Earthly Delights (14 page)

Daniel parked the bus and gave the keys to a bright, affable Maori some three metres tall with no neck, hands like hams and a blindingly white smile.

‘This is Ma’ani,’ said Daniel. ‘Somehow there’s never any big trouble on his shift. Mind you, we’ve had to reinforce the suspension,’ he said. Ma’ani shook hands, engulfing my arm to the elbow. I assumed I would get the feeling back in the arm in due course. Of course there was no trouble on Ma’ani’s watch. He would just sit on it.

‘Come on, ketschele,’ said Daniel. ‘You’re exhausted. Lean on me.’

‘What about Sister Mary?’ I asked, remembering we had left her with a dead body and just driven off.

‘Cops’ll take her back to the convent,’ he said. ‘Everyone knows Sister Mary. This way, Corinna. One foot in front of the other.’

That was all very well for him to say. By leaning heavily on Daniel I managed to get to my own building, key in the code, and go inside. There I slipped and would have fallen, except Daniel bore me up and turned my face into his chest.

‘Just lean against the wall for a moment,’ he said in a tightly controlled voice. I leaned. I opened my eyes. I was standing in a sea of blood. It was too much. I couldn’t move. Horror really does root you to the spot, by the way, though I felt no urge to scream. Why scream? What had been killed? Where was the body? I couldn’t see anything in the lobby but blood, which was dripping into the impluvium. It would kill the fish, I found myself thinking. And on the wall there was a legend, in that same unformed primary school writing. ‘Death
to the unchaste’. Blood was coagulating and dripping from the letters. Pure horror movie.

Daniel had crouched and stuck a finger into the red fluid. Then he sniffed.

‘It’s tomato sauce,’ he said. ‘Not blood, Corinna. Don’t you faint on me now. Someone must have used a catering pack of the stuff. Let’s go in through the bakery so we don’t tread it all over.’

‘What about the fish?’ I asked idiotically.

‘In the bakery,’ said Daniel, leading me outside and round the corner, ‘is a mop and a bucket and I am quite good at swabbing. And you will be quite good at sitting still until you feel a bit better. And then you can tell me what is going on in here. You’ve gone as white as milk, kitten,’ he said affectionately. His affection was suddenly very important to me. ‘Most people don’t do that when they see spilt condiments.’

‘It’s the madman,’ I told him.

I unlocked the shop where all was quiet. Daniel took a mop and bucket and after I had collected my thoughts I took another and joined him. We mopped for a while. Tomato sauce is ideal for mopping because, unlike milk, it doesn’t leave a greasy afterstain. So much easier to deal with on tiles than, say, Aubusson rugs.

‘The vinegar is probably good for the tiles,’ he said, scooping the mess into his bucket. ‘It’s bringing the pattern up very nicely. Not much has gone into the pond and the fish seem to be eating it.’

‘A new taste sensation. Tomato sauce flavoured fish food! Tell all your fishy friends!’ I said, feeling much better and rather ashamed of myself. With a two-mop squad we got the hall clean and shining and Daniel was right, the tiles did look brighter.

‘A perfect end to a perfect evening,’ said Daniel as we emptied our buckets down the drain. I suddenly liked him very much.

We went up to my apartment, greeted the cats, and put on some Ovaltine. There are days when Ovaltine is the only answer. Horatio and the Mouse Police were occupying the fluffy blue mink blanket which I bought for myself and Daniel gently dislodged them and wrapped it around me.

‘Now,’ he said. ‘Tell me about the madman.’

I began with Mistress Dread and proceeded through the Lone Gunmen, the increasingly specific letters and the use of the real names, even of Meroe who hasn’t used her birthname for twenty years.

‘Hmm,’ said Daniel. ‘Temptresses and unchaste women and witches. Not a man who has much time for the female sex, eh? Knows far too much about the tenants of this building. Older than twenty-five, owns an IMAC with a wobbly feed in his printer and a serious down on all women.’

‘There must be thousands of them,’ I sighed.

‘At least,’ said Daniel. ‘Now I understand why you nearly fainted when you saw all that tomato sauce. This lunatic is in the building and you must feel unsafe here. Drink your Ovaltine,’ he instructed. I drank. It tasted lovely. I yawned. He noticed. ‘Therefore, with your permission, I shall trespass on your couch for the night. I need to talk to you, Corinna, but it can wait until morning. Go to bed, now, ketschele,’ he said. ‘I’ll be here.’

I managed to brush my teeth and wash my face and release my hair from its clasp. Then I did as he said. I climbed into my voluminous nightie and I went to bed, and the last thing I saw was Daniel tucking me in and kissing me on the cheek.

I woke up feeling wonderful. Horatio was purring into my ear, always a charming sensation. I was in my own bed and I
had had a nightmare about blood. Probably due to that Polish film festival I had gone to years ago. They had a film called
Blood
. And another called
Snakes
. I can’t now recall why going to them seemed like such a good idea at the time. But they had marked me for life.

Then I remembered. Not a dream. The Soup Run, the dead man, the blood all over the lobby. Except it was tomato sauce.

I needed to get up and find someone rational to talk to, rather than myself. I wasn’t making anything like enough sense. I got up and, escorted by Horatio, made it to the bathroom (he always sits politely outside as he does not care for shower spray). I dried myself and dressed in a tracksuit and went into the kitchen, because I could smell coffee. If anyone wants to test whether I am actually dead, let them brew coffee near me. Strong espresso coffee, for preference. If there is not a twitch or a moan, if there is no reaction at all, then they should order the wreaths and book the gravedigger.

The kitchen contained not only coffee, but Daniel, who had gone out to buy croissants and had even taken the butter out of the fridge. I nominated him for sainthood on the spot and grabbed for a cup of the life-giving fluid. He did not say a word but smiled at me and pushed over the apricot jam.

That’s when I knew I was in love. I had never met anyone who preferred silence in the morning. Morning was the time James always chose for his robust discussions. It’s amazing I stayed with him as long as I did, really. Daniel took his coffee out onto the balcony where Horatio was discussing a saucer of milk. Not a sound apart from a faint lapping. I ate and drank and recovered my sanity.

After half an hour, I said, ‘You can come in now,’ and he did.

‘I don’t like mornings,’ said Daniel, sitting down and pouring more coffee. ‘I thought that you might feel the same.’

‘You are unique, and also you make good coffee,’ I told him. ‘Did you sleep well?’

‘Until I woke unable to breathe and found that I had Heckle on one side of my blanket and Jekyll on the other, pinning me down. They are surprisingly heavy, cats. I struggled out and sent them down into the bakery to do an honest night’s work. They have presented me with three rats and seven mice and I have rewarded them with Kitty Dins,’ said this paragon among men. ‘Naturally I also fed Horatio, who ate his breakfast and retired again. Then I thought that we could do with a reward as well and went out for some croissants. I hope you like them au naturel, rather than au beurre.’

‘My favourite,’ I said, truthfully.

‘Mine too. I used to get them from an artisan boulangerie in the Quartier Latin. A beautiful girl used to serve in his shop. If she hadn’t been so cheerful at that hour I would have tried to further our acquaintance. But she was, so I stuck to just buying her grandfather’s bread, which was very good. I got quite friendly with him. He was an absolute bear in the mornings.’

‘Do you have to do anything today?’ I asked.

‘We have to talk to your police officer about the tomato sauce,’ he said. ‘Or you do, perhaps. It might be better if you left me out of it.’

‘Yes, she doesn’t seem to be one of your biggest fans,’ I remarked. ‘Any idea why?’

‘She thinks I am a suspicious character,’ he said. ‘And so I am. No car registration. No previous connections. No house purchase. Not on the books, and that always makes policemen edgy. You also need to consult your residents’ committee’s
books,’ he added. I decided not to pursue the mystery of why Lepidoptera White didn’t like Daniel.

‘I do? Why?’

‘It’s Sunday,’ he pointed out. ‘They will probably all be home. You want to know how the names of the owners of the flats are listed. Did Meroe put her legal name on her sale notice? What about those two skinny girls with the many-coloured hair? Is that, in fact, where Mr Nutcase is getting his information?’

‘A good notion,’ I said. ‘I’ll go and see Taz as soon as the day is aired, he has all their stuff on his computer. I think they picked Taz to go on the committee because he was the only computer literate person in the building. Rather Taz than Mrs Pemberthy,’ I added. ‘You remember her.’

‘The lady with the blue-rinse hair and the horrible little dog? And I think she had a husband, somewhere in the background,’ he said.

‘That’s what everyone remembers about poor Mr Pemberthy. All right, Taz and the cops. Now, what did you want to speak to me about?’

‘Something so serious that it needs fresh air. Let’s pack a little picnic—I bought a pain au chocolat each—and the rest of the coffee and go up to the garden.’

‘All right,’ I said. ‘You take Horatio and I’ll take the food.’

I poured the coffee into the thermos and we went up in the lift to the garden. It was cooler this morning. Trudi was out and about, snipping off dead heads. I left Daniel and Horatio and went over to talk to her. I had forgotten Trudi in my count of possibly unchaste women.

Trudi is Dutch, down to earth and sixty-five. She has never really got the hang of English. She has those crow’s feet possessed by people who stare over great distances while
fighting a losing battle with nature, like sailors, cricketers, golfers and farmers. I have never seen her dressed in anything other than a pair of stout boots, jeans and a jumper; cotton for summer and wool for winter. To judge by her clothes, her favourite colour is blue. Like her eyes. Her hair is cropped short, probably so that she can get the mud out easily. And she grows really lovely flowers. She lives just under the garden, in 8A, which is Ceres, goddess of fertility and mistress of the corn.

‘The roses have been wonderful this year,’ I said as an opening gambit.

‘Ya,’ she said. ‘But the lilac is not so good and so dry, the grass withers. Rain soon, perhaps.’

There didn’t seem to be a polite way to say this so I just came straight out with it.

‘Trudi, several of us have had strange letters lately.’

‘Calling you whore?’ she asked, head on one side like a bird.

‘Among other things, yes,’ I admitted.

She pulled a familiar letter out of her pocket. It was considerably marked with honest toil, but it accused Gertrud Maartens of being an unchaste woman.

‘He is wrong,’ she said. ‘We are not whores. Also this is not my name.’

‘Not at all?’ I asked. This was the first time that Mr Bible Class had made a mistake. Trudi shrugged and stomped an unwary snail.

‘Not for many years. I married once, now not married. My husband went off with his secretary. Now, she was whore. Me, no. You want the letter?’

‘I do seem to be collecting them, yes.’

‘They paint on my pots. Also they steal my insecticide. Tell the cops,’ advised Trudi firmly, deadheading a rose with unusual firmness.

I took the letter back to Daniel and Horatio, put it in my pocket, and ate a pain au chocolat, probably the most luscious sweet bread ever invented. Though I do put in a bid for my date and walnut loaf. Daniel poured me more coffee. I was now as awake as I was going to get. Gusts of rose scent blew over us. Horatio went stalking off into the undergrowth.

‘Tell me,’ I demanded.

He seemed unwilling to begin. He averted his face, allowing me to notice that he had a five o’clock shadow and very well shaped ears. I took his hand.

‘Someone’s killing the drug addicts in Melbourne,’ he said. ‘There are too many for them to be accidents or coincidence. You saw the latest last night.’

‘And the police are investigating,’ I prompted.

‘And they can’t find out what’s going on,’ he said with a flash of anger. ‘Because drugs are illegal, the police and the junkies are at odds. Junkies don’t tell cops anything. Junkies are, in any case, not reliable people. They’ll even leave their lover, their best friend, to die alone rather than stay in a house and have to explain when the ambulance arrives. You saw how they melted away when that death was discovered. Few people take drugs alone. Someone was with that boy when he injected poison into his veins.’

‘And you’ve been asking around,’ I said.

‘I know most of the homeless who stay in the city,’ said Daniel. ‘They aren’t all junkies. In fact not that many are junkies. They are alcoholics or speed heads or they are victims of circumstance. Runaways who think that living on the street will be cool. Runaways who can’t stand their parents anymore. Kids out of foster homes. Abused ones and raped ones and don’t cares who are made to care. Some are actually thrown out. Most exist from mate’s place to mate’s place, never actually sleeping
out, because it’s so dangerous. As long as you have a cup of coffee you can sit in some of the chain restaurants all night.’

I felt that he was getting off the topic. ‘Your point being?’

‘That someone knows something,’ he said, balling his hand into a fist. ‘There aren’t that many dealers on the street and everyone knows who they are. They don’t belong to any one ethnic group, no race has a monopoly on bastardry. The kids talk about the man in the red Porsche who supplies all the drugs; he’s a myth, although some were boasting a week or so ago that they’d stolen his car. There are a lot of fairytales on the street.’

‘Why do you think you can solve this mystery?’

‘Because they all know me, and they all trust me,’ he said. This was patently true. ‘And if we don’t find out and stop it, then more will die. That boy was only seventeen and now he’ll never know what being eighteen feels like. Will you help me?’