Adrian Magson: No Help For The Dying

As she drew level with the open door, she saw the number and felt her stomach lurch. 210. Henry’s room! What the hell was happening here? She paused and looked in, and saw a man standing by a television set in one corner, scribbling in a notebook. He wore a suit and heavy shoes, his feet surrounded by shards of broken glass. Near the door was a roll of coloured crime-scene tape.

The bathroom light was on, spilling out into the room and illuminating a section of pale wallpaper, and Riley could hear a ventilator fan humming noisily in the background. But what caught her attention was a shocking smear of dark red running down the wall and across the white doorframe.

‘Excuse me, miss.’

She turned. The first man was watching her from the open door at the end. She waved apologetically and continued walking away from him, but he called again. ‘Hey — miss?’

It was time to go. Another ten steps took her to the far end of the corridor, with a fire exit on the right-hand side. Using her shoulder to thrust it open, she ran down a set of bare concrete steps coated with a non-slip surface. She heard muffled footsteps pounding heavily along the corridor she had just left, and an exchange of voices.

She hit the next landing on the run and continued on down. She probably had a few seconds before someone thought to use a radio to shut off the downstairs exits. If she could get back to the cleaning cupboard, she had a good chance of getting out and clear before they got organised.

A glance through the glass panel showed the bottom corridor was deserted. As she hit the door a volley of shouting echoed down the stair well behind her. She sprinted along the final stretch of carpet, praying nobody chose this moment to come out of their room. She dumped the contents of the ice bucket in the dispenser then ducked into the cupboard, where she wiped the bucket with a piece of paper towel before replacing it on the shelf and retrieving her jacket.

The rear car park was clear. She shut the door behind her and hurried back to the car. She felt exposed and vulnerable under the rows of windows, but there was no burst of shouting and no heavy footsteps to intercept her. As she reached the Golf and fumbled with the keys, an engine burst into life on the other side of the car park and a white delivery van nosed out past the barrier. Riley tucked herself in behind it and followed it out onto the Bath Road, joining an already growing convoy of commuter traffic heading into central London.

Back at the flat, as if taunting her with the idea of a day not yet done, the answerphone light was blinking to announce a waiting message. She hit the button and began to take off her jacket. A familiar voice filled the room.

It was John Mitcheson.

‘I told you she wouldn’t be back.’ Madge Beckett watched as her husband, George, did a tour of the flat. It didn’t take long. It wasn’t much more than a glorified bed-sit, really, with a separate kitchenette off to one side through a sliding door. American kitchen, the builder had told them when he’d shown them the plans; everyone was having them. A bathroom was just along the passageway with a toilet next to that. It wasn’t much but their tenant had never asked for more. She’d seemed happy, anyway, staying here over seven years in all. Most tenants moved on long before that, always saying they’d found something better, something they could call home; a real step up, was the implication, as if this was merely a staging post. But with most of them you knew that wasn’t true. This one, though, had seemed different. Settled, she’d been. Like she’d found her place in the world.

‘But just like that? It doesn’t sound like her.’ Madge thought George sounded dismayed, as if the young woman had been his own daughter and she’d run off with their life savings. He flicked at some of the personal objects around the room, on the sideboard and the dressing table, brushing them with his fingertips as if they might tell him a secret. ‘Why would she just leave?’

Madge didn’t know. She shrugged and stared past him out of the window at the rooftops of Chesham. If she squinted hard, she fancied she could almost see the shimmering haze of traffic pollution off the M25 round north-west London.

Jennifer Bush had wandered in one day in answer to an advert in the local newsagents, and she’d taken the flat, as they’d grandly called it, without a murmur. She’d brought in a few things; a CD player with a stack of Asian-sounding music, a small trunk and a load of books, but that was all. A special needs teacher, she’d let slip one day when Madge asked her what she did for a living. For autistic kids and the like. And here she’d stayed, quiet, self-contained and never a noise or a cross word for anyone. Until two days ago. Madge had heard her go out in the early morning, while it was still dark. She’d bumped against something on the way down the stairs, which was unlike Jennifer; she was usually so considerate. Seconds later Madge thought she’d heard a car door slam, but it could have been her imagination.

‘A man, you reckon?’ George said, picking up an object like a small drum on a stick, with some tassels attached. He tapped it against his hand but there was no sound so he put it down again. He sniffed loudly and picked at a partially burned incense stick, stuck into a small pot of white sand. ‘Stuff stinks, doesn’t it? What good does it do?’

‘It never harmed us,’ said Madge quietly. She felt sad looking around this room, with its neatly made bed, its few scattered ornaments and books. She’d only been in here a couple of times, to sort out a problem with the blinds and another with the heater. There had never been any need, otherwise. But suddenly she knew the girl wasn’t coming back. She could feel it. She reached out and took George’s hand, an instinctive source of comfort. ‘It’s only incense… joss-sticks. Smells quite nice to me. And so what if it was a man? She’s entitled, isn’t she, a nice girl like that? Maybe she was just waiting for the right one to come along. Same as I’ve been doing all my life.’

George looked at his wife with raised eyebrows. ‘Very funny. I know you don’t mean that.’ He moved past her, shaking his head, but kept hold of her hand. ‘So what do we do, then — wait for her to show up? She’s left all her things here.’

‘We’ll give it a few days.’ Madge turned to follow him, wondering where Jennifer, their quiet, sad, trouble-free tenant, burner of joss sticks and lover of mystical, eastern music had gone. And, not for the first time, where she had come from.

Mid-morning was a good time to hit the local coffee franchise, after the rush of take-outs had gone. Following a restless couple of hours sleep, in spite of her flagging energy, Riley took a selection of newspapers round the corner in search of warmth and bustle. It was where she liked to do most of her reading, in between people-watching and chatting to any of the other regulars who happened along in search of a caffeine boost and a friendly face.

Right now, though, all she was interested in was sinking a strong flat white while trying to shake off all thoughts of John Mitcheson. Forced to stay out of the country by the threat of possible arrest because of his unwitting ties to a criminal gang, his message had capped a long line of other missed calls, abandoned dates and clinical emails with all the romantic appeal of a wet flannel. So much for enforced separation, she thought. She dumped a portion of brown sugar in the mug and stirred it with feeling. What was it they always said — absence makes the heart grown fonder?

‘My eye,’ she muttered out loud, and glared at a man in a suit at the next table, who looked startled by the comment.