It won't happen again, Mr. Pearson.'
Downstairs, in the reps' room where he had use of a desk,Mix phoned Shoshana's Spa. Shoshana herself answered, forthe temp had left and no replacement had yet been found forDanila.
'I'll be along to look at those machines next week.'
'I suppose that means next Friday evening,' Shoshana said nastily.
'Not as long as that.' Mix tried to put the sound of a smileinto his tone.
'It had better not be.' When he had put the receiver down she dialed the code that would tell her the number he had called from. She expected a negative result as supposedly hephoned from a mobile or else his home number, but insteadshe got the London code and seven unfamiliar digits. Thoughtfully,she made a note of them.
Mix next called Colette Gilbert-Bamber and received a torrent of abuse. After all she'd done for him, as she put it, to betreated like some call girl to be picked up and dropped whenever he fancied. She'd found out the name of his company'sc hief executive and considered telling Mr. Pearson what she'dalmost told her husband, that Mix had tried to rape her.
'So what do you think of that?'
'I never heard such a load of bollocks.' He nearly said she'd never be raped because rape was only when the victim was unwilling, but he thought better of it and silently put the receive rdown. After that he went into the stock room where theykept a limited number of new machines for immediate deliveryand found what he was looking for, a very large bag in thick but transparent light blue plastic of the kind used to protect stationary bikes and treadmills.
This packed safely in the boot of the car, he drove from client to client, enduring their reproaches and promising prompt follow-up visits. At two, with a Pret-a-Manger sandwich and a can of Coke (the diet kind because he was slimming), he gave himself the treat of a sojourn outside Nerissa's house.
It was his first visit for days but, though he stayed for over an hour, she didn't appear. Once he'd dealt with that body he'd have to make himself a new strategy, a real campaign plan, for at present, as he reminded himself, he'd only spoken to her on one single occasion since meeting her at Colette's. Just after three-thirty he made a last call, this time at a big place facing Holland Park, and by four-fifteen, carrying the plastic bag, hewas in St. Blaise House.
So was Queenie 'Winthrop, though he didn't know it until he had been all the way upstairs and into his flat and downagain to check that he'd be able to get the body into the gardenby way of the kitchen and the two poky little rooms beyond it.She was in the kitchen, an apron over her red floral dress, tidyingup and wiping down surfaces.
'Did you remember to feed the cat?' she said.
'I'll do it now.'
Ma 'Winthrop spoke in the triumphant tone of someone who has accomplished a challenging task with finesse and expects to be congratulated. 'Don't trouble. I have done it myself,' she said and added 'Though I must say he didn't seem hungry.'
Mix said nothing. How long was she going to be here? She answered him, though he hadn't asked. 'I shall be at it for another couple of hours. I've tidied up the boot room and the washhouse and now I've started o the kitchen. What a gloryhole this place is!'
The word she used for one of those little back rooms made him start. 'Washhouse? Is there one?'
'Out here. Look.'
He followed her into a room that was more like a shed with walls of unplastered brick. A bulging thing like some sort of ancient oven filled one corner.
'What's that?'
'It's a copper. I don't suppose you've ever seen anything like it before, have you? My mother had one and did her washing init. Ghastly. Women used a dolly and a washboard. Frightfully bad for their insides.'
Mix registered this as best he could. The words 'dolly' and'washboard' meant nothing but 'washhouse' did. Christie had.put each body in the one at 10 Rillington Place while they awaited burial. He'd do the same thing here if only that bloody woman would go. He should have had the sense to get the key back. Yesterday, while she was talking about him feeding thecat he should have asked for the key. But if she said no?
'I'd better have Miss Chawcer's key off you.'
'Oh, why?' she said, returning to the kitchen and vigorouslyspraying scented blue cleanser all over the sink. 'I told Gwendolen I'd hang on to it. I may need to be in and out. I'll certainly keep it if you don't mind. Olive and I may decide to spring-clean the whole place as a surprise for her when she comes back. Poor Gwendolen is no housekeeper, I'm afraid.'
There was no more to be said. He went back to his flat,wondering if she'd been up on this top floor. If she had she'd have smelled the smell and wouldn't she have said somethingto him? It was no good sitting down, trying to watch TV or even read the Christie book. He'd have to do something, make the preliminary moves. Cautiously, carrying his toolbag andthe plastic bag, he went out onto the landing and listened. There was no sound from down there. He opened the door to the bedroom next door. He'd brought a scarf with him and this he tied round his head, covering his nose. The smell was still there, though muffled. It worsened beyond belief when he'd got the floorboards up but he told himself he had to get on with it, keep on, don't think about it, breathe through your mouth.
It looked just as it had when he put it in there, small, slight, wrapped in its shroud of red sheets. In order to lift it out he had to get his head and face very near it and twice he gagged. But he succeeded in lifting it onto the floor. If it hadn't changedi n appearance it seemed to have gained in weight. Lying where it had been, on the dusty joists, was the thong, scarlet andblack, a frivolous thing of elastic and lace. How had he failed to notice its absence when he dumped the rest of her clothes? He picked it up and put it in his pocket. The easiest part was getting her body into the bag. When it was inside he felt better and once the mouth of the bag was fastened with a length of wire wound round it, a huge relief came. Suppose that old woman was waiting outside the door or coming up the tiledstairs? She wasn't and he managed to drag the bag and body into his own flat. Once he had it inside he had to go back, replace the floorboards and check on that smell. If any of it still lingered.
Of course it did. Far less powerful but bad enough. Perhaps it would be better once he'd got the boards back. He couldn't tell if it was or not but time would surely fade it. On his way, home he should have picked up another bottle of gin. Very little of what he'd had was left. Probably just as well. He drank it, waiting for Queenie 'Winthrop to leave.
She finally did at half-past six. From his bedroom window Mix watched her go. He should have asked when she'd be back again, though asking might look strange. While he was in thehouse but of course not when he was out of it, he could bolt the front door top and bottom, and that was what he'd do while he took the body down. A procrastinator, he would never normally have said there was no time like the present but he said it now. First he went down and bolted the front door. That was nearly as good as having the key back. Going up and downt hese stairs must be doing him good even if it didn't feel like it. Remembering to take his keys with him, he pulled the body out of his flat and to the top of the stairs, kicking the door shut behind him.
If she had been any heavier he doubted that he could have done it. On the first-floor landing he encountered Otto, mewing at old Chawcer's bedroom door. Mix didn't know why he opened the door to let him in but he did. Perhaps it was just fort he sake of having a rest from lugging this heavy bag down.When he got to the bottom he thought he couldn't take it anotherstep but he braced himself to drag it along the passage toward the breakfast room and kitchen. He had almost reached the breakfast room door when he heard the grating sound of a key turning in the front door. He froze but his heart raced.The door was bolted, no one could get in, he didn't haveto worry.
The key turned again, the letterbox flapped open and Olive Fordyce's voice called out, 'Mr. Cellini, Mr. Cellini, are youthere?'
He was almost afraid to breathe. She called him again, then,'Let me in! What are you doing, bolting the door? Mr. Cellini!'
Hours seemed to pass as she shouted, tried the door again,rang the bell, flapped the letterbox. It was no more than threeminutes as he discovered, looking at his watch once he heardher feet clacking down the path toward the gate. It had frightenedhim too much for him to think of digging now. He feltweak and almost faint. But he summoned up the strength todrag the plastic-wrapped bundle through the kitchen into theplace called the washhouse. The huge old copper dominatedone comer of the room, an excrescence of bricks and mortarabout four
