Heathen/Nemesis (9 page)
Authors: Shaun Hutson
Donna accepted the invitation and closed the door behind her, looking briefly around the hall. There was a small antique chest to her left with flowers propped in a vase on its scratched top. A pay-phone on the wall. To the right was the half-open door to the landlord’s own flat, presumably. At least she assumed he was the landlord. Ahead of her was a flight of stairs.
‘I’d just like to check my sister’s flat if that’s all right?’ Donna said, trying to hold the old man’s gaze.
‘I’ll get the key,’ he said, and disappeared into the room on the right. Donna could hear the sound of television coming from inside.
Jesus, this was too easy.
See how easy it is to lie.
He returned a moment later clutching the key and ushered her towards the stairs.
‘Did you see much of my sister?’ she wanted to know as they climbed the stairs slowly, the old man wheezing every few steps.
‘No, she kept herself to herself. Very quiet. A lovely girl.’
‘Did she have many visitors? I was always joking with her about getting a boyfriend.’ Donna laughed as convincingly as she could.
‘There was a young man,’ Mercuriadis said. ‘I saw him with her two or three times.’ He lowered his voice into a conspiratorial whisper. ‘I think he spent the night more than once.’ He smiled.
Donna tried to smile but it came out as a grimace.
‘What did he look like?’ she asked.
‘I can’t really remember. Age plays tricks with memory, you know. My wife always used to say that, God rest her soul.’
Had Chris been here? Had he slept here with her?
They reached the first landing and Donna hesitated.
‘It’s up another flight, I’m afraid,’ he told her. ‘It’s a good job my tenants are younger than I am. It never used to bother me, all this climbing. My wife and I bought this house forty years ago. After she died I decided to let the rooms. I don’t like being in a house this size on my own. There aren’t so many tenants now, though. I’ve had to put the rents up and some moved out. The recession, you know.’ He nodded as if to reinforce his statement.
‘Look, I can check out the room myself,’ Donna told him. ‘There’s no need for you to struggle up the stairs. I’ll return the key to you on my way out.’
‘All right, then. That’s very thoughtful of you,’ he said, looking at her.
Was it her imagination or did she see a look of suspicion in his eyes?
Come on, don’t get paranoid.
‘I’m surprised I don’t remember seeing you before,’ he said, still holding onto the key. ‘I don’t usually forget a pretty face.’
Donna smiled with impressive sincerity.
‘Thank you. I live on the South Coast. I didn’t get to see Suzanne as often as I’d like.’
Lying was easier than she’d thought.
He nodded again and handed her the key.
‘I’ll leave you to it, then,’ he said. ‘But I would just like to offer my condolences once again. I know what you must be going through.’
Do you? Do you really?
She smiled thinly, took the key from him and set off up the second flight of stairs, emerging on the next landing. She looked down to see the landlord making his way back down the stairs. She waited until she heard the door to his room close before turning around.
Only then, faced by four locked doors and with the key in her hand, did she realize that she hadn’t got a clue which of the doors would lead her into Suzanne Regan’s flat.
Eighteen
What the hell was she going to do?
Donna looked at the key, then at each of the doors in turn. They all looked the same.
Only one way to find out.
She crossed to the first door and edged the key into the lock, listening for any sounds from the other side. She didn’t relish the prospect of having to explain herself to both an irate tenant
and
Mr Mercuriadis. She heard nothing and pushed the key as far as it would go into the Yale lock, turning it as gently as possible.
and
Mr Mercuriadis. She heard nothing and pushed the key as far as it would go into the Yale lock, turning it as gently as possible.
It wouldn’t turn.
She withdrew it with equal care, looking behind her at the other doors just in case someone emerged and caught her at her furtive business.
She moved to the next door and pressed her ear close to the white-painted wood.
From inside she heard classical music. Someone was obviously in there.
Donna turned and moved towards the third of the four doors. Once more she pushed the key slowly into the lock and tried to turn it.
Again it wouldn’t move.
She allowed herself a thin smile as she realized, by process of elimination, that the door she wanted was the last one. Donna pulled the key.
It wouldn’t budge; remained stuck fast in the lock.
She swallowed hard and gripped it more firmly but still the recalcitrant object stayed where it was, held by the grooves and threads of the lock.
She had to free it.
There was movement on the other side of the door.
Oh Jesus, what if the tenant was coming out?
Donna pulled at the key again frantically but still it remained firmly wedged.
The movement behind the door ceased and she stood still for a moment, listening.
Across the landing she could still hear the classical music.
She waited a second longer then tried again, working the key back and forth this time, feeling it give a little.
And a little more.
She pulled hard and the key came free with a metallic rasping sound.
Immediately she heard footsteps coming towards the door from the other side.
She had to get inside Suzanne Regan’s flat as quickly as possible. Donna took the three paces across to the other door, slid the key in and turned it.
The door of the flat next to her was beginning to open.
Hurry.
She pushed the door open, slipped inside and closed it. She leaned her back against it, trying to control her breathing as she heard footsteps on the landing. In the darkness of the flat she listened to them move towards the top of the stairs, the top step creaking protestingly.
For interminable seconds she stood in the blackness, awaiting the knock and the confrontation. Her mind was racing, her thoughts tumbling in different directions. She closed her fists tightly.
Closed one around the key.
The key.
As she stood in the darkness she realized that it was still stuck in the door, protruding from the lock.
Nineteen
On the landing the footsteps thudded back and forth, were still for a second then receded.
Donna listened to the silence. Like a spring uncoiling she slowly turned the handle, shot her hand out and plucked the key from the lock, pushing the door shut again.
She let out a breath explosively in relief.
She stood there in the gloom, waiting until she had stopped shaking. Then she slipped the key into the pocket of her coat, ran a hand through her hair and turned, feeling for the light switch. Her hand brushed against it and she flicked it on. A sixty watt bulb flickered into life, illuminating the flat.
She was standing in the entry-way. Coat hooks had been attached to the wall to her right. Two short jackets and a longer wool coat hung there. There was a phone on a table close by.
Donna moved into the sitting-room proper and noticed how small it was. There was a sofa and one easy chair, a table and four chairs in one corner. These stood on a beige coloured carpet. On the other side of the room was an oven and hob and several fitted cupboards. A small fridge stood alongside.
There was a stereo, a small TV set, dozens of records, tapes and compact discs on a DIY unit with one screw missing at the top. A video recorder, surrounded by a number of tapes, lay at the bottom of the unit. The automatic clock on the machine was flashing constantly. Four green zeros flickering in the dull light.
The cooker was clean. There were no dirty dishes in the sink, no pots and pans on the hob. Everything seemed to be in its place.
A framed picture of a muscular man dressed only in a baseball cap and a thong stared down at her from one wall. Donna glanced at it for a moment, then wandered back towards the main door. There had been two others.
She opened the first and found herself in a tiny bathroom. Pulling the cord, she looked around at the contents. A bath which seemed to fill most of the room, a toilet and a sink. There was a cabinet on the wall and for a second Donna caught her own reflection in the mirrored doors. Clean washing was piled up at one end of the bath: blouses, T-shirts, skirts. A predominance of blues, she noted.
Donna opened the cabinet and peered at the contents. Some anti-perspirant, a Mudd Mask Facial Cleanser, nail varnish remover, some Lil-lets and two packets of contraceptive pills.
She moved to the next door and opened it, stepping into the bedroom.
This, too, was small; there was barely room to manoeuvre around the bed. Wardrobes and bookshelves covered three walls. On one of the bookshelves there was also make-up, perfume. Donna sniffed it, inspecting the bottle. It was Calvin Klein. Good perfume, expensive.
Had he bought it for her?
She opened the wardrobe closest to her and regarded the hanging clothes in there impassively. There was a lot of silk and suede.
How much of that had Chris paid for?
Shoes, boots, trainers.
She pulled open drawers and found underwear, more blouses.
The envelope was in the bottom drawer.
A brown manilla A4 envelope.
Donna sat on the edge of the bed and upended it, the contents spilling out onto the duvet. She rummaged through the pieces of paper, inspecting each one. There was a motley assortment. Bills, some paid, some unpaid. Bank statements, business cards, a couple of old birthday cards. She opened them to check the sender’s name. Neither had been sent by her dead husband. A party invitation, a free pass to a London nightclub.
She found the first of the photos sandwiched between a Medical card and a bank statement.
It showed Chris and Suzanne together.
Pale. Unsmiling.
Donna swallowed hard and looked at another.
It was of Chris dressed in a leather jacket and jeans. He was smiling, leaning against a tree. The land behind him looked barren: only fields and hills.
Where the hell was that?
There was another of Chris, alone again, hands tucked in the pockets of his jacket.
Donna felt that all too familiar feeling building inside her, that combination of rage and sadness.
Then she found the last two pictures.
‘Jesus,’ she murmured, her breathing deepening as she studied them. For long moments she sat looking at the pictures then, as quickly as she could, she gathered the spilled contents of the envelope together and replaced them, shoving the manilla container itself back into the drawer.
The photos she tucked into her jacket.
She moved quickly through the flat, switching off lights as she went, heading for the main door, concerned to make sure she had left everything as she’d found it.
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