Heathen/Nemesis

Nineteen

On the landing the footsteps thudded back and forth, were still for a second then receded.

Donna listened to the silence. Like a spring uncoiling she slowly turned the handle, shot her hand out and plucked the key from the lock, pushing the door shut again.

She let out a breath explosively in relief.

She stood there in the gloom, waiting until she had stopped shaking. Then she slipped the key into the pocket of her coat, ran a hand through her hair and turned, feeling for the light switch. Her hand brushed against it and she flicked it on. A sixty watt bulb flickered into life, illuminating the flat.

She was standing in the entry-way. Coat hooks had been attached to the wall to her right. Two short jackets and a longer wool coat hung there. There was a phone on a table close by.

Donna moved into the sitting-room proper and noticed how small it was. There was a sofa and one easy chair, a table and four chairs in one corner. These stood on a beige coloured carpet. On the other side of the room was an oven and hob and several fitted cupboards. A small fridge stood alongside.

There was a stereo, a small TV set, dozens of records, tapes and compact discs on a DIY unit with one screw missing at the top. A video recorder, surrounded by a number of tapes, lay at the bottom of the unit. The automatic clock on the machine was flashing constantly. Four green zeros flickering in the dull light.

The cooker was clean. There were no dirty dishes in the sink, no pots and pans on the hob. Everything seemed to be in its place.

A framed picture of a muscular man dressed only in a baseball cap and a thong stared down at her from one wall. Donna glanced at it for a moment, then wandered back towards the main door. There had been two others.

She opened the first and found herself in a tiny bathroom. Pulling the cord, she looked around at the contents. A bath which seemed to fill most of the room, a toilet and a sink. There was a cabinet on the wall and for a second Donna caught her own reflection in the mirrored doors. Clean washing was piled up at one end of the bath: blouses, T-shirts, skirts. A predominance of blues, she noted.

Donna opened the cabinet and peered at the contents. Some anti-perspirant, a Mudd Mask Facial Cleanser, nail varnish remover, some Lil-lets and two packets of contraceptive pills.

She moved to the next door and opened it, stepping into the bedroom.

This, too, was small; there was barely room to manoeuvre around the bed. Wardrobes and bookshelves covered three walls. On one of the bookshelves there was also make-up, perfume. Donna sniffed it, inspecting the bottle. It was Calvin Klein. Good perfume, expensive.

Had he bought it for her?

She opened the wardrobe closest to her and regarded the hanging clothes in there impassively. There was a lot of silk and suede.

How much of that had Chris paid for?

Shoes, boots, trainers.

She pulled open drawers and found underwear, more blouses.

The envelope was in the bottom drawer.

A brown manilla A4 envelope.

Donna sat on the edge of the bed and upended it, the contents spilling out onto the duvet. She rummaged through the pieces of paper, inspecting each one. There was a motley assortment. Bills, some paid, some unpaid. Bank statements, business cards, a couple of old birthday cards. She opened them to check the sender’s name. Neither had been sent by her dead husband. A party invitation, a free pass to a London nightclub.

She found the first of the photos sandwiched between a Medical card and a bank statement.

It showed Chris and Suzanne together.

Pale. Unsmiling.

Donna swallowed hard and looked at another.

It was of Chris dressed in a leather jacket and jeans. He was smiling, leaning against a tree. The land behind him looked barren: only fields and hills.

Where the hell was that?

There was another of Chris, alone again, hands tucked in the pockets of his jacket.

Donna felt that all too familiar feeling building inside her, that combination of rage and sadness.

Then she found the last two pictures.

‘Jesus,’ she murmured, her breathing deepening as she studied them. For long moments she sat looking at the pictures then, as quickly as she could, she gathered the spilled contents of the envelope together and replaced them, shoving the manilla container itself back into the drawer.

The photos she tucked into her jacket.

She moved quickly through the flat, switching off lights as she went, heading for the main door, concerned to make sure she had left everything as she’d found it.

She paused at the door, listening for any sounds of activity from the landing or other rooms. Hearing none, she slipped out and closed the door behind her. She scuttled downstairs, the photos still tucked in her coat, returned the key to Mercuriadis, thanked him for his help and hurried from the house, resisting the temptation to run back to the waiting Fiesta.

As Julie saw her approaching she leant across and unlocked the passenger side door, watching as her sister slid in and buckled up.

‘Did you find what you were looking for?’ she asked, starting the engine.

Donna was staring straight ahead, but even in the dull glow of the streetlamps Julie could see how pale her sister was.

‘Are you all right?’ she asked.

Donna continued staring out of the windscreen.

‘Get us home,’ she said quietly, ‘as quick as you can.’

Twenty

Julie was the first to see the police car, parked close to the front door of the house. Even in the darkness she could make out two figures inside.

As the headlights of the Fiesta illuminated the short driveway the car was picked out and held in the beams as if by some magnetic force.

‘Donna ...’ Julie began but she was cut short.

‘I can see them,’ her sister said curtly. She gripped the photos inside her coat, tucking them into the waistband of her jeans.

One of the figures inside the car clambered out and watched as the Fiesta parked. Donna could not make out his features in the gloom.

Had someone reported her?

What were the police doing here at this time? She glanced at the Fiesta’s dashboard clock and saw that the time was 11.23 p.m.

Had the occupant of the flat next to Suzanne Regan’s reported mysterious movements in the dead girl’s place?

How would they know to look for her?

Had Mercuriadis become suspicious?

Why should he?

Donna knew that the police could not possibly be at her house in connection with the visit to Suzanne Regan’s, yet she felt uneasy, the way teenagers feel who have stolen penny chews from a sweetshop.

She swung herself out of the car and walked across to the police car and its occupants.

The plain-clothes man approached her, clearing his throat.