that every murderer leaves something of himself behind at the crime scene and takes some trace of it with him, Minty had disproved.