Girl in the Dark (18 page)

I parked my car in front of Ray's old house. The curtains were drawn. There was no sign there'd been any activity since the last time I'd been there.

The sun was shining, but the wind was unpleasantly cold. I walked to number 11, Rosita and Anna's house. I thought it would be a good idea to survey the scene of the crime. The front yard was much neater than over at Ray's house. A neatly trimmed evergreen hedge, a climbing rose, pansies. Someone lived here who paid attention to detail.

The flower-festooned nameplate read
Hugo and Phyllis
. I rang. It was an electronic bell but had an old-fashioned ring.

Through the frosted glass I saw a red blur topped with a shock of blond hair approaching.

“Good morning,” a woman I guessed was Phyllis said cheerfully. “What can I do for you?”

“Yes, good morning. I'm sorry to disturb you on such a lovely day, but I'd like to ask you a few questions.”

“Are you one of those market researchers? Because if you are, I . . .”

“No,” I said quickly. “It's about something else.”

“Oh?” asked the woman. “Is it the children, is something wrong?”

“No, not at all. I just want to ask you about something that happened here a long time ago.”

“Because our children are camping in the Dordogne with our grandson, Noah. Only nine months old—just think—a baby in a tent! I don't get it. Still, it could be fun, right?”

I didn't want to get involved in a debate about the dangers of camping with babies, so I said, “It's about the previous inhabitants. Rosita and Anna Angeli.”

Phyllis looked upset.

“I'm sorry to bring this up. But I'm working on a possible appeal, which requires me to talk to some of the neighbors.”

“I don't know.”

I took out a business card. Heavy stock, ornate lettering. It was Lawrence's taste, but it made an impression. Phyllis's eyes scanned the card.

“You might as well come in, then.” She flung the door open all the way for me.

I followed her down the corridor where eight years ago Rosita's and Anna's corpses had been discovered. The floor was oak parquet and the walls were painted an apricot shade probably called something like “Tuscan sunset.” There was no sign of the grisly crime that had taken place here. But what did I expect? That I'd see the CSI team's chalk marks?

Phyllis pointed me to the sofa and dashed into the kitchen for a cup of coffee. I looked around. The living room wasn't very large; situated at the back of the house, it looked out on a lovely garden.

“Well, well, this
is
a coincidence,” said Phyllis, coming in from the kitchen with two wobbly coffee cups and a cookie tin on a pretty serving tray. “Do you know that we received a letter addressed to Rosita just two weeks ago? A very grand envelope. I
said to Hugo, ‘What do you think we're supposed to do with this?' I thought of calling the police.”

She put the cups down on the glass coffee table. Displayed under the glass top were books with titles like
The Birds in Our Garden.

“That
is
a coincidence,” I said.

She walked over to the sideboard in the corner of the room and picked up an envelope. “Here it is.”

“Who's it from? Do you know?”

She handed me the letter.
Burley & Burley
it said in fancy script.
Solicitors.

“Junk mail, probably. I'd just mark it
Return to sender,
if I were you,” I said in a nonchalant way.

“You think?” Phyllis hesitated. I could see she was a woman who was determined to do the right thing. “I'm not sure.”

“May I ask you a few questions?”

“Of course.” She perched on the edge of the armchair.

“When did you move in here?”

“About seven years ago.”

“So you were the first to live here after the murder.”

“That's right. I did find the idea of it a bit creepy at first. But my Hugo said, ‘You can't even tell it ever happened.' ”

“And . . .
were
you able to tell?” A rather awkward question. What was I hoping to get out of this conversation, really, other than a look at the crime scene? Phyllis hadn't known Rosita and Anna, or Ray, either. What was there for her to tell me that I didn't already know from reading the police report?

“The police and the housing co-op had made sure the place was thoroughly cleaned. But you could still see the stains in the concrete. I had a wood floor installed right away.” She leaned over toward me. “The blood's still there, underneath the wood. I try not to think about it.”

“And the walls?”

“They were repainted.”

I took a sip of my coffee. Phyllis hastened to offer me a cookie from the tin. “What about the neighbors? Did anyone ever talk to you about the murder?”

“I don't talk to the man next door. He's . . . different. I find him to be quite unpleasant. Although I have to say he does keep to himself. But you never hear him take a shower. Never seems to bother to air the place out, either.” Phyllis shook her head disapprovingly. “You know who you should talk to? The lady across the street; she knew Rosita pretty well. She seems to think Rosita liked men
a lot.
”

“But she had a steady boyfriend, didn't she?”

“I believe she did. A classy guy in a fancy car. I remember him coming by from time to time after we'd just moved in. He'd park in front and peer inside. Gave me the creeps.”

“Did you report it to the police?”

“Well, he wasn't really doing anything illegal, you know? He was just looking and lurking. But I didn't like it.”

“Are you sure it was Rosita's boyfriend?”

“The lady across the street is sure. She . . . keeps an eye out.”

“But you never talked to him.”

She shook her head. “Hugo did step outside once. But he drove off in a hurry. Oh, you know, it was just when we first moved in. After a while he stopped coming.”

“Could you explain what you mean when you say, ‘She liked men'?”

Phyllis shrugged and took a bite of her cookie. “It's just what I heard, of course. She was a flirt, people say.”

I got to my feet, for want of anything further to ask. I tried not to look too eagerly at the envelope on the sideboard. “I have to go to the post office anyway. Would you like me to mail that letter for you?”

She was hesitant.

“It seems to me you've had enough trouble with all this. I'll take care of it for you, it's the least I can do.”

“Remind me, where are you from?”

“From the law firm.” I said it categorically, leaving her no room to object.

“Oh, right.” She handed the letter over.

“Thanks again for your time.” I put the letter in my handbag. We shook hands. It wasn't until I'd reached my car that I heard the door close.

The lady in number 20 was already posted at the kitchen window, peering outside. One hand on her hip, the other holding a cigarette.

Putting on a friendly but professional face, I walked up to her door.

Before I had a chance to ring the bell, the door swung open. “I was wondering when you'd get to me.” She had a strange, hoarse voice.

“Oh?”

“Yeah. If there's anyone in this street who knows what's going on, it's me.”

“I'm Iris Kastelein.” I put out my hand.

“Geraldine. You'd better come in.” She led the way. We sat down at a little gingham-covered table by the kitchen window. The pungent mix of cigarette smoke and household cleaner made my eyes sting.

“I usually sit right here, except when I'm doing housework. I never sit in the living room, actually. What's there to look at in the backyard? At least here in the front there might be something going on.”

Geraldine's house was right across the street from Rosita's. A stretch of about fifty feet. You didn't even need binoculars to spy on your neighbors.

“So you always know what goes on in this neighborhood?”

“Sure do. I see everything,” she said proudly. “I also know you were here a week ago, with your kid. Little boy? Cute as a button. I could tell you hadn't come to view a house or to read the meter.” She laughed.

“How clever of you to keep tabs on everything.” I hoped I'd be able stick it out a bit longer in this stifling air. “I am representing Mr. Boelens, your former neighbor, as his attorney. I'm trying to learn more about the murder of Rosita and Anna Angeli.”

“I'd gone to the market that morning. Just when something finally happens, there I am buying lettuce for fifty cents a head. So I didn't see it happen. But I
am
the one who called the police. I saw that her door was open and I thought, that isn't right; I walked over to the house and saw her lying there. Her and her kid. What a mess. You've never seen anything like it. I don't think I slept for a month.”

She lit another cigarette. One of those extra-longs. From a black pack featuring a gold Playboy logo. An old man walked by. He lifted a hand to his Humphrey Bogart fedora by way of salute.

“That's old Col. He was Boelens's neighbor on the other side. You could try talking to him, too. Though he's not all there these days. He once told me that Ray could raise a mighty ruckus. He'd start roaring like an animal, he said.”

“Did he do that a lot?”

“Depends. Sometimes. He was doing pretty well for a while. Before he began hanging out with that woman. But as soon as that started fizzling out—heaven help us.”

“You weren't too fond of Rosita, were you?”

She rolled her eyes. “She was a piece of work, that one . . . Mustn't speak ill of the dead, but . . . How do I put it? She had a stick up her ass. Thought she was better than everyone else. But meanwhile she'd gotten herself knocked up by a married man, and she was on welfare. And always making eyes at men and leading them on. It's lucky my old man, Joe, wanted nothing to do with her. ‘Give me a real woman,' he says, ‘not one of those bimbos.' ”

“But do you think Ray killed her?”

“He was crazy enough. Do you know he used to go around pruning the neighbors' hedges in the middle of the night? My husband once bumped into him wielding one of those”—she spread her arms wide—“huge hedge shears. With that crazed look in his eye, the way he'd look at you sometimes, you know. My old man almost had a heart attack. But apart from that he didn't really bother us. He was always at work, wasn't he? He'd set out for the bakery in the middle of the night. Then he'd be home for a couple of hours in the afternoon and you'd see the lights go out around eight o'clock. What kind of life is that? No wonder he went berserk.”

She lit another cigarette. I was starting to get a headache, but I really wanted to hear what else she had to tell me.

“You know that rich prick, the father of that woman's kid? Ray once slashed the guy's tires. I saw the whole thing myself. He just went nuts, he did. Never seen anything like it. The way he went at it, hacking those tires with that knife! And then suddenly it was over. He calmed down and marched back to his house as if nothing was the matter. I said to Joe, I said, ‘Mark my words, that's going to end badly.' And that's exactly what happened. But hey, everyone gets what they ask for, am I right?”

And what you're asking for is lung cancer,
I thought.

She stared out the window. “I'm just sorry about the little girl. She was a dear little thing. She'd wave at me sometimes. But with a mother like that . . .”

“Do you think Ray and Rosita were lovers?”

“Who can say? Look, Ray lived here awhile before she came on the scene. He never saw anyone. Except for his mother. She sometimes came to see him.”

I tried to wrap my head around the idea that my mother had been here, on this street. That she'd led a whole secret life neither my father nor I ever knew about.

“So when that woman moved in and started giving him the come-on, Ray naturally fell for her right away. But did they
do
it? Beats me. Never saw them holding hands or anything. They never spent the night together—at least, not as far as I know . . . I never understood it, the two of them. Never. What an unlikely pair.”

I'd been back in the office for a while when I stumbled upon the forgotten envelope in my handbag. Rummaging for my keys, I saw it wedged between a pack of Wet Wipes and my notebook.

I wasn't expecting a miracle. Probably from an outfit that couldn't be bothered to shell out money for a current mailing list. But the letter did not trumpet
YOU are the LUCKY WINNER of a MILLION EURO if you invest NOW in some teakwood plantation somewhere!

It was a carefully worded letter written in the kind of high-flown legalese favored by British solicitors. What it came down to was: Rosita was the sole heir of a great-uncle in England, recently deceased, and was requested to contact the solicitor's office.

It didn't have to mean anything. The great-uncle was just as
likely to have left his niece nothing but debts as he was to have left her a fortune. I switched on my computer and Googled the great-uncle's name:
Richard Angeli.
No hits.

I glanced at my watch. I had fifteen minutes to get to the day care before it closed. And getting there would take at least ten. Shit. Burley & Burley would have to wait until tomorrow.

Rosita opened the door dressed in sweatpants and a stained sweater. She was pale, with dark circles under her eyes I hadn't noticed before. She'd been looking much more presentable before Anna's father's visit. He could just come over whenever he liked, but as for taking care of her properly—don't hold your breath.

“How did it go with Anna? What did you guys do?”

“How come you let that Victor come in whenever he wants?”

“Ray, please. Not now.” She took off Anna's jacket and hung it on the coatrack. “Hey, sweetie, did you feed the ducks?”

Anna said yes. Now she wanted to go watch TV.

“And you let him come upstairs, too. Why?” I asked when we were in the living room, after Rosita had turned on a cartoon for Anna. “Why? Did you let him touch you? Did he touch your privates? Is that it?”

Rosita lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. “Stop it. Please, Ray. I'm too tired for this. Come, let's have a drink, and we'll order pizza. Pour me a glass of wine, will you?”

But I wasn't going to let her off that easy. “Why? Why do you let him come upstairs?”

“Why do I let
him
come upstairs and not
you,
is that what you mean?”

I didn't say anything; I lost my nerve.

She walked up to me, so close that I took a step back, even though I was a head taller than her. Smoke came blowing into my face. “Is that what you want, Ray? I thought you were different. I thought we were friends.”

I was having trouble breathing.

Squinting, she puffed another cloud of smoke into my face. I didn't like it. “In that case, you'd better come upstairs with me, if that's what you so badly want. Come on. I'll show you my cunt. Because that's what it's called, Ray. ‘Privates' is what little kids say.”

She stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray, grabbed my hand, and dragged me up the stairs. I followed her, not knowing what else I was supposed to do.

Her bedroom was mysterious, the bed hidden under a slick black coverlet. Quite a change from my own bedroom, which was all white, white, white. Nice and bright, said my mother.

“Okay, now lie down.” Rosita pushed me roughly toward the bed. She was strong for a woman her size. I stumbled, lost my balance, and fell backward. I made the mattress bounce.

She pulled off her sweater. She wasn't wearing a bra. Her breasts weren't as round as you'd expect; they were kind of pointy, with big brown nipples. Still, I couldn't keep my eyes off them. I hoped she'd let me touch them. And I hoped she would touch me and take my penis in her mouth, just like on TV.

“Do you think I'm pretty, Ray? Is this what you wanted to see?” She cupped her hands around her boobs and squeezed.

I couldn't speak. My throat was all closed up. Her fingers started rubbing her nipples so that they grew hard.

“And this, Ray? My ‘privates'? Do you want to see them, too?”

I nodded, my head moving like a thick pudding.

She yanked her pants down. They were down around her ankles; she didn't even bother stepping out of them.

I looked at her lovely round hips, which weren't very different from the photo in the living room, and at the narrow line of dark hair starting underneath her tummy and ending between her legs. I saw the two flaps down there with the little knob sticking out in between. I saw everything I'd never seen in real life.

It was as if a huge weight was pressing me down on the bed. It was giving me goose bumps and making my penis throb. I couldn't move. I could only stare.

“What would you like, Ray? Would you like a little show? Do you want to watch me jack off with my vibrator? Do you want me to sit on your face? Just say it.” She sounded angry, angrier than I'd ever heard her.

My throat was thick and my jaw felt uncomfortably clenched.

“Do you want to touch me, Ray? Is that what you want?” She shuffled to the side of the bed, hobbled by the pants at her ankles. “Here, stick out your hand. Go on, touch my cunt. You want to, don't you?” She spread her legs as far apart as the pants let her.

I stretched my arm. My hand was shaking.

“It's just a cunt. Every woman has one. Even your mother has one. How do you think you got here?”

She grabbed my hand and pressed it to her privates. I shut my eyes. It felt warm, and as soft as the inside of a
canelé
. My fingers lay there motionless as I felt, just felt the sensation of the blood throbbing inside her.

“You have no idea how to turn a woman on, do you, Ray?” She laughed a short, hard laugh. “I bet you don't.”

I opened my eyes. I had no idea what she wanted of me.

“Caress me. Start by stroking my cunt, but gently.”

Cautiously I started stroking the flaps, the knob, and the
area around the little hole, which I knew could grow bigger. Big enough so a penis could fit inside. The flesh felt soft, like dolphin skin.

Rosita closed her eyes. “That's nice, Ray. That feels good. Now I want you to stick your finger inside my cunt. Feel how wet I'm getting?”

My hand was shaking again. I found the hole and gently inserted one finger. It was sticky in there, and tight. Rosita gasped. I quickly pulled my finger out. “Did I hurt you?” My voice sounded different. Hoarse, almost whispery.

“No, silly boy. Keep going.”

It was wet inside the hole, Rosita's cunt, and even warmer than on the outside. “Move your finger up and down, and then back to my clit.”

I let my finger slip inside her, up and down over the rough landscape of warm flesh. When I pulled my finger out again, she grabbed my hand and put it where she wanted it to go. “This is the clitoris, Ray. Maybe you remember it from biology class. You have to rub it.”

I started rubbing my finger over the knob. It was easier when my fingers were wet. I heard her breathing heavily and groaning. The ache in my penis grew unbearable.

“Now circle your finger around my clit. Harder. Come on, Ray. Make me come.”

I looked at her face. At the half-closed eyes and the gaping mouth making sounds I'd never heard her make before.

She pressed my hand even harder against her. “Don't stop, Ray. Keep it going.” I went on rubbing the knob back and forth, the way she wanted. Then she gave a scream, squeezing my hand hard against her privates. She thrust her hips violently forward and screamed again.

All sorts of stuff was happening between her legs. I felt muscles contract, and it got even warmer and wetter than before.

Then it was over. She stopped screaming and pushed my hand off. It was quiet for a moment, except for some heavy breathing. Then, clearing her throat, she grunted, “Not bad for a beginner.” She started pulling up her pants again, with me still lying on that bed, my penis about to explode.

She walked around the bed and picked up her sweater, the one with the stains, and pulled it on. “Okay. I'm going downstairs now. You can jerk off if you like. There's Kleenex on the bedside table.”

She turned without another glance at me. I heard her walk downstairs and had no choice but to unzip my pants and relieve myself.