Christopher Fowler - The Water Room

‘What did you guys find to talk about for so long?’

‘Oh, you know, men in pubs can stretch any subject until closing time.’ Jake accepted the tea. Unusual to meet a gay man who’s overweight, she thought idly. Pleasant face, obviously comfortable dealing with people in his job.

‘It’s just that Paul mentioned something about hang-gliding.’

‘Oh, that . It was nothing. I told him that Aaron and I had been hang-gliding in France, and he suggested coming along with us some time.’

‘How long have you two been together?’

‘Eleven years, believe it or not.’

‘That’s longer than most of my friends.’

‘We have a deal. I told him if he ever leaves me I’ll kill him, which pretty much sorted the whole thing out.’

‘So,’ she tried to sound casual, ‘what was the part about making some money?’

‘Oh, nothing really, not even first-hand information, just something I’d been told.’ He suddenly looked like a small boy who had been caught stealing sweets. ‘I wouldn’t demean either of us by recounting another half-drunk conversation. But I did offer to lend him some money. He told me you were a bit strapped for cash right now.’

She bridled at the idea that her finances had been discussed with a virtual stranger. ‘We’ll be fine. It’s just that there’s a lot to do here. The electrics, the plumbing, the basement needs to be damp-proofed and replastered, the roof needs repairing. And I don’t know how long I can live with this seventies wallpaper.’ She indicated the mauve paisley print behind them.

‘I can see what you mean. It’s unfashionable without being fabulous.’

‘Do you have any problems with water?’

‘What kind of problems?’

‘Surges in the plumbing.’

‘No, but I’ve got rising damp. I think we’re still Victorians at heart. We spend so much time trying to keep the rain out, but it always finds a way of getting in.’ Jake drained his cup and rose to leave. ‘Look, I have to get back. There’s something I need to do.’ He seemed undecided about explaining himself, but gave in after a brief moment of hesitation. ‘It’s about Ruth Singh. When the police came and did the interviews, I told a bit of a lie. I didn’t want to get anyone into trouble, but it’s started to bother me.’

‘What did you tell them?’ asked Kallie.

‘It was about Ruth’s visitor, the night before she died. I stopped to dig out my keys and saw someone ring the doorbell to number 5 . Ruth definitely recognized her visitor, but I couldn’t hear what they were saying. I told the constable I didn’t know who it was. But there was this hat and a long black leather raincoat, not the kind of outfit you’d miss. At work I’m used to checking wardrobe continuity all the time, so I notice these things. Then I saw the coat lying in one of the bedrooms at Oliver and Tamsin’s party.’

‘You mean it belonged to Oliver?’

‘No, to one of the guests.’ He looked pained. ‘It doesn’t mean they know anything about Ruth’s death, does it?’

‘Who are we talking about?’

‘Well-Mark Garrett. The coat was odd, not the sort of thing I’d imagine him wearing, and the sleeves were empty. It looked as if it had been draped over the shoulders, you know, so you could run out into the rain.’

‘How do you know it was Garrett’s?’

‘Because I was so surprised to see it in the Wiltons’ bedroom that I checked the label. His name was sewn inside the collar-who sews their name inside their clothes any more? I suppose there could be more than one coat like that, but there was something very odd about the length of it, and the one in the bedroom was identical. I reckon the police have a right to know, even if I’m proven wrong.’

‘It’ll make you feel better to tell someone,’ she replied, thinking, Oh my God, Garrett was desperate to buy the house, and he went to see the owner the night before she died.

When Longbright called on him the next day, Garrett complained indignantly, balancing in the doorway like a man interrupted during the football results. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. I haven’t been running around with a raincoat over me. What are you implying?’

‘Perhaps you borrowed it from your girlfriend,’ the detective sergeant suggested, ‘to put the rubbish out or something. It was raining hard. Maybe you’ve forgotten-’

‘I’m not bloody stupid, woman. I run a very successful business-I didn’t get that way by suffering mental lapses. I know where I’ve been, and I didn’t visit Mrs Singh before she died, not for any bloody reason.’

‘Then perhaps you could have a look in your girlfriend’s wardrobe for us. Maybe she’s put the coat in there by mistake.’

‘And maybe someone wants me to take the blame for the old cow’s death.’ Garrett’s face reddened as he raised his voice, hoping somehow that the neighbours would hear. ‘People should learn to mind their own bloody business in this street. Tell me, why should I even care who she was? These damned people-Indian, Chinese, African-the liberals tell us we have to be one big community, we have to integrate, but why the hell should I? What do they do for me? Absolutely bugger all. I am English and this is my home, and it’s nothing to do with any other bastard.’

One of them is either mistaken or lying, thought Longbright, turning away as the door was slammed in her face. She couldn’t insist on searching the house without first applying for a warrant, and knew that one was unlikely to be granted. No one remembered seeing Garrett at the party with the coat, so it was Avery’s word against the estate agent’s, and because people knew they disliked each other, it could be argued that Avery was trying to make trouble for Garrett. There’s nothing that anyone can do about it now. Let’s hope Arthur finds something more constructive to do with his time.

She turned up her collar and began walking toward the Tube station. She adored working for the detectives, just as her mother had done before her. They had been there for her in the most difficult circumstances, but it was time to face the fact that they were getting old. She knew it was only work that kept them both from dotage, but if Raymond Land failed to get the unit assigned to high-profile cases, it would be closed down, and that would be the end of them all.

Something will turn up soon, she thought, peering up into the scudding black world above the high-street rooftops. Something has to.

She would always remember how strangely the day had begun.

A Krakatoa dawn, intense and viridescent, had been obliterated by dim silhouettes of cloud, great grey cargo ships bearing fresh supplies of rain. By noon it had grown so dark that she had been forced to switch on the hall lights, and, not knowing what to do for the best, waited for the call.

She had known it would be George before the second ring. They had established the pattern of communication whenever he travelled, to fit around the time differences. If he was further west, he never rang before one. Further east, and he would call just as she was having breakfast. He never grew tired of waiting in airport lounges or dining late in half-empty hotels. He seemed to have deliberately chosen work that would deny him the comforts of home life. He was meeting factory representatives in company branches around the world, but she often wondered if he could have delegated these tasks and requested an administrative position in London. Perhaps, like Kallie’s partner, it was something to do with never having taken a gap year; perhaps he too imagined that beneath the jacket and tie he was a backpacker, free to watch dawn from mountaintops and follow the contours of the shorelines. Except that his journeys took him to places no student would choose to visit. And on that day the call came at the wrong time, the pattern disrupted. He was only in Paris-no distance at all-but something was wrong.