“Oh, Sam…”
On the left the lonely pet shop window slid by. In the distance the Carrington loomed. The pavements were packed. It was getting close. “OK, so let’s concentrate. We’ve been over it a dozen times, I know. This is a bad idea. We’re supposed to be experienced coppers.” “Sam, it’s now or never. We’re in too deep to pull out now.” He grunted.
“It’s my fault, I know. I got us into this but it’s too late to give up. And really, we’ve got nothing to lose. If nothing happens no one will ever know.”
His nod was reluctant. He wondered how on earth he had landed in such a position, blinded by a fantasy, a dream that in reality he would never have allowed to happen.
“Sam, don’t say anything, but this is going all the way, understand? Whatever it takes. Don’t you come blasting in unless I’m in big trouble.”
He nodded and said, “Go easy on the wine.”
“He’s not going to drug me.”
He made a left and then a sharp right into the dark run-down road behind the Gallery. The Doll’s House slid by on the left, the old office buildings were in front. He pulled to a slow stop.
“This is it.”
She turned to face him full on. She flicked him a little smile then she was opening the door, struggling out, leaning back in for her handbag.
“Be careful,” he said. “I couldn’t bear it if you got hurt.”
“I’m not getting hurt, Sam.”
Her eyes levelled on him for one more time, blinked, once, twice, and she murmured, “See you in a bit.”
And then she was off.
He turned and watched her walk away the way they’d come, the brown dress picking up a breeze, hugging her thighs enough to make him shiver. She didn’t look back. She turned left and, with a little skip, like a shooting star that was sudden and unexpected and excellent, she was gone.
Chapter 31
She breezed in and reminded him of the Indian subcontinent, colourful and exotic and enigmatic, full of riches and poverty, of strict morals and great wickedness, God’s own country, no less. And as with the country she had come from nowhere and was suddenly a major player, just one of the billion people, give or take, all wanting a piece of the action. Paul passed her on his way out but if she recognized him it didn’t show. Mr Lawrence locked the door behind her. “We won’t be disturbed,” he said.
“You’ve lost your assistants?”
“Paul is on an errand and Laura is asleep. She came in very late.” While he set up his trappings she flitted about the studio, glancing at the covers of huge books that contained prints by David Davis, Corot and Hobbema, peering through the grimy windows at the back of the shop, checking that the back door was unlocked, flicking through a pile of sketches that had been half-concealed by the wall curtain but not really looking at the sketches.
“Where does this lead?”
“The cellars. They housed the electricity meters until they were moved under the stairs. In Victorian times the coal was emptied through the pavement grating. The Victorian coal dust is still down there.”
He moved into the kitchen and pulled a red from the cupboard next to the sink.
“I’ve saved this till last,” he said, bringing out the crystal glasses. “Chianti. It’s one of my favourites. It’s dark and mysterious, like the Vatican itself. Indeed, just like you. If taste can have a past then this is it.”
“I’m not mysterious.”
“I’m talking about your looks.”
Glass in hand, she reached the sofa and asked, “Ready?” “Yes. Where shall we begin?”
“How about with Sandra? It’s odd… It’s odd, isn’t it, that Sandra should run away like that?”
“You’ve been listening to the news?”
“Yes, the local news. Your art class was mentioned.”
“People are always running away from something, sometimes themselves.”
“But she had nothing to hide, according to her husband.” “What would he know? Husbands are the last people to know. We’re all hiding something.”
“I think you’re wrong.”
“We all have our secrets, my dear.”
“Not all of us. With some of us what you see is what you get.” He pushed in a darker shade around her eyes so that the mystery deepened.
He said, “Do you think I’m hiding something?”
“I have no doubt.”
“Anything in particular?”
“People talk…”
“Indeed they do, but most of what they say is rubbish. I suppose going deaf might have one consolation after all. You wouldn’t have to listen to the rubbish that was spoken.”
“I heard that you were in prison.”
“A long time ago.”
“What did you do?”
“I had a breakdown. It was a childhood thing that came home to roost. Or so the experts said. I hurt some people and they locked me up. I had what they call a personality disorder. It meant pills, lots of pills. I served my time and afterwards, became a voluntary patient for a while.”
“Did it help?”
“No. There was not a couch to be seen. We sat around in groups listening to each other’s problems. I decided I had enough of my own.” “And what now?”
“Now I am fine, just fine, if that’s what you mean. A little more cantankerous as I get older, I suppose, and perhaps a little more impatient, but that is all. I think it was a part of growing up. Some people take to dressing oddly and others to visiting gyms and things. But now? To paint. To go on painting. The finished product is not the objective. It’s the journey that counts. A lot of journeys are like that. Some of them go nowhere. They’re the best kind, I’ve always thought, when you’ve time to enjoy the scenery without worrying about the destination. But the lease on this place runs out soon and, although I have an option, I have not yet made a decision.”
“Where would you go?”
“Who knows?”
“But wouldn’t that be like running away?”
“Ah, we’ve come full circle. All the way back to Sandra.” “It is odd that she should run away like that.”
“Prenatal stress, perhaps.”
“In the first few weeks? I doubt that.”
“They interviewed her husband. He was on the television. Terribly upset, of course. I don’t own a television but I saw it on Paul’s. When it came on he got quite excited and called me in.”
“I’m not surprised he’s upset.”
“Paul wasn’t upset. He was excited.”
“Not Paul. Sandra’s husband. Did the police come here?” “Of course. The art class was one of the last places she was seen.” “Not the last?”
“Obviously not. Someone else must have seen her, unless she fell down the pavement grating. Maybe I should check the cellar. They interviewed my lodger, Paul, but he couldn’t help. Then they asked me lots of questions. They knew about my previous problems. The police make a big thing about previous. Understandable, I suppose. They keep files, you see. Most people inside have been inside before. And more than once at that.”
“Gosh.”
“Yes. But I couldn’t help them either. She left. Simple as that. What more could I say? But I don’t know if
