‘I know where she lives,’ Donna said angrily. ‘I found her address in his diary. I know where she lives.’
‘
‘I want to see where she lived.’
‘Donna, this is crazy. She’s dead. It’s over.
‘And wouldn’t you?’ Donna rasped. ‘You lost
Julie took a step back, her face losing its colour.
‘I wish I could argue with you,’ she said resignedly. ‘Yes, I did lose my husband to the bottle, not another woman. But the difference between us is I didn’t blame myself for his drinking. It’s as if you’re blaming yourself for what Chris did before he was killed. It isn’t your fault, Donna.’
‘Then why did he need to have an affair?’ she rasped. ‘What the fuck was so special about this bloody Suzanne Regan? I want to know what she had that I don’t. I want to know what she wore, what she smelled like. I want to know what kind of music she listened to. I even want to know what she bloody well ate.’ There was a vehemence in Donna’s words Julie had never seen before, a hatred that burned as brightly as a beacon. It danced in her eyes like fire.
‘It’s becoming an obsession with you,’ Julie continued. ‘I’m beginning to wonder which has upset you the most, the fact that Chris is dead or that he was unfaithful.’
‘Well, perhaps even I don’t know any more,’ Donna told her. ‘He’s not here for me to ask, is he? I can’t find out from him why he wanted her. So I have to find out myself. It might just keep me sane.’
‘Why do you have to know?’ Julie asked imploringly. ‘Why do you have to torture yourself?’
‘I told you, I need to know whether she was better than me.’ There were tears forming in Donna’s eyes now. ‘I lost my husband, Julie, that’s the worse thing I could ever have imagined. I don’t want to lose my self-respect, too.’
For long seconds the two women stood staring at each other, neither speaking. Then Julie took a step forward.
‘What are you going to do?’ she asked quietly.
‘Go to her house.’
‘And do what?’
‘Look around, see what I can find.’
‘You’re just going to break in? As easy as that?’
‘I don’t know what I’m going to do. All I know is, I have to see where she lived.’ She handed the piece of paper with the address on to Julie. ‘You’re my sister and I love you. If you love me, then help me.’
‘Help you do what? Go crazy? Because that’s what you’re doing. Please think about this, Donna. Think about what you’re doing to yourself. Isn’t Chris’s death enough to cope with?’
Donna’s stare was unflinching.
‘Are you going to help me?’ she asked, holding out her hand for the piece of paper.
Julie exhaled deeply and wearily.
‘Yes, I’ll help you,’ she said finally.
‘I want to go there now.’
Julie knew that it was futile to argue. She nodded.
‘Let me get my coat,’ she said. ‘I’ll drive.’
Number Twenty-Three Lockwood Drive was a converted house off Moscow Road, part of the maze of Notting Hill.
It was white, or had been at one time. Now the painted brickwork was grey with the accumulated grime of the years. Even the flowers in the window box on the ground floor looked as though they’d been sprayed with dust. It was difficult to tell which were alive and which weren’t. A row of iron railings, rusted in places, protected the front of the house and a gate with one hinge missing guarded the short path to the front door. The neighbouring houses were in a similar state; many had FOR SALE signs displayed.
Lights burned in windows and shadowy figures could be seen moving behind curtains. There were few people on the streets and those that were hardly glanced at the two women sitting in the Fiesta parked opposite Number Twenty-Three.
Donna Ward gazed at the house, studying every aspect of it: the colour of the front door, the curtains that hung at the windows. She saw a dark stain at the meeting of the roof and front wall and realized that water had obviously been dripping from a hole in the guttering. Somewhere close by she heard a dog bark.
Street lamps burned with a dull yellow light, casting deep shadows. Inside the car it was silent.
The drive into the heart of London had taken less than an hour. Traffic had been unexpectedly light and Julie had guided them skilfully to their destination. Now she sat in the driver’s seat, one hand pressed to her forehead, her impatience growing.
‘How long are we going to sit here?’ she wanted to know.
Donna ignored the question, her eyes still fixed on the dirty white house across the road.
‘It’s expensive around here,’ she said. ‘A bit grand for a secretary’s wages. Perhaps he was paying her rent, too.’
‘Let’s go. You’ve seen the place, that’s what you wanted.’
Donna reached for the door-handle and pushed it open.
‘What are you doing?’ Julie asked, bewildered.
‘Wait for me,’ Donna instructed her, swinging herself out of the car. She walked briskly across the street and headed for the house, lifting the gate on its hinge as she made her way up the short path and four steps.
Julie, watching from the car, shook her head.
Donna studied the panel beside the front door and saw a number of names attached to the intercom buttons. She ran her index finger down the list:
Weston.
Lawrence.
Regan.
She gritted her teeth when she saw the name, then pressed the main door buzzer and waited.
She heard movement behind the door. A moment later, it was opened and she found herself looking into the face of a man in his sixties, short, balding and with tufts of white hair sprouting from each nostril. It looked as if two snow-white caterpillars were trying to escape from his nose. He was wearing impeccably-pressed trousers, a blue shirt that looked freshly ironed and a spotted bow-tie. On his feet he wore scuffed carpet slippers.
He smiled warmly when he saw Donna.
‘Can I help you?’ he asked.
‘It’s about my sister,’ she lied, her tone sombre. ‘Suzanne Regan.’
The old man nodded, his smile fading.
‘I was very sorry to hear what happened. She was a lovely girl,’ he offered. ‘There’s a family resemblance.’
Donna controlled herself with difficulty.
‘My brother said he was going to call round for some of her things,’ she said, sounding remarkably convincing. ‘But I thought I’d better check whether he had or not.’
‘No one’s been round, Miss Regan,’ he said, glancing down at her left hand, catching sight of the wedding ring. ‘Or is it
She shook her head.
‘My name is
(
Blake. Catherine Blake.’
