Looking Down (15 page)

‘Nice to see you,’ Sarah said. ‘You’re looking, how can I put it?, slightly academic this morning. Are you meeting a professor for lunch? Or is it the new look?’

‘This? Oh no, but since Richard won’t deign to be back until much later I may as well be casual today.’

‘Casual’ to Sarah meant old clothes for the housework that had subsumed her energies and driven her mad with dislike of it for the last two hours. It was a reaction to events. Domestic chores should be done by men to quell their aggression. It was difficult to feel anything much after polishing wooden floors and scrubbing the floor in the kitchen, but it had improved her mood, ultimately, which was all it was for, and why men should try it. You could take the girl out of the small-town terraced house, but you could not take the clean-doorstep mentality out of the girl, even if she was more naturally a bit of a slut. This was Lilian’s thought about Sarah this morning. Otherwise, she was rehearsing a story, and she needed to tell it out loud.

The casual look, in her case, was an immaculate trouser suit with slender-heeled boots, a blouse buttoned almost to the chin, and somewhat severe, half-moon spectacles perched on her nose. As far as Sarah knew, Lilian had no problems with eyesight. How mean of her to hope that she did: would be useful, especially now, if it made it difficult for her recognise people. The painting, hidden in a kitchen cupboard, felt like a hot coin burning a hole in her pocket. It was only the spectacles that made Lilian’s appearance relatively severe, and the trousers, since she usually wore short skirts, and with legs like that who wouldn’t.

‘I didn’t mean academic, now I look at you,’ Sarah said. ‘I think
businesslike
would be more appropriate.’ It was obvious that Lilian had not arrived in a hysterical state about being burgled in the night, so Sarah was beginning to relax. She had feared otherwise.

‘Look, darling, I took your advice. Something had to be done.’

‘What advice was that?’

‘The other day, darling. You said I made Richard too comfortable. Something like that. Anyway, I took your advice about
it. And now I feel bad. Tell me I was right, will you? Pretty please?’

She was sounding very little girlish, which Sarah had come to interpret as a bad sign, at least as far as Richard was concerned. It meant she was denying responsibility, looking for something to blame, mimicking childhood behaviour. Not a luxury she had ever had, although there were men who loved this stuff. Never mind.

‘My advice, was it? Making him uncomfortable. You’ll have to tell me what you did to reduce the comfort level. I wouldn’t approve of ripping up his clothes, for instance.’

‘Oh, I’d never do that and he doesn’t care about clothes anyway, but I’m afraid I got one of his paintings, messed it up and stuck it out with the rubbish. The rubbish has gone, hasn’t it?’

‘Yes, early this morning.’ She had met them, down at the bins. ‘Was it a recent painting?’

‘Yes. I hated it. So I didn’t do
much
, did I? Just enough to make him see it isn’t always safe to leave his rubbish lying all over the flat.’

‘Yes,’ Sarah said faintly. ‘I suppose that might do the trick. Only it might be wise to see what the reaction is before you do anything else.’

‘And then he rang,’ Lilian went on, ‘from where he is, this morning. Told me he’d been out for dinner with a
man
he’d met in the hotel where he stays on the coast. Lovely man, he said. I can’t tell you how relieved I am, Sarah.’

‘Because it’s a man? Well, you knew there was no question he was having a relationship with a woman, didn’t you? Not his style.’

‘Yes, of course I knew
that
, but it’s always nice to know that if he’s away and lonely . . . well, you know. Anyway, then I started to feel guilty. And I thought of the other part of your advice.’

Sarah felt faint with relief, ready to hug this silly bitch. So that was the story, then. No man, particularly no brother of hers, had climbed up a series of drainpipes and burgled the rich wife upstairs. Lilian had not thrust a picture of a corpse at a Lycraclad burglar, and even if she had, was never going to admit it. Steven was safe. The rich wife was telling a story which completely excluded him. Sarah felt vaguely hysterical.

‘You
said that I should try and understand Richard’s passions. I mean, his painting passions. So I thought I’d go and look. At paintings and stuff. Today, tomorrow, all week. Do a few galleries. Get the gist. Then I can talk to him about it. Stop him feeling cross with me. But how do I say I got rid of the painting by mistake?’

‘You went into the room and it fell on you,’ Sarah suggested, not having the faintest idea which room she was talking about. ‘I suppose it’s large?’

‘Oh no, not at all, it’s very small. I could blame the cleaning lady, though she isn’t supposed to go in there. Say she knocked it over by mistake.’

‘Good idea, provided she doesn’t get the sack.’

Lilian shivered at the very idea. ‘Never, over my dead body. I can say
I
knocked it over and it broke, and was ruined, so she threw it away. That way it would be both our faults. Richard’s too nice to sack anyone.’

‘Paintings on canvas don’t break, Lilian. Say it got smeared or something.’

Shut up.

Lilian hauled a live and vibrant body out of the armchair, drained her coffee and shook her legs to readjust the trousers until they fell just over the little tippy toes of her boots. Stop this, Sarah told herself. Shut up; be grateful that this is the version of what happened to a painting. What a lovely woman. And then, just as Lilian reached for her cerise, lightweight pashima and
wrapped it round her elegant shoulders, she dropped another bombshell.

‘Sarah? He did say, Richard I mean, that he was bringing back this nice, old doctor he had dinner with, to stay the night. I gather this doctor’s single at the moment. And part of the reason for bringing him was that Richard thought you might like him. Isn’t that nice of him? I’m sure he’s not too old for you. But then I thought, Rich and I could probably do with a bit of time alone. I mean, there could be a bit of an argument and a bit of making up. Any chance he could stay with you?’

Oh God. The most unlikely people collaborated, without even knowing. Sarah was now furious with Richard. And because of Steven, she had to keep everybody sweet.

‘I expect so. Tell you what, if he’s a nerd, deaf dumb and blind, you have him, you’ve got more space. If he’s OK, he can put up here. Only I charge sixty pounds per hour, plus VAT.’

Lilian trilled with laughter. It was an irritating version of the usual seductive chuckle. She picked up a duster she had found on the floor and placed it neatly on the table, still laughing.

‘You’re so funny, Sarah, really you are. You’re a scream. Must go and look at art. Oh, I tell you what, why don’t we go together, sometime? You wouldn’t blind me with science, would you? And you should get out more. You always seem to be here in the morning.’

Lilian’s mornings began no sooner than 10 a.m, at a time when Sarah might only just have got home. Well, they both lacked a work ethic, and the less Lilian knew of her neighbour’s lifestyle, the better.

‘Yes, I’ll come and look at art with you. Next time Richard’s away. I do it anyway. Hang on, I’ll come down with you. Need to buy food.’

Need to check on Fritz, too, and what
he
might have seen and
heard. He was there, polishing the mirror, smiling at first, and then nodding a formal ‘good morning’ to Lilian.

‘Really,’ Lilian said in a stage whisper as soon as they were outside, ‘he might do the stairs as well.’

When Sarah came back with tea and whisky, cheese and wine, Fritz had gone. Good: there had been enough conversation for one morning. She was feeling totally outmanoeuvred, blackmailed by everyone into being
nice
to everyone so that Steven would be safe, and she was even going to have to be nice to Richard Beaumont’s bloody friend. It was going to be a long day. She was very, very cross.

They sidled in in the late afternoon, Richard and his friend John. Richard was mellow and John was shy. Sarah made them tea. There was an exchange of pleasantries, where Sarah asked John if big cities were a shock after small towns. He said they were, this one most of all. He was tongue-tied. Sarah checked a sigh of impatience. Richard winked at her; it didn’t suit him. She smiled and went out for more tea. Stood in her kitchen, furious.

Sarah Fortune knew very well how she augmented her income, by being a tart with a heart, as naturally promiscuous with her affections as anyone on the planet. It just came naturally, was all. Never a question of why?, but why not? At the moment, she resented it. Richard Beaumont might be a friend and a kind man, but he would always see her as a tart, and he was pimping for his friend, there was no doubt about that. Probably wanted to help him, somehow, and didn’t know a better way.
Got a friend, Sarah, needs looking after, know what I mean?
Loaded words, and not the first time she had heard them, and she could always refuse, but what with Steven, and Lilian, and that blasted painting, it might be difficult. And she wasn’t going to be doing anything with Mr Tongue-tied out there unless she found something to like. That was the rule: they had to be worth the effort.

John, the doctor, was gazing at the painting of the cow with
the reverence of an acolyte, his face slowly and unconsciously changing expression, raising an eyebrow, wrinkling his nose, frowning then smiling, as if he was having a conversation with it. She watched him out of the corner of her eye as she spoke to Richard, as if it was a vicarage tea party and John was the mad one in the corner. Instead of a man experiencing
zing.
Then John knocked over the milk jug and did not seem to notice as he rose to look closer, and Sarah relaxed. This was familiar territory. He was another William, another Henry, another nice, awkward man. Richard gave her another wink, an imploring glance. ‘Goodness,’ he said. ‘Must go.’ It was hardly subtle.

‘Well, that was hardly subtle, was it?’ Sarah said as the door closed noisily behind him.

‘No,’ John said, faintly.

‘Do you really like the cow?’

‘Yes, I really do.’

There was no point in pussyfooting around, it never worked. It was usually better to trust people and take the consequences. He was a likeable man, reminding her of a bemused bird. There were enough good vibes with this fellow to allow instinct to take over.

‘What did Richard tell you about me?’

‘Well, he gave me the impression you were a friend, and a sort of . . . counsellor.’

‘For which, read amateur tart. Does that bother you?’

His face went white, then pink, and then he laughed, loudly and honestly.

‘No, it doesn’t. They were always my favourite patients. Only I can’t afford you. Nor can I perform, I seem to have lost the knack. That Richard, he’s a cunning bastard, isn’t he?’

‘Yes, he is. Don’t worry about the tart angle. Richard told me you needed to talk. And I’m the kind of person who needs
to listen. I’ve got a terrible addiction to talking, too. Shall we have a drink? I’m sick of tea and coffee, been drinking it all day.’

He shook his head, back to tongue-tied. There were purple hollows beneath his eyes, etched lines of weariness. She liked him, waited for him.

‘Speaking for myself,’ he said, ‘I’d like to talk about Richard. He’s been a marvellous shot in the arm for me, but I don’t know him. And there is something the matter with him, you know. He worries me.’

‘The memory, you mean? Yes, I’ve noticed. Do you always worry about people?’

‘Oh yes. It’s a habit. Thought I’d shaken it off, but I haven’t. Wanted a quiet, pain-free life, and now I don’t.’

They liked one another.

‘Fine,’ she said. ‘We talk about Richard first. And what a cunning bugger he is. Call it tit for tat because, you see, I desperately need to know about
him
, and what he’s been up to.’

‘That’s fine by me,’ John said. ‘I’d really like that.’

‘Good, because I doubt if he’ll be back. I’m afraid they might be having an almighty row upstairs because, as far as I can gather, they might love one another but they never talk about anything at all. Mind you, it’s the hardest thing to do when you live together. Much easier with strangers.’

He could see a path between him and her. He had nothing to lose. Richard was right: he had been losing his mind.

‘Keep my seat warm while I get some wine. Or would you prefer whisky?’

‘Please.’

‘I have it.’

He gazed at the somnolent, lumbering, grazing cow in the oversized painting, thought the scale was quite right and felt unaccountably content.

He felt safe. He forgot the cliffs, the bodies, everything. He was adrift, not at all in control, and safe.

Tomorrow was soon enough for everything else.

Edwin stank. He had waited for the low tide. Then he had gone out over the rocks, slashed at the corpse with an axe. It took a long time to dismember it. The business disgusted him, but it was bloodless. Food for
them.

He pulled parts of it ashore and let the tide take the rest. There was no light except the reflection of the moon, and the torch. On the horizon there were still the boats coming into port, and halfway between, the signal.

Don’t you dare, he told them. Keep away. All of you keep away.

There was not enough light.

Fritz paused outside the door of the penthouse flat and watched the city dawn through the window of the landing, with a duster in his hand as an alibi. Go check up there, his wife said: too much coming and going for anybody’s good, all those parcels, people coming and going at night, but it was futile to check like this. No sound penetrated into the corridors from behind these doors and he should know, he listened all the time. Then, as he watched, the door shook, as if someone was pushing it from inside. The brass handle on his side of the door turned vainly back and forth. The door gave slightly but held. The rattling went on for a minute. He felt he could hear sobbing. Fritz fled.