Chapter 17

Steph came too, of course. She always did. Those two were inseparable at the moment. That would last a couple of years, Mix thought, and after that, especially if there was a baby, Edwould start going out on his own again.

They were already in the Sun in Splendour when he arrived. He had come very close to forgetting their arrangement and it was a quarter to eight, while he was planning what to say and what excuses to make to Mr. Pearson and Ed's name cameinto his calculations, that he remembered. If he failed to turnup, Ed would definitely never speak to him again. Anyway, he wouldn't mind getting out, having some fresh air and talking toreal people instead of those old women.

He ran down the stairs, feeling almost cheerful. The ambulancehad taken her away at three‑ thirty and Queenie Winthrophad left with it. No need now to try going into thegarden without being detected. No need to move the body yet. He'd lain down on the sofa with his feet up and read a Reggiebook he'd had for a long time and read at least twice before, Death in a Deckchair, coming to the part that at present interested him most, how decay had proceeded in the bodies of those women, Ruth Fuerst, Muriel Eady, Hectorina McClennan, Kathleen Maloney, Rita Nelson, and the murderer's own wife, Ethel.

It wasn't the best of the Reggie books he had read. The firstprize had to go to Killer Extraordinary, but he'd finish this one chapter. Funny, if anyone had told him six months before that he'd find a book, any book, more fascinating than TV or a game online, he'd have laughed at them. He was still thinking about Reggie and the way he hid those bodies, only two of them buried in the ground, a couple of them partially burnt, when he walked into the pub.

Ed laughed when he saw him and said, " Late as usual. Never mind, eh? "

Mix didn't much like that, but he decided not to argue. Instead he admired Steph's engagement ring and asked when they were getting married.

" That's a long way off, " Ed said, fetching him a gin andtonic. " Moved on to the hard stuff, I see. "

Mix thought this undeserving of a reply. He expected Ed to ask him to be his best man. Before their row he would have done; maybe he still would, if not tonight.

" You're up shit creek at head office, " said Ed. " But I expectyou know that by now. "

" You're the second person to say that to me today. I don't want to discuss it. "

" When Mr. Pearson's the third person you'll have to. "

Steph giggled. But she wasn't an unkind girl and she changed the subject to weddings and homes and mortgages. They talked about that for a while and then she said what was very nearly the worst thing Mix wanted to hear.

" They've been looking for that missing girl in here. "

" What missing girl? " He had to pretend.

" Danila Kovic or however you pronounce it. Two policemencame in and talked to that guy Frank, the one who's thebarman. I heard them say she'd applied for a job in herebecause what she was getting at some gym wasn't enough tolive on. "

" She didn't get it, " said Ed. " Didn't have the experience, Frank said after they'd gone. He knew all about it, he rememberedher. Poor little kid, he called her, said she didn't look old enough to drink, let alone sell booze. "

" That wasn't much use to the police, " said Mix, ratherrelieved.

They were searching for her, but he already knew that.

Thank God he'd never brought her in here. Talk about somethingelse. " When's the wedding to be? "

" You asked me that already and you'll get the same answer.

Not for a long time. "

" We want to get everything straight and everything paid for, " said Steph, " before we actually get married. That gives the marriage a better chance, don't you think? "

Mix hadn't an opinion on this, but he agreed and they continued to talk about the new flat and the mortgage and building societies and interest rates until Ed suddenly said, " Frank said he saw her again. Walking down Oxford Gardens withsome guy. "

Mix spilled some of his drink. It made a small bubbly pool. He knew he should have said, " Saw who? " but he didn't, he knew as soon as Ed spoke who " her" was. In rather too loud avoice he said, " Tell the police, did he? "

" He said he would. It had slipped his mind at the time he talked to them. "

This was the nearest they had got to finding a man in her life. Would this Frank be able to describe him? Would he recognize him?

" Is Frank on tonight? "

Mix fancied his voice hadn't been quite steady when hespoke and he thought Ed looked at him strangely. " He'll be on later. "

Wait, don't say you're leaving now, they'll think it a bit dodgy if you do. He forced himself to remain in his chair, though it felt as if every nerve in his body was straining to pushhim out of it and drive him through ~door. But he stayed, sweat breaking out on his forehead.

" Have another? " Ed was tired of waiting for Mix to offer. They could sit there all night before he did that. " Same again? "

" I've got to go, " Mix said.

What did this Frank look like? He couldn't remember and he couldn't ask. Leaving, he might easily bump into him out in Pembridge Gardens without knowing who he was. But Frank would know him. He said an abrupt good‑ bye to Steph and " See you" to Ed.

There were plenty of people about. There always were, these fine warm nights. Any of the youngish men might be Frank. The one coming up from Notting Hill Gate might be him or that one getting out of a car. At any rate neither of them seemed to recognize him. Mix could get the bus or walk, buts tanding at the bus stop he'd be more easily spotted, while walking would get him away from the danger area and, besides, it was good for him.

Usually, when he came home to St. Blaise House if it wasn't very late, a dim light showed in two or three windows. A grayish‑ yellow glow lit the glass half‑ moon over the front door, the drawing room casements and perhaps one in her bedroom. Tonight there was nothing, the house looked full of unrelieveddarkness, a darkness strong enough and thick enough to pushitself against the windows from inside. Stop imagining things, he told himself, you know it's all in your head. He unlocked the door and went into the silence he expected and wanted.

Ghosts don't exist, there are no such things. That Shoshana would say anything for a fast buck. Don't shut your eyes when you get to the top. Anything you think you see is only in your mind. He kept his eyes open, stared down the passages and saw nothing. And don't start drinking now you're home, keep aclear head.

On the way home he had made up his mind to get the bodydownstairs tonight. But why? There was no need to do it atonce. Old Chawcer would be away for a week. Leave it till tomorrow, try and get home by four and do it then. Then you can dig the hole on Saturday in daylight. If any of the neighborssee you digging in the night they'll be suspicious.

He'd start it all tomorrow and meanwhile have a very smal lgin and go to bed. Once there, warm and comfortable, he began to worry about the interview with Mr. Pearson in the morning. Suppose he said, " We're going to have to let yougo"? But he wouldn't, not for a few missed appointments. Would Frank bother to tell the police? And if he did, how could he tell who he'd seen with Danila? She might have hadother boyfriends and any of them could have been walking herback to Oxford Gardens. He slept, woke, dozed, got up andput the light on, contemplated his reflection in the long mirror. How would he be described, anyway? He was just ordinary to look at, not as thin as he ought to be, pinkish face, blunt nose, eyes vaguely gray or hazel, hair fair going on brown. Anidentity parade would be another thing altogether but even Mix in his current state of nerves could see that once again he was letting his imagination run away with him.

Mr. Pearson wasn't going to sack him, as he had half feared, but was giving him a last chance. He was given to delivering sententious little lectures to his staff when they were in troubleand he gave Mix one now.

" Exemplary behavior isn't demanded of you simply on your own account or even on mine. It is for the benefit of the wholec ommunity of engineers in this company and for the reputationof the company itself. Think what it means to a client atpresent when you speak the firm's name on the phone. Theclient has a pleasant warm sensation of safety, of reassurance and satisfaction. It will be all right. It will be done, andpromptly. No matter what the problem, this firm will solve it. And then think what it means when an engineer repeatedly lets the client down, fails to turn up as promised, neglects to call back. Doesn't he‑ or most probably she‑ begin to see the company as unreliable, untrustworthy, no longer first‑ class? And isn't she then likely to say to herself, 'Maybe I should gothrough the Yellow Pages and find someone else'? "

In other words, thought Mix, he's saying I've let the firm down. Well, let him. It won't happen again, anyway. "

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 feet high with a wooden lid at the top. Lifting the lid disclosed an earthen ware tub, quite dry and evidently unused for years. He lifted the body, puffing and gasping, and placing his hand on his lower back felt a bulge in his pocket. It was the thong. Before closing the lid he dropped it inside. He'd retrieve it later and bury it with the body. No one, certainly notone of those nosy old women, would have reason to look inside the copper. Old Chawcer had a usable if antiquated washing machine, an advance, in spite of its shortcomings, on this antique.

Going into the garden felt restful, almost restorative. The heat of the day had given place to a mild still evening. The unmowngrass was the color of blond hair and dry as a hayfield. Inthe garden beyond the rear wall the Indian man was trying tocut his lawn with an old hand mower and making little impressionon it. The guinea fowl padded about and clucked.

There wasn't a bare piece of ground where digging would be easy. Every inch was overgrown with grass and weeds. Mix had never in his whole life dug into soil of any kind and this, what he could see of it between sturdy thrusting thistles and aggressive things he didn't know the name of, looked as heavy as concrete but a muddy yellow color. Inside the semiderelict shed he found rusty tools: a spade, a fork, a pick. Tomorrow he'd do it and that would be the end.

Tell yourself that, he whispered, tell yourself that by the time it's done all the worry will be over. He went into the houseand drew back the bolts, top and bottom. Old Chawcer made no noise when she was at home. Reading is a silent occupation. Yet the house seemed quieter without her. An oppressive silence filled its spaces. His shoes were dusty from his explorationof the garden. Unwilling to leave behind any evidence ofhis visit to a place where he shouldn't have been, he took them off and carried them up the stairs, thinking of the task awaiting him on the next day. Perhaps he should. have tried the soil to see how hard it was and how heavy. But what would be the useof that? He would have to do it, however difficult the job. Afinal visit should be paid to the bedroom where she had lain. Itwould cheer him up if the smell was fading ad everything in there returned to normal.

He reached the top and opened the door. " Whether the smell had gone he never knew, he was in there too short a time to tell. The ghost stood in the middle of the room under the gas lamp, gazing down at the floorboards below which had been Danila's resting place. Mix fled. He scrabbled at his frontdoor, his hand shaking and rattling the key against the woodwork. Gibbering sobs rose in his throat. He wanted somewhere safe to hide and there was nowhere if he couldn't get inside. The key shook in the lock, stuck, came out. He managed to push it in again and the door opened. He fell onto the floor and kicked the door shut behind him, his eyes squeezed shut and his hands drumming on the carpet. Shoshana had been right. After a moment or two he had recovered enough to feel for the cross in his pocket, but by then it was too late to use it.