Ruth Rendell - Adam And Eve And Pinch Me

“To what address? The envelope is not in our possession.”

“I don’t remember. Yes, maybe-it was somewhere in NW6.” She might as well tell her the rest. “He’s been living with a woman called Fiona. She works in a bank.”

“You were very anxious never to see Mr. Leach again. What did you mean, ‘to act as if’ he was dead?”

“I don’t know,” Zillah said in a small voice. “I don’t remember.”

“You write that you were frightened. Had he ever abused you?”

Zillah shook her head. She supposed she must look frightened now. “If you mean did he hit me, no, he never did.”

“What was the word you didn’t like him using? Some insult, was it? Some term of abuse? Bitch or cow, something of that kind?”

“Oh, yes, that was what it was.”

“Which one.”

“He called me a cow.”

“Ah. A frightening word, cow. That will be all for now, Mrs. Melcombe-Smith. We’ll call in the morning and see your husband.”

Much as he disliked Jerry Leach on the few occasions he’d spoken to him, he’d rather fancied him and thought he’d detected an answering gleam in Jerry’s eye, for Jims was one of those gay men who believe that all men are secretly gay at heart. This, then, as he said to himself when Zillah told him, was a turn-up for the books. But he couldn’t see how it would affect him and Zillah, Jerry being a thing of the past in his life and hers. That the dead man had also been the father of Eugenie and Jordan didn’t at the time cross his mind. Family relationships meant very little to him. But when he’d walked into the flat in Abbey Gardens Mansions just after one, he was quite shocked by Zillah’s haggard face and shaking hands.

“The police are coming back tomorrow morning. They want to talk to you.”

“Me? Why me?”

“He wanted to know where I was on Friday afternoon when Jerry was killed. He’ll want to know where you were.”

Michelle identified the photograph in the Sunday paper as that of Jeff Leigh. Hatred, or something approaching it, confers much the same powers of acute observation as love. When she saw that face, younger, the features smudged and cloudy, she nevertheless knew who it belonged to and heard again that voice saying, “Little and Large, Michelle, Little and Large. Stoking the boilers, Michelle?” He was holding a baby in his arms and for some reason that made her shiver.

To tell Fiona? Matthew phoned the police first. He said he thought Jeffrey John Leach, so-called, was really Jeffrey Leigh, the man who’d been the partner of his neighbor. His wife had identified him from a newspaper photograph. Where did he live, they wanted to know. When Matthew said West Hampstead they were interested. They’d come. Would 4 P.M. suit him?

Then Michelle went next door to tell Fiona what they feared, what they more than feared, and that the police were coming.

JOCK WAS GONE. A couple of days passed before Minty could really believe it. Especially when she’d been out and came back into the house, she was fearful, always afraid he’d be sitting in a chair or waiting for her in the shadows behind the stairs. She dreamed about him. But that wasn’t the same thing as a ghost, just someone who came into your dreams. Sonovia and Laf came into them, and Josephine sometimes, and Mr. Kroot’s sister, and Auntie, always Auntie. The dream Jock, not the ghost Jock, walked into a room where she was and offered her a Polo mint or said “Good-oh” and once even said those words that were halfway between a joke and a tease, about pinch, punch, first of the month. In the dreams, he always wore his black leather jacket.

Auntie’s voice she heard much more often than she once had, but she never saw her. Yesterday she, or her voice, had come in while Minty was in the bath, which was something Jock’s ghost had never done. “It’s a whole two weeks since you put flowers on my grave, Minty,” said Auntie. She kept over by the door, not looking in Minty’s direction, which wouldn’t have been nice. She was just a disembodied voice, without eyes. “It’s not very pleasant being dead but it’s worse if you’re forgotten. How d’you think I feel with my last resting place all bare but for a bunch of dead tulips?”

It was no use answering because they couldn’t hear you. Jock’s ghost had never taken a blind bit of notice of anything she said. But that afternoon she’d gone into the cemetery where the evergreen leaves seemed fresher now and the new leaves a dazzling green, where the grass was bright and glittering with raindrops from a shower, and taken out the dead flowers, replacing them with pink carnations and gypsophila. The carnations had no scent but, like Josephine said, you couldn’t expect it, not with plants forced up in hothouses. Usually, when she’d visited Auntie’s grave, Minty had knelt down on a clean piece of paper or plastic and said a little prayer to her, but she hadn’t yesterday. Auntie didn’t deserve it, not the way she was going on, she’d have to be content with the flowers.

Sunday was the day Minty did her washing. Her major wash, that is. A certain number of clothes got washed every day. But on Sundays the week’s sheets and towels were done and considering no towel was used more than once and no sheet slept on more than three times, a great quantity mounted up. While the first batch was whirling and bouncing about in the machine, gladdening her heart with the soap bubbles and the clean smell-those moments spent watching the washing were the only time Minty felt really content with life-she went out into the garden to put up the clothesline.

Some of the neighbors left their clotheslines out all the time, in all weather. Minty shuddered when she thought of the black deposits of diesel fumes that must form on them. Her own plastic-covered rope was scrubbed and rinsed and dried each time she took it down. She checked that the posts were firm and attached the clothes line to the bolt on top of the one at the end of the garden, unrolling it carefully as she walked across the paving toward the house.

Next door Mr. Kroot’s sister was pulling out weeds. His garden was overgrown with weeds for months; he never did anything out there, and it was only when his sister came that anyone got rid of the dandelions and stinging nettles and thistles. She wasn’t wearing gloves and her hands were covered with dirt, the fingernails black. Minty shuddered. She went indoors and washed her own hands, as if she’d absorbed some referred dirt from Mr. Kroot’s sister. What was she called? Auntie had known. She’d called her by her name until that day they stopped speaking forever over something to do with the fence. Minty couldn’t remember the name but she remembered the quarrel and it all came back to her, though it was a good fifteen years ago.

It was when Auntie had had a new fence put up between their gardens. Mr. Kroot never said a word about it, but his sister that must once have been a Miss Kroot accused Auntie of stealing six inches of ground from next door. If she didn’t move the fence, the sister said, she’d chop the wire down herself with wire cutters, and Auntie said not to threaten her and if there was any chopping of wire, so much as a single snip, she’d call the police. No one cut anything and the police weren’t called but Auntie and Mr. Kroot’s sister never spoke again, and Minty was told not to speak to her either. Then Sonovia stopped speaking to her out of loyalty.

Minty wished she could remember the sister’s name. Maybe Auntie would tell her next time she started talking. Not that she wanted to know that much, not enough to welcome ghost voices. She took the first batch of washing out of the machine, put the next lot in, and carried the damp towels outside in a large basket she’d lined with a snowy white sheet. Mr. Kroot’s sister was standing up now, staring at her. She was a stocky, stoutish old woman with dyed ginger hair, who wore glasses in violet-colored frames. When she put one earth-covered, black-nailed finger up to her face and scratched her cheek, Minty turned away shuddering.