Maxim Jakubowski - The Mammoth Book of Best British Mysteries 6

“If it would keep, I’d say put it behind the bar for tomorrow,” he replied, hinting at his return. “You have it. My treat.”

“Well… thanks,” she answered uncertainly, wrong-footed by his sudden departure.

“See you again,” he smiled, heading for the door.

He returned to the cemetery exactly a week after he first saw her. Earlier in the morning he’d picked up a drab suit in a charity shop, pairing it with his oldest shirt and tie. Finally he’d put on a pair of battered leather shoes, pleased with the look of someone down on his luck but determined to keep up appearances nonetheless.

She appeared at eleven o’clock, making her way straight to the grave, another large bouquet in her arms. He made a rip in the paper that wrapped his bunch of cheap chrysanthemums, watching as she plucked a couple of weeds from the bed of marble chippings in front of the headstone before exchanging fresh flowers for the wilted. After standing in sad contemplation for a good five minutes, she started to turn around.

He stood up, walking over a couple of graves to make the path that would intersect their routes. Two lost souls, drifting alone in the world. As he walked with head bowed, he tried to drag up any memories that might bring tears to his eyes. God knew he’d been witness to enough pain. But the anguished weeping of so many women had all been his doing, and the images of their distraught faces did nothing to stir his heart.

Now she was less than twenty feet from his side. He caught his foot in a nonexistent crack and stumbled forward, flowers cascading to the ground as the wrapping tore completely. Regaining his balance, he stooped forward as if to start picking them up. But then he placed his hands on his knees and let out an anguished sob. He heard her footsteps stop beside him and, knowing that it would clinch his act, the tears he’d been failing to summon suddenly appeared.

A hand was placed on his shoulder and he looked up at her face as it wavered and shifted through the liquid filling his eyes.

“There, there,” she murmured, pressing his head to her bosom.

Within four days he had packed his few possessions, moved out of the hostel, and was sleeping in her spare room. She’d lapped up his story of a childhood spent in care homes, adult years wasted in a directionless drift, not anchored by family to any area. Then his long search for his real mother-a search that had finally ended in the town’s cemetery, at a grave that had only been dug the year before.

She brought her blubbering under control by clucking and fussing around him. Bustling around in the kitchen, carrying through dinner on a tray as he sat dejected on her sofa, his eyes furtively searching the room while she’d cooked his food.

Every night she’d conclude her nursing routine by bringing him a mug of Ovaltine. Creamy, smooth, and comforting, it was a taste he quickly came to look forward to. “That’s because I make it with milk, the proper way,” she’d say and smile, her look of pleasure increasing with his every sip.

But the need to get to a pub and enjoy a cigarette in a comfortable seat rather than standing out on her bloody patio was steadily growing. So he began to recover from his feigned despondency, apparently revived by the succession of meals she so lovingly prepared. One day he announced that it was time he sorted himself out. Found a job and place of his own.

Her eyes had widened in alarm at his mention of moving out. “Stay as long as you like. The house is too big for just me. I like you being here. Please.” The desperation in her voice surprised him. It was going to be so easy cleaning her out of everything.

He pondered her words, thinking of the three bedrooms upstairs. The spare room he slept in, her pink nightmare, and the locked door with the nursery placard on it. He’d peeped through the keyhole at the first opportunity and was just able to make out babyish wallpaper and some cuddly toys on a chest of drawers. Three bedrooms and a decent garden. Worth what? Two hundred grand at least.

“What happened to your family, Marjorie? What happened to your babies?” he whispered, curious that, apart from her creepy shrine, all traces of them had been removed from the house.

The question obviously distressed her and she waved it away with an agitated flutter of her hands. “I really can’t speak about it. Not yet. I’m sorry, it’s still all too… raw,” she said, fingers grasping at the crucifix around her neck.

He nodded. “I understand, Marjorie, I understand. But I must repay your kindness somehow. Let me pay you some rent at least.”

She shook her head. “Really, I don’t need it.”

He paused, always amazed at his ability to bring out the maternal instincts of women. “Think of it for me. For my self-respect if nothing else. There’s a job I spotted when I first arrived here. A salesman for those industrial vacuums they use in pubs and restaurants. It’s something I’ve done before. They’d take me on, I just need to brush up a bit…” His words died away and his eyes dropped to his scuffed old shoes.

She sprang to her feet. “You need proper work clothes.” She crossed to the dresser in the corner, took out a file from the top drawer, and extracted several twenty-pound notes from inside. “Here, take this. Buy yourself a nice new suit.”

“No, Marjorie, I couldn’t,” he protested, holding up his hands while making a mental note of the file’s whereabouts.

“Then take it as a loan,” she insisted.

“Okay,” he agreed reluctantly. “And I’m paying you back every penny, understand?” he added, knowing she’d never ask for it back.

He scoured the shops for a sale. After finding one and then mercilessly bargaining down the young assistant, he picked up a suit, three shirts, and a pair of shoes for a steal. The deal left him with over eighty pounds in change. He headed straight for the nearest pub with a copy of the Racing Post, where he picked his runners over a couple of pints and several cigarettes.

When he set off back to Marjorie’s at five o’clock that afternoon he was fifty quid and several more pints up. As he ambled happily along he wondered how to explain the state he was in. She opened the door to find him swaying on her doorstep, shopping bag hanging from one arm.

“I rang them. I’ve got an interview tomorrow,” he sighed.

“Well, that’s good news, isn’t it?” she said, confused by the look of sadness on his face.

“But then I went back to my mother’s grave. Oh, Marjorie, if I hadn’t dithered for so long before tracing her, I might have spoken to her before she died. I’m afraid I’ve had a few drinks.”

“Come here,” she said, arms outstretched.

He slipped inside and endured a crushing hug.

“You mustn’t punish yourself. Now take that jacket off and sit down.” She led him to the sofa in the immaculate front room. “I’m making tea. Is beef casserole all right?”

“Great, thanks,” he replied with a weak smile.

She sniffed at his jacket. “This reeks of cigarettes. You really shouldn’t smoke.”

“I know. It’s only when I’m stressed.”

She nodded. “Well, I’ll give it a good airing on the washing line.”

“Thank you,” he said, reaching for the TV’s remote control as soon as she was out of the room.

He woke with a sore throat and cursed himself for smoking so heavily the day before. She’d washed and ironed his shirts the previous evening and he walked down the stairs straightening his tie.

“Oh, Daniel. You look the perfect gentleman.” She moved across the kitchen, encroaching on his personal space. “Stand still, you’ve got a stray strand of hair.”