The Water's Lovely (25 page)

Eva had no idea about noting landmarks when you were out in a strange place. A strange-shaped tree, for instance, an unusual building, a glimpse of something known through the branches. If there had been such signs to look out for on her return she hadn't noticed them. She could still see the tower block, which didn't seem to fit in with the rest of the scenery, and directly ahead of her a peculiar tall kind of spire, a bit like a church but huge, with steps round it and gold all over it and statues clustered on it. She seemed to remember seeing it once before when she'd been to visit her friend in Queen's Gate years ago while they were both still at school, but she didn't know what it was and something about it, its size, its strange colours, the gilding on it, unnerved her.

Veering sharply away from it, she crossed the turf between the tallest trees she had yet encountered and at a place where four paths met at a kind of crossroads, came upon a signpost with four arms. The trouble was that she didn't know where any of the places were that
the arms pointed to. Kensington Palace, for instance, the Royal Albert Hall, Exhibition Road. Knightsbridge was familiar because of Harrods and Harvey Nicks but she didn't want to go there now.

The path she took led her past a big shallow pond that looked as if it ought to have boats on it and children playing but didn't. The early sun had gone in and a wind sprung up. Now to the left of her was something that looked like a formal garden, the kind of thing friends of Daddy's had where they lived near Cheltenham. The Campbell-Sedges, of course. It was at their place that she'd met Andrew last year. Apparently, they had known each other since they were kids but she could never remember things like that. Maybe she'd marry Andrew if he asked her. She liked the idea of a baby. Of course she'd have a Caesarean so there wouldn't be any pain and everyone knew a baby was the best accessory you could have. Look at Britney and Kate Moss. If she had a baby newspapers might treat her more seriously.

Beyond the garden and the big house she could see a towering church spire and what might be the back of a street. She had no idea where she was or where she was heading for. For some reason she had left her bottle of water in the car and she was growing thirsty. That reminded her of where she had parked the car and when. She never wore a watch when she was running. What time had it been when she started? Hours and hours ago – well, an hour. Traffic wardens wouldn't be about yet, not before nine surely.

The path led her through trees that formed another avenue. Ahead of her a spaniel was running, just one solitary dog in the whole park, its owner, a young black man in vest and jeans, strolling behind it. Eva could hear footsteps but they weren't his. They were behind her.

It wasn't really like being in the country any more for the path was neat and weed-free, and the trees more like Kew Gardens than the Cotswolds. A person could go round and round this place and never find a way out or never find the way she came in. If she didn't find the way she came in how would she ever find her car? She had forgotten the name of the street where she put it, remembered only that it was somewhere in WII.

The man and the spaniel had disappeared, though she hadn't seen them go. They must have turned off at this little path on the right. The footsteps behind her were still pattering steadily along and somehow, without looking back, she knew that whoever it was had no dog with him. Or her. Dogs made you feel safe. If she had had True with her she wouldn't be in a state now, wondering if she'd ever get out, find the car, find her car key, which she'd meant to tie to her shoelace but hadn't.

The only way the man and the spaniel could have gone was to take this little path which turned off to the right. There seemed to be no other turning. Eva didn't ask herself why she felt unsafe or why an unknown man and his dog made her feel safer but it was so and she had begun to dislike those footsteps behind. At the entrance to the path, where a tall bush with dark leathery leaves stood on either side like guardians of the place, she stopped and looked back. There was no one. The path she had followed, wide, sandy, straight, stretched behind her between a wall of trees.

At this point or after this time, in St James's Park, she would have drunk half the contents of her water bottle but she had left it in the car. Her mouth was very dry and she was aware that it was dry because of anxiety as much as thirst. Fear dried your mouth, Daddy had once told her, though she couldn't remember why. She took the path the man and the dog had taken, that they
must
have taken, unless the earth had swallowed them up. Above her, between leafy branches, ran another narrow path, a lane of sky, grey, cloudy but lit by a pale sun.

Stopping at that junction of ride with path had put an end to her running. She would walk the rest of it, walk now until she came to a street, a pavement, gates perhaps, until she saw a bus, heard a fire engine, a car horn. All she could hear now was those footsteps. Patter-patter. Then they stopped. Whoever it was must have left the path and taken to the turf, the grass that was always out there, beyond shrubs and trees and hedges.

The path was petering out and becoming the brown dusty floor of something like a wood, a thin sparse wood, and beyond it she saw what she'd almost lost hope of seeing. Between the trunks of trees, a long way behind them, a red double-decker bus passed. There must be a road. It could even be the Bayswater Road. She remembered the name now and would have run towards it but she could see that ahead of her was no way out of the park. She would have to return to that hated path and walk on to where she thought the gate must be. Still keeping her eyes on the spot where the bus had been, she took a step backwards, then another. A second bus passed, going the other way. As she peered, trying to locate the gate, she heard the faintest sound, a whisper or rustle behind her, and slowly turning her head, felt a cold finger touch her neck.

Eva screamed. She felt her legs buckle and sink as the finger became a hand, became two hard strong hands, and closed together, digit tips meeting.

A traffic warden found her car at eight forty-one. Spotting it, doing the paperwork and summoning the clampers would add another one to his tally and
enable him to reach his target. As he filled in the forms and began attaching them to windscreen and driver's door, he felt, as well as satisfaction, relief that the driver hadn't come back to abuse him, assault him or spit in his face.

‘That poor girl,' said Edmund, handing Heather the
Evening Standard
.

‘I've seen it,' Heather said. ‘I wonder if Ismay knows. She never reads a paper these days. Eva really was lovely, but not like a woman. Like a child of twelve.'

‘Andrew Campbell-Sedge fancies twelve-year-olds. Haven't you noticed?'

She would live for ten years, thought Marion. At least ten. There had been a man of a hundred and nine having a birthday party on breakfast television that morning. Was she going to stay with Avice in spite of this setback? Perhaps for a while. She remembered the will. That still stood and would endure. But she wouldn't allow herself to be a slave, tied to the place. It was time for her poor old father to have a serious illness which required her frequent presence. She was thinking along these lines, wondering whether to give him cancer or coronary heart disease, when her mobile rang. The sound it made was the first few bars of ‘The Entry of the Queen of Sheba' and Avice asked her rather crossly if she'd left the wireless on.

Her caller was Barry Fenix. ‘Do you remember me?'

‘Of course I do, Barry. Once seen, never forgotten is what I always say. How are you?'

‘Fighting fit as ever. I was just wondering if you'd pop over and have a look at the old lady. I saw her in
the garden this morning and I thought she was looking a bit frail.'

‘I could do,' said Marion. ‘Just let me consult the diary.'

‘The' diary sounded so much more official and important than ‘my'. She did a little dance on the spot, the cough linctus temporarily forgotten, before picking up the phone again. ‘Say five o'clock this afternoon?'

‘You couldn't manage anything before that?'

Not if she was wise. Not if she gave an hour to Irene, then went in next door at drinks time. If she hung about a bit, dinner was likely to be suggested … ‘Five it must be, I'm afraid, Barry. I've a very full day.'

It might, in any case, be wise to turn her attention back to Irene, never mind the insults. They were incidental to the job. Avice, after all, could change her will at any time. Will changing was almost an
occupation
with her. Irene disliked her daughter-in-law, was sure to fall out with her son. Marion told Avice that the call on her mobile was from a paramedic who had found her poor old father unconscious on the floor. She must go to him at once and couldn't say when she'd be back.

The tube journey from Pinner to Finchley Road was a long one and Marion never cared for the enforced sedentary position it demanded but she had bought the
Evening Standard
to help her pass the time. There she saw that a man was helping the police in their enquiries into the murder of a blonde girl called Eva Simber. The West End Werewolf, possibly.

In the big Sainsbury's round the corner from Lithos Road she bought herself a packet of hair dye in a shade called Poinsettia and a pair of rubber gloves. Barry had remarked on her hair and its lovely natural shade. Last time the tinting and cutting had been done by Kevin at Have a Nice Hair Day but she was far too short of funds to go in for that again. While she waited for the
evil-smelling pink paste to take effect her mind dwelt once again on Fowler and the cough linctus and the awful waste of all that morphine going down his throat. That label she'd put on the bottle would have had little effect on someone whose speciality was using substances most people wouldn't dream of taking internally.

Marion put on a very tight green top, a boho chic skirt and the slippers that looked like ballet shoes. It was youthful attire which suited her girlish figure. No coat would be needed this fine afternoon. Of course she would be a little late, it was always best with men, and she decided to walk, or rather to skip, all the way to Chudleigh Hill through the pretty backstreets, all their trees in full leaf and some with reddening berries. Marion had never been interviewed for a newspaper or magazine but if she had she would have said when asked what her secret was, ‘I'm an optimist, you see. I always look on the bright side.' She imagined how lovely her hair must look, ruby red and gleaming in the sunshine. Anyone else would have brooded on that morphine business but she wasn't one for rancour. You had to move on. You had to think of yourself, a useful maxim.

‘I've a confession to make,' Barry said when he answered the door to her. ‘There's nothing wrong with the old lady. I made it up.'

‘Mr Fenix!'

‘Barry,' said Barry. ‘I wanted to see you again and I didn't feel quite up to saying that on the blower.'

‘Well, I don't know what to say. You are
awful
. I think I'll just pop next door all the same. Just for half an hour.'

‘Not a minute more, mind.'

Nothing like this had happened to Marion for years. She wanted to dance and sing and shout but she had to walk decorously up to Irene's front door, ring the bell and put on a concerned face. Irene was in a fairly good
mood. The Crosbies had asked her to go with them to Crete for a fortnight in September.

‘Well, “asked” isn't the word. Begged me is really what it was. I said I'd think about it. I don't really know if my back would stand it.' Irene opened her workbox and took out a half-finished string of blue beads. What does she do with all that rubbish, Marion asked herself. ‘I've been suffering from a lot of flatulence lately. That wouldn't be very convenient in an hotel, would it?'

‘Any sign of Edmund moving into his new flat yet?' asked Marion, stirring it.

‘You don't suppose they ever tell me anything, do you?'

Three-quarters of an hour later she was back ringing Barry's doorbell. She rightly thought that what he liked her for was her vivacity and this evening she felt more vivacious than she had for weeks. She smiled, she laughed at his jokes, she admired all his possessions. Gin and tonic helped. He said his favourite type of woman was ‘your natural redhead'. She was a little vixen and he was ready to bet she had a hot temper. At seven he suggested he take her out to dinner in Hampstead. It was a good dinner and neither tartufo nor pear and almond tart was on the menu.

He drove her home to Lithos Road. Marion was praying all the way that Fowler wouldn't be there, sitting on the doorstep waiting for her, and her prayer was answered. Barry kissed her wetly before opening the door for her to get out of the car. She hadn't liked it but, waving gaily to him, she reminded herself that there was no gain without pain.

Ismay found out from Pamela.

‘It's just been on the news that they're questioning another man in the Eva Simber murder,' she said.

Ismay held herself very still. It felt as if the colour had gone from her face. ‘Who did you say?'

‘You know, Eva Simber, the girl who was murdered in Kensington Gardens – oh, it must be at least a week by now. Don't you ever see a newspaper, Issy? Don't you watch television?'

‘Not much if I can help it. You say Eva Simber was killed last week?'

‘That's right. You didn't know her, did you?'

‘I met her once,' said Ismay distantly.

She got herself something to eat, found a half-full bottle of wine in the fridge and went to sit with her mother. The shock of hearing of the death of an enemy can be as great as when the victim is your friend.

Beatrix said dreamily, ‘The earth shall be filled with the glory of God as the waters cover the sea.'

‘The waters
are
the sea, Mum.'