Christopher Fowler - The Water Room

‘You have to listen to them, Sarge. Mr Bryant taught me that. You get more out of them after they think you’ve stopped taking notes.’

‘All right, but I’ll do this one, speed things up a bit.’ She ticked off the ninth house and climbed the steps to the next on the list. May’s notepad translated her handwriting to text and emailed it to his terminal for appraisal.

‘I like this street, sort of cosy and old-fashioned,’ said Bimsley, tipping rain from the collar of his jacket. ‘Like my grandma’s old house in Deptford before they pulled it down. Council said it was a slum just ’cause it had an outside lav, but she was happier there. Odd the way the numbers are laid out, though. Thirties and forties on one side, three to seven on the other.’

‘One side probably continued the numbers in the street joining it. The other side was built at a later date and had to start over. You see it all the time.’ Longbright rang the doorbell of number 43. ‘How many are we missing?’

‘Only three not at home so far, that’s pretty good.’

‘They’re starter-plus-ones, that’s why.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Your first purchased home is probably a flat, right? These are the houses you buy after selling your first place-something with a garden to remind you of childhood, but the rooms are small, best for a couple with one young child, husband’s on the career ladder so the mum’s usually at home. Next stop after this is something bigger, a bit further out, where your family can grow.’

‘You don’t think the wife’s out working as well?’ Bimsley asked.

‘Depends. The area’s Irish Catholic, they’re not much given to childminders.’

‘I don’t know where you get your facts from, Janice.’

‘Knowing the terrain. Call yourself a detective.’

The door opened, and an orderly blond woman in her late twenties smiled coldly at them. She wiped her hands dry on faded jeans, waiting for an explanation. In the background a loud television cartoon was keeping a child amused.

Longbright pointed to the plastic-laminated ID card on her jacket. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you. We’re checking the street to see if anybody knew the elderly lady who died at number 5, Mrs Ruth Singh.’

‘I didn’t know she’d passed away.’

‘Perhaps I can take your name, for elimination purposes?’

‘Mrs Wilton-Tamsin. My husband is Oliver Wilton. When did she die?’

‘Sunday evening. Were you at home?’

‘Yes, but I didn’t hear or see anything.’

Longbright made a dismissive mental note. This was the type of woman who recognized her neighbours but never spoke to them. An implicit class barrier, faint but quite implacable, would prevent her from getting involved.

‘No unusual vehicles in the street, no one hanging around outside the house between the hours of eight and ten?’

‘Not to my knowledge.’

‘Perhaps you could ask your husband.’

‘I don’t see that he would be able to-’

Longbright checked her pad. ‘He was doing something to his car last night, wasn’t he?’

Mrs Wilton looked affronted. ‘Actually, it’s my car. And he was just cleaning off some leaves and emptying the boot.’

‘Is he at home today?’

‘No, it’s a workday, he’s at his office.’ Mrs Wilton stared at Longbright as though amazed by her stupidity. If the look was intended to intimidate, it didn’t wash. Like so many of the old movie stars she admired, the detective sergeant’s glamorous aura was constructed over the epidermis of a rhinoceros. She handed over the unit’s contact card. ‘You can freephone me at this number, or email us if either of you think of anything.’

‘Did Mr Bryant do door-to-doors when he was younger?’ asked Bimsley as they walked away.

‘He still does occasionally, although he’s supposed to use his cane for distances. John bought him a beautiful silver-topped stick from James Smith amp; Sons in New Oxford Street, and he’s finally been forced to use it. He’s very good at doorstep interviews because he has so much local knowledge. Although of course he’s appallingly rude to people, but witnesses put up with it because he’s elderly. He doesn’t mean to be so vile, it just comes out that way. Politeness used to be one of law enforcement’s greatest tools. We just outsmiled the opposition. Now it’s liable to get you shot at. Let’s do the other next-door neighbour.’

They had called at number 4 and introduced themselves to a shy Egyptian woman, Fatima Karneshi, who lived with her husband Omar, a railway guard currently posted at Archway Tube station. It seemed that Fatima had brought the traditions of her country to England; her reluctance to leave the house during the day prevented her from bumping into her neighbour, and chores kept her from socializing. She had seen Mrs Singh once or twice in the garden, but they had not spoken. Longbright had wondered if her husband was the kind of man who liked his women subservient. She readily acknowledged the importance of domesticity in the hierarchy of Egyptian marriage, but dealing with so many different cultures made her job more demanding.

The door on the other side, number 6, was opened by a woman in a lime-green face-pack and towel-turban. ‘I’m sorry, this is absolutely the only thing that helps a hangover,’ the woman explained in a muscular, penetrating voice. ‘You’re the police, aren’t you? You’ve been going door to door and you don’t look like Jehovah’s Witnesses. If you come in, are you going to get water everywhere? I’m waiting for a little man to come and revarnish the hall floor, and it does stain. I’m Heather Allen.’ She offered her hand and withdrew it, blowing on her nails as she beckoned them in. ‘Your polish is a wonderful colour, I don’t think I’ve seen that shade before.’

‘They stopped making it in the 1950s,’ Longbright admitted, hiding her hands. ‘I have to get it mixed at a theatrical suppliers.’ No one had ever noticed before.

‘How unusual. Can I get you anything? Presumably you don’t drink alcohol on duty, and this lad doesn’t look as if he’s old enough.’ Now it was Bimsley’s turn to be embarrassed. ‘I didn’t really know the old lady-it is the old lady you’re asking about? But I did run a few errands for her. She couldn’t get out. Her brother had bought her one of those little motorized cart-things, but she wouldn’t use it. I can’t imagine why, they only do about eight miles an hour.’ The tinge of hysteria in her prattle bothered Longbright, who made another mental note: this one spends too much time alone, and needs to impress upon others that everything is fine.

‘When did you last run an errand for her?’

Heather Allen tucked a glazed lock of auburn hair beneath the towel as she thought. ‘Before the weekend, it must have been Friday, she told me she needed some bread.’

‘How?’

‘What do you mean?’ Mrs Allen looked alarmed.

‘How did she tell you? Did you call on her?’

‘Oh no, nothing like that. It was a beautiful day, she was standing at the back door and we spoke.’

‘She didn’t say anything else? Other than asking you to get her some shopping?’

‘No, well-no, I mean. No. I’m sure she didn’t.’

Longbright sensed something. ‘For example, she didn’t say she was worried about anything? Didn’t seem to have anything pressing on her mind?’

‘Well, that sort of depends.’ Mrs Allen appeared to have been manoeuvred to the lounge wall. Longbright stepped back, wary of her tendency to be aggressive.

‘On what?’ she asked.

‘I mean, there had been the letters. I presume you’ve been told about those.’

‘Perhaps you should tell me.’