Stillwater (6 page)

Chapter Ten

A short while later James called her back. “Are you going to be there all day today?”

“I'm not going anywhere. Mirri's driving up to see me.”

“Good. I have a plumber calling in to you. His name is Derek. Derek Clarke. He installed the wet room at Stillwater. He knows the system better than anybody. He should be with you in a couple of hours.”

“That's great,” Beth said.

“All part of the service… God! Did I really just say that? I must find another job. I'm getting much too estate-agenty.”

“It's reassuring,” Beth said.

“If you say so. Was there anything else?”

She thought for a moment. “No, that's it.”

“Well if you think of anything, I'm just at the other end of the phone… Christ, another platitude! Help me, Beth. I'm turning into my boss.”

She laughed, and hung up the phone. She had revised her opinion of James Bartlett. He was much more her type of person than she'd initially thought. She caught herself before that line of thinking got her into trouble. She wheeled herself to her office, thrust all thoughts of sewers and handsome estate agents from her mind, and typed
Chapter Four
in the blank screen in front of her.

A little more than an hour later the doorbell rang. The blue Ford van parked outside the house bore the legend
D W Clarke, Plumber
in fading white script, followed by a local phone number. Beneath it someone had painted in a cell phone number in a fancy font. The paint was fresher and brighter than the main sign—obviously a much later addition.

The man standing at the door was her age, fairly short, and slightly overweight, and had a mop of curly red hair tied back from his freckled face in a loose ponytail. “Ms. Alvarini?” he said, molding his cherubic features into a smile. “Derek Clarke, plumber. Jimmy said you needed some assistance down here.”

“Hi,” Beth said. “I wasn't expecting you so soon.”

“Don't believe everything you hear about plumbers. Some of us work quicker than snails.”

“Well, it's appreciated. Come in.” She wheeled back to make a space for him to enter. “Do you want to check out the bathroom now?”

He was wearing a denim bib and brace over a very white T-shirt. His arms were well muscled, covered by a soft down of ginger hair, and they were as freckled as his face.

“Yeah,” he said. “Let's take a look at it, then, if I can fix it, I'll fetch my tools from the van. Jimmy said something about tree roots.”

“Well, that's
my
theory. But I have to admit I don't really know what I'm talking about. Just trying to find a logical explanation I suppose.”

Clarke smiled. “And a pretty fair one. I'm impressed. Not many people are aware of the damage tree roots can do.”

“You mean I could be on to something?”

“Well, it's not beyond the bounds of possibilities. Best I take a look.”

“You might want to take a look at this.” She crossed to the sideboard and scooped up a small bundle wrapped in toilet tissue. She handed him the package. “That was blocking the drain in the room.”

Derek Clarke opened the bundle suspiciously, and stared at the small pile of damp weeds. He sniffed it cautiously and recoiled sharply. “Jesus, that's rank,” he said, with a chuckle. “It certainly smells like sewage. And it was blocking the drain you say?”

“Completely. The bathroom filled with water.”

“That's not surprising…and quite gratifying. It means I've made a good job of the seals. Let's take a look.”

She made to follow.

“I can manage on my own,” he said. “I might need the extra room to work. No offense.”

“I'll make some tea.”

“That would be very welcome,” Clarke said, and headed into the bathroom.

He crouched down in the center of the room, and studied the drain. There didn't seem to be anything wrong here. The grille covering the drain looked immaculate, the chrome gleaming, untarnished by lime scale. No sign of any weeds. But he knew from experience that looks could be deceptive. The pristine chrome could be camouflaging a multitude of problems. He bent forward, bringing his face to within inches of the grille and sniffed.

If there were a blockage in the pipes the stink would be unmistakable, but all he could smell was a rather soapy, lightly perfumed aroma.
Nothing obvious there then
, he thought, and took a penknife from his pocket, using it to lever up the edge of the grille high enough to get his fingernails under it, and lift it clear. From another pocket he produced a small LED flashlight, and switched it on, shining its very bright and very white beam down the drain. The light bounced back at him from the water trapped at the head of the U bend; the water was an effective barrier to stop noxious smells traveling back up the pipe from the sewers below.

The bathroom door opened and Beth called through. “Tea.”

“Just coming,” Clarke replied.

He dropped the grille back into place, and patted it down so it was level with the rest of the floor. Behind him the door slowly swung shut. As he pocketed his flashlight and penknife he sniffed the air and checked the tissue paper parcel Beth had given him. The noxious weeds were still wrapped, but the smell of them was floating in the air, invading his nostrils, making him cover his nose with his hand. “Rank,” he repeated to himself, and dropped the tissue-wrapped weed into the toilet bowl, and pressed the flush. The toilet tissue swirled in the flush water, unwrapping and falling away from the weed. Clarke stepped back as a vile stench wafted up from the bowl. “Jesus! That's foul!”

He took another step backward, but the heel of his shoe caught on something, and he found himself toppling backward. He threw his arms out to recover his balance, reaching out for one of the handrails. Instead of touching reassuringly smooth stainless steel, his fingers closed around something wet, cold and slimy. With a yell of disgust he pulled his hand away, and let his backward momentum carry him to the floor.

He hit the tiles, and lay there for a moment feeling foolish. He glanced up at the rail, noting the smooth, gleaming metal, and then searched the floor to see what had tripped him.

The chrome grille of the drain he had fastidiously patted down to ensure it was level, was now raised half an inch from the floor. It was this that had caught his shoe and sent him toppling. “Well, I'll be…” He stared at it incredulously for a moment before reaching out and patting it back into place.

“Anything?” Beth said, as Clarke emerged from the bathroom.

He shook his head and glanced back at the bathroom at the same time. “Nothing obvious, but I'll check the main sewer outside, just to be sure,” he said.

“Have your tea before it gets cold.” She slid the steaming mug along the counter toward him.

“Good idea,” he said. “Thanks.” Again he looked back to the bathroom.

“Is something wrong?” she asked.

“The smell of that weed gets right into you. I can't shift it.”

“It
is
pretty foul. Any idea how it got into the bathroom? Or more specifically, how it blocked the drain?”

“That's why I want to check the main sewer. Then I'll make my report to Jimmy. If it's an external rather than an internal problem, then the job will need more than the limited tools I brought with me. I don't know how close to the lake the pipe work extends.”

“The lake? Surely not. It must be at least half a mile away.”

“Possibly the lake is fed by an underground stream that runs closer to the house. I'm just speculating of course. But to my eyes the stuff you found blocking the drain looks like pondweed. And the lake is the closest source of that. It's worth checking out.”

Derek Clarke sat at the kitchen table, dunking a digestive biscuit into his tea. Beth rolled up to the table to join him. “Have you and James been friends long?” she asked, snapping an edge from her biscuit, and popping it into her mouth.

“Since school. I didn't move into the area until I was thirteen. Jimmy took me under his wing and we've been friends ever since.”

“He seems to make a habit of it,” Beth said. “Didn't he do the same with Jessica Franklin when she started at the school?”

Clarke gave a rueful smile. “You're right, he did. Bit off more than he could chew there though.”

“In what way?”

An evasive look appeared in Clarke's eyes. He took a mouthful of tea. “I'd better crack on,” he said, and drained his cup.

“Was Jessica a problem?” Beth pressed him.

“I think that's something you'd be better off asking Jimmy about. It's not really my place to say.” He got to his feet and walked to the kitchen door.

“It's okay,” Beth said. “The fact that Jessica was something of a problem child seems to be common knowledge around here. I was talking to the Lathams over at Peck's Cottage the other day. Gwen Latham didn't have a good word to say about Jessica.”

“No,” Clarke said. “Not many people did.” He opened the kitchen door.

“Well, James obviously found something appealing about her. He gave me the impression they were an item.”

A puzzled frown crossed Clarke's face. “Jimmy said that?”

Beth nodded. “He gave me that impression. Apparently they used to go to the lake together.”

“Well, it's news to me if they were,” he said. “I thought she was untouchable. Everyone did. I knew he looked out for her. I remember he stepped in when a group of girls were giving her a hard time—bullying her. But I don't recall ever seeing them together, as in going out together, being a couple. Jessica Franklin wasn't what you would call girlfriend material.”

“What
would
you call her?”

“Bloody weird,” Clarke said.

“In what way?”

Clarke shifted from foot to foot, obviously uncomfortable with the topic of conversation. “Now this
is
Jimmy's territory. I'm not saying another word. I've got work to do.” He spun on his heel and headed out to the back garden. He stopped suddenly.

Beth watched his shoulders rise and fall. He was hesitating, unsure how to proceed. Finally he turned back to her. “It wasn't just Jess. The whole bloody family had a screw loose if you ask me.”

“I thought she just lived with her father,” Beth said.

“And her mother, until she cleared off. If Jess was weird she wasn't a patch on Dolores Franklin. She'd waft through the town on occasion dressed like something out of
Lord of the Rings
—all flowing hair, pale skin and floaty dresses. She looked…ethereal. Know what I mean?”

“I get the picture,” Beth said, but was vaguely surprised that Derek Clarke—salt of the earth artisan—would use such flowery language to describe the woman. She pulled herself up short, appalled that she had stereotyped Clarke so quickly, simply because of his occupation.

“But God help anyone who crossed her, or didn't provide her with what she wanted. I was told that if anyone upset her she'd turn into this…this mad thing; ranting and raving, cursing and casting her spells.”

“Spells?”

“She thought she was a witch. Took it all very seriously.”

“Deranged?”

“Oh most definitely. Mad as a box of frogs. So it's hardly surprising that Jess Franklin behaved as she did. Living with that nutter.” He gave a mock shiver and then said, “Are you going to let me work or what?”

“Don't let me stop you,” Beth said, spun round and wheeled herself back into the house.

Chapter Eleven

“You've got a man in your garden with his head down a drain,” Miranda said, as she stared out of Beth's kitchen window.

“That's Derek,” Beth said. “He's a plumber. James sent him along.”

“Have you had problems?”

“A few. Derek's here to sort them out.”

Miranda nodded, and walked away from the window, curiosity satisfied. “Speaking of Jimmy, any more dates planned?” she asked.

“We're not dating, Mirri.”

“Well you should be. Letting a man like Jimmy Bartlett go to waste is a crime.”

“He's in love with someone else,” Beth said flatly.

The look of shock on Miranda's face was almost comical. “Rubbish,” she said.

“It's true,” Beth said, pouring hot water onto some instant coffee granules. “So you can stop your matchmaker impression and give me a break.”

Miranda gave a theatrical sigh, and sat down at the kitchen table. “He told me he was single. Men, you can't trust a word they say. Who is she, this vixen who's stolen Jimmy's heart?” she said, just as theatrically.

“Jessica Franklin. She used to live here, in this house.”

“Used to? Where does she live now?”

“She doesn't,” Beth said, bringing the coffee mugs across to the table. “She's dead. Died about fifteen years ago. But James is still carrying a torch for her.”

Miranda's features softened. “But that's tragic,” she said. “Poor Jimmy, to be grieving all this time, unable to let go and move on. How did she die?”

“She drowned, in the lake we went to the other day.”

Miranda shuddered. “Why didn't you tell me before we went there? I would never have agreed to go.”

“I didn't tell you because I didn't know then. I'm slowly putting the story together. As James tells it, he and Jessica were sweethearts, but not according to Derek. If you believe him they were never a couple.”

“An odd thing to lie about,” Miranda said.

“Yes it is,” Beth said, absently staring out the window at the hunched form of Derek Clarke as he peered into the gloom of the manhole.

Clarke swept the walls of the sewer with the milky beam of the flashlight, noting the large amount of weeds clinging to the brickwork; an unusual growth, but not enough to cause a blockage. He had his rods in the van. It might be an idea to run them through the drain. He checked his watch. He had a couple of hours before his next job—a malfunctioning boiler at the local pub.

He went back to his van, and opened the back doors, pulling out the bundle of flexible rods and dropping them to the ground. They were similar to the rods the old-fashioned chimney sweeps used to use. Each measured four feet long with male and female screw fittings at each end, enabling him to build them to a length of fifty yards, more than long enough for most domestic sewers. Whereas the chimney sweeps' rods were capped off with a circular brush, his had a spiral steel, clawlike attachment ideal for catching and removing obstructions. To add strength, the rods were made from a mixture of fiberglass and carbon fiber, making them lightweight and flexible, but very strong.

He dragged the bundle back to the open manhole, screwed on the steel claw and, adding one length at a time, fed the rods into the drain.

He'd added four rods before he encountered any resistance. He pushed, but it was as if he were trying to force the rods through a wall of sand. Taking a firm grip on the end rod, he twisted it sharply back and forth, and then tugged it. A second or two later the rods worked themselves free. He hauled them back, and eventually the steel hook emerged from the drainpipe, dragging something wet and orange. Milky, dead eyes stared up at him from the bottom of the manhole.

“Oh, shit,” he said under his breath, as he realized it was the body of a dead cat. “How in God's name did you get down there?”

The entrance to the manhole was barely two feet square. Squeezing down there to retrieve the dead animal wasn't going to be easy. Then, as he shone the flashlight down the drain, he realized that climbing down there wouldn't be necessary. The steel claw at the end of the rods had embedded itself in the animal's body. He tentatively tugged on the rod, and the dead cat moved. This wasn't going to be pleasant.

Inch by inch he pulled the animal to the surface, finally lifting it free from the manhole, and putting it down on the scrubby grass beside the opening where it lay, a wet, tangled mass of dirty ginger fur, with sightless eyes and a bloated body punctured by a ugly gash in its side where Clarke's steel hook had screwed into it.

“Looks like he's found the blockage,” Miranda said, peering out through the kitchen window.

“Can you see what was causing it?”

Miranda cupped her hands around her eyes, and pressed her forehead to the glass. “I can't really…no…wait a minute… Oh…” She turned back to Beth. “You stay here,” she said, and dashed out of the back door.

“But how did it get down there?” Miranda said to Derek Clarke, who was standing over the cat, as if guarding it.

He shrugged. “It's a cat,” he said, unnecessarily. “They can get anywhere if they have a mind to. Had one sleeping under the hood of my van once. Only discovered it when I started the engine. Never seen anything move so fast.”

“How the hell am I going to tell Beth?” Miranda said.

“You don't have to,” Beth said.

Miranda spun round. Her friend was sitting in her wheelchair less than ten feet away, her gaze locked on Teddy's wet and twisted body. “Hon, I'm so sorry,” Miranda said.

Beth ignored her, turning her attention to Clarke. “So you found out what was causing the blockage. Well done,” she said.

“Wedged in the pipe,” Clarke said. “I made a bit of a mess of him, getting him out.”

“Can you bury him for me? I'll pay you extra.” Beth said, blinking furiously, determined not to cry.

“Yes,” Clarke said. “Yes, of course. Where?”

“Here's as good a place as any.” Without another word she spun the chair around and headed back to the house.

“Beth, wait!” Miranda called to her departing back. Then, “Fuck it! This is the last thing she needed.” She followed Beth back to the house.

They both left Clarke to fetch a spade from his van,

“Teddy hated it here,” Beth said.

“You can't say that. He was a cat. He would have adjusted.”

Beth shook her head. “I don't think he would. He was scared, Mirri. Skittish, jumping at shadows. He was never like that in London. I feel guilty for bringing him up here.”

“Now stop that,” Miranda said. “There's no point beating yourself up over it.” She poured her friend a large brandy from a bottle of Courvoisier tucked at the back of a kitchen cupboard. “Here, drink this. You've had a shock.”

Beth took the glass from her and touched it to her lips, but the smell of the spirit made her gag. She set the glass down on the kitchen table. “Ever since the other night when I went out and left the back door open, and that other cat came in, Teddy was running scared. He probably found an opening to the sewer, and was using it as a hiding place.” She pushed herself away from the table, and went across to the back door to watch Clarke bury her cat.

Miranda looked on helplessly for a moment, before opening her attaché case and pulling a small sheaf of papers from it. “You need to see this,” she said.

“What is it?” Beth said disinterestedly.

“A contract from Fox in the States. They want to turn
Mirror Ball
into a TV series. You get a ‘created by' and an executive
producer credit, as well as an obscene amount of money. Interested?”

Mirror Ball
was Beth's bestselling novel to date: a playful, but racy love story using the 1970s disco culture as backdrop. It was the novel she had written just prior to the accident, and critics and readers were agreed it was her most accomplished so far. Since the accident, and her confinement to the wheelchair, she wondered whether she would be able to produce anything so good again.

She had hoped for a film deal—maybe a small, independent art-house movie. The thought of a series airing on national television was beyond her wildest imaginings.

“Yes,” she said. “Where do I sign?” Her words felt defiant. Her natural inner strength kicking in to start the grieving process. Maybe even start the next good novel process.

“That's better,” Miranda said. She flipped over the pages, pointing to the yellow highlighted indicators. “Here, here and there.”

“I wasn't expecting this,” Beth said.

“There are all sorts of residuals, rights on the repeats and such like, but I'll handle those.”

Beth regarded her friend gratefully.

“I like to feel that I earn my commission,” Miranda said.

“I'd be totally lost without you,” Beth said candidly.

“Yes,” Miranda said. “And me you. Now, are you going to let me take a peek at what you're working on?”

Beth was usually very guarded when she was working on a new project. Nobody was allowed to see a new book until she had typed THE END. Nobody apart from Miranda, that was. Their relationship transcended business. She trusted Mirri implicitly, and regarded her as her one true friend.

“Sure,” she said. “It's up on the Mac. Go into the office and make a start and I'll make coffee.”