David Mitchell - Slade House

“Ooh, the ‘F-word’!” said Builder Two. “Verbal abuse, that is. And he didn’t call me ‘sir’ once. You’re a disgrace to your clip-on tie.”

The traffic warden scribbled on his ticket book, tore off the page and clipped it under the wiper of a dirty white van they were standing next to. “You’ve got fourteen days to pay, or face prosecution.”

Builder One snatched the parking ticket off the windscreen, wiped it on his arse and scrumpled it up.

“Very tough,” said Lech Wałęsa, “but you’ll still have to pay.”

“Will we? ’Cause we both heard you ask for a bribe. Didn’t we?”

Builder Two folded his arms. “He asked for fifty quid. I could hardly believe my ears. Could you believe your ears?”

The traffic warden’s jaw worked up and down: “I did not!”

“Two against one. Mud sticks, my faggoty friend. Think about your little pension. Do the clever thing, turn around, and go—”

“What I just heard was conspiracy to bear false witness,” I said, and both builders swiveled round, “and to pervert the course of justice.” The older of the two had a broken nose and a shaved head. The younger one was a freckled carrot-top with raisin eyes too close together. He spat out some chewing gum onto the pavement between us. “Plus litter offences,” I added.

The Broken Nose stepped up and peered down. “And you are?”

Now I’m not one to boast, but I cut my teeth in the Brixton Riots and earned a commendation for bravery at the Battle of Orgreave Colliery. It takes more than a hairy plasterer to put the shits up me. “Detective Inspector Gordon Edmonds, CID, Thames Valley Police.” I flashed my ID. “Here’s a suggestion. Pick up that ticket and that gum; climb into your pile-of-shit van; go; and pay that fine on Monday. That way I might not bring a tax audit down on you on Tuesday. What’s that face for? Don’t you like my fucking language? Sir ?”

Me and the traffic warden watched them drive off. I lit up a smoke and offered one to Lech Wałęsa, but he shook his head. “No, thanks all the same. My wife would murder me. I’ve given up. Apparently.”

Pussy-whipped: no surprise. “Bit of a thankless job, huh?”

He put away his pad. “Yours, mine or being married?”

“Ours.” I’d meant his. “Serving the Great British Public.”

He shrugged. “At least you get to put the boot in sometimes.”

“ Moi? Poster boy for community policing, me.”

A Bob Marley lookalike walked straight at us. The traffic warden stood to one side, but I didn’t. The Dreadlocked Wonder missed me by a provocative centimeter. The traffic warden glanced at his watch. “Just happened to be passing, Detective Inspector?”

“Yes and no,” I told him. “I’m looking for an alleyway called Slade Alley, but I’m not sure it even exists. Do you know it?”

Lech Wałęsa gave me a look that started off puzzled; then he smiled, stepped aside and did a flourish like a crap magician to reveal a narrow alleyway cutting between two houses. It turned left at a corner twenty yards away, under a feeble lamp mounted high up.

“This is it?” I asked.

“Yep. Look, there’s the sign.” He pointed at the side of the right-hand house where a smeary old street sign read SLADE ALLEY.

“Shag me,” I said. “Must’ve walked straight past it.”

“Well, y’know. One good turn deserves another. Better be off now — no rest for the wicked, and all that. See you around, officer.”

Inside the alley, the air was colder than out on the street. I walked down to the first corner, where the alley turned left and ran for maybe fifty paces before turning right. From up above, Slade Alley’d look like half a Swastika. High walls ran along the entire length, with no overlooking windows. Talk about a mugger’s paradise. I walked down the middle section, just so I’d be able to look Chief Super Doolan in his beady eye and tell him I inspected every foot of Slade Alley, and found doodly bloody squat, sir. Which is why I came across the small black iron door, about halfway down the middle section on the right. It was invisible ’til you were on top of it. It only came up to my throat and was about two feet wide. Now, like most people, I’m many things: a West Ham supporter, a Swampie from the Isle of Sheppey, a freshly divorced single man, a credit-card debtor owing my Flexible Friend over £2,000 and counting; but I’m also a copper, and as a copper I can’t see a door opening onto a public thoroughfare without checking if it’s locked. Specially when it’s getting dark. The door had no handle but when my palm pressed the metal, lo and behold the bloody thing just swung open easy as you please. So I stooped down a bit to peer through …

… and where I’d expected a shitty little yard, I found this long garden with terraces and steps and trees, all the way up to a big house. Sure, the garden’d gone to seed a bit, with weeds and brambles and stuff, and the pond and shrubbery’d seen better days, but it was still pretty breathtaking. There were roses still blooming, and the big high wall around the garden must’ve sheltered the fruit trees because they still had most of their leaves. And Jesus Christ, the house … A real mansion, it was. Grander than all the other houses around, half covered with red ivy stuff. Big tall windows, steps going up to the front door. The curtains were drawn, but the house sort of glowed like vanilla fudge in the last of the evening light. Just beautiful. Must be worth a bloody mint, specially with the housing market going through the roof right now. So why oh why oh why had the owners left the garden door open for any Tom Dick or Harry to amble in whenever they felt like it? They must be bloody mental, I thought. No burglar alarm either, so far as I could see. That really got my goat—’cause guess who gets the job of picking up the pieces when the houses of the rich get broken into? The boys in blue. So I found myself walking up the stony path to give the owner a talking-to about domestic security.

My hand was on the knocker when a soft quiet voice said, “Can I help you?” and I turned round to find this woman at the foot of the steps. She was about my age, blonde, with bumps in all the right places under a man’s baggy granddad shirt and gardening trousers. Quite a looker, even in her wellies.

“Detective Inspector Edmonds, Thames Valley Police.” I walked down the steps. “Good evening. Are you the owner of this property, madam?”

“Yes, I–I’m Chloe Chetwynd.” She held out her hand, fingers together and knuckles upwards like a woman so it’s hard to shake properly. I noticed her wedding ring. “How can I help you, Detective … uh, oh God, forgive me, your name — it came and went.”

“Edmonds, Mrs. Chetwynd. Detective Inspector.”

“Of course, I …” Chloe Chetwynd’s hand fluttered near her head. Then she asked the expected question: “Has anything happened?”

“Not yet, Mrs. Chetwynd, no; but unless you get a lock on that garden gate, something will happen. I could have been anyone. Think about it.”

“Oh gosh, the gate!” Chloe Chetwynd pushed a strand of waxy gold hair off her face. “It had a, a sort of … wire clasp thing, but it rusted away, and I meant to do something about it, but my husband died in June, and everything’s been a bit … messy.”

That explains a lot. “Right, well I’m sorry to hear about your loss, but a burglar’d leave your life one hell of a lot messier. Who else lives here with you, Mrs. Chetwynd?”

“Just me, Detective. My sister stayed on for a fortnight after Stuart died, but she has family in King’s Lynn. And my cleaner comes in twice a week, but that’s all. Me, the mice and the things that go bump in the night.” She did a nervous little smile that wasn’t really a smile.