The Water Room (6 page)

She sat in the kitchen and waited. The house was extraordinarily quiet. Walking to the window, she saw that the street was deserted but for a man and a woman from the funeral parlour, standing rigid and dormant beside the car, dressed in neat black suits and ribboned top hats, like a pair of chess-pieces. Having witnessed a thousand moments of sadness, their studied melancholia, so at odds with the urban world, appeared unfashionably graceful.

It was so very calm and still. Even the dingy clouds above the rooftops appeared to have stopped moving. They were, what, less than three miles from Piccadilly Circus? She could see the Telecom Tower through rain-spackled glass, although the top was hidden within low cloud. You forgot that there were still postwar pockets like this. Dark little houses. Cool still rooms. Ticking clocks. Settling dust. Polished wood. Time stretched back to the boredom of childhood. The houses were charming but slightly bothersome, as though they were waiting to dust down some half-buried memory and expose it to the light. Something here was comforting, yet best forgotten, a temporal paradox only serving to prove that you couldn’t go back.

Kallie let the curtain fall. The front door opened and quickly closed. Heather came in with a smug smile on her face.

‘If you don’t ask, you don’t get.’ She grabbed Kallie’s arm. ‘His name’s Ben Singh. Sounds like a character from
Treasure Island,
doesn’t it? But he’s her only surviving relative and he’s going to let the place go. He’s not doing it up to make money—he wants a very fast sale, even if it means going below the market price.’ She gave a muted scream of excitement. ‘I’m sure you could get in there, Kallie. The house could be yours. You’d finally have independence. You’d have somewhere you could call home.’

Kallie thought of the dark windows and doors behind which a woman had died, and smiled back uncertainly.

6

TAKING THE PLUNGE

‘I don’t understand how you got my mobile number.’

Paul Farrow set his beer back on the bar and studied the two men perched on stools before him. They had announced themselves as Garrett and Moss, sounding like an old music-hall act, but were involved in property. They represented a matched pair, a modern-day version of Victorian Toby jugs, with their grey suits, sclerotic cheeks and thinning fair hair, pink ties knotted loosely, stomachs forcing gaps between the buttons of identical blue-striped shirts. The heavier jug, Garrett, wore rings made from gold coins. As a plea for credibility, the look was singularly unsuccessful. Paul wore torn Diesel jeans and a black sweater, the regalia of the media man, regarded with disdain by men in cufflinks. They were doomed to be enemies before anyone had opened their mouth.

‘I’ve been in touch with Mr Singh on a number of previous occasions,’ said Garrett. ‘Obviously, properties like the house belonging to Mr Singh’s sister are highly prized in this area because of their proximity to the new King’s Cross rail link. We have a lot of European interest.’

‘So Mr Singh came to you for a sale.’ Paul fingered the beaded sandalwood strap on his wrist as he studied the two men, taking a fantastic dislike to them.

‘Not exactly.’ Garrett fidgeted atop his stool while he sought a way to shift the facts into a better light. ‘I’ve been trying to impress on him the importance of achieving the maximum financial benefit from his inheritance, and heard you were in touch—’

‘Bit aggressive, these selling tactics, aren’t they?’

‘Pro-activity in the marketplace, pal.’

Paul sipped his free pint, knowing that he was about to discover its price. ‘He doesn’t want to sell to you, does he?’

Moss stepped in. He appeared to be sweating, even though the bar of the Pineapple pub on Leverton Street was cold. Theresa, the barmaid, was keeping a watchful eye on them; spotting fights before they happened was a talent that came with her job.

‘Listen, sonny, we’re in the middle of delicate negotiations with Mr Singh and the last thing any of us needs is you coming along and upsetting them.’

‘Sorry, I missed what it is you do,’ said Paul sharply, waving his forefinger between them. ‘You’re not part of this guy’s agency but you’re working with him—how does that operate?’

‘I’m the property developer.’ Moss had meant this as a declaration of pride; he might have announced that he was a child molester. ‘Mr Singh stands to make a lot of money by selling at the right time to the right person.’

‘Which you think is you. And you plan to divide his sister’s property into how many flats?’

‘We haven’t decided yet. They’ll be for executives, you know—beech floors, slate kitchen counters, dormer windows. King’s Cross in ten minutes, Europe in a couple of hours. Camden Council is buying up everything it can get its hands on. It’s a gold rush. There’s big money to be made.’

‘But Mr Singh doesn’t want to sell to you. Am I missing something?’

Garrett realigned his matches on top of his cigarette box, next to his pint. ‘He’ll sell. He’s going to Australia.’

‘What’s that got to do with it?’

‘His oldest girl lives in Brisbane. He wants to be with her family because they’re expecting twins any day now, so he has to make a fast sale.’

‘So what’s the problem?’

‘He’ll suffer a substantial loss by letting the house go in its present state.’

The conversation was starting to bore Paul. He watched a shoal of curled oak leaves tumbling past the pub window, battered by rain and wind. Somewhere the air was warm and scented with the sea, but not in this hemisphere. ‘I think I’m beginning to understand. The market’s stagnant at the moment and the King’s Cross interchange won’t be finished for years, but if you buy the property now, you can get your pal here to carve it up, chuck in recessed lighting and en-suite bathrooms, and be ready to make a killing when executives flood in from Europe.’

‘We’ll hardly make a killing on one property, Mr Farrow. It’s a toe in the water until we’re ready to take on larger conversions in the surrounding area. But we’re keen to see whether it will work. Number
5
Balaklava can become a template for other properties in the neighbourhood.’

‘Listen, the question is academic, because the Singh guy has already agreed to sell to my girlfriend. He likes her.’

‘But there’s nothing in writing between you,’ smiled Garrett. ‘I think the game is still open. I would be in a position to compensate you for the inconvenience of switching your attention to another property—’

‘From your own books, the asking price of which you’d mark up by the size of your bribe.’

Garrett removed a white envelope from his briefcase and placed it on the bar between them. ‘Listen, lad, we’re businessmen, not comedy gangsters, and this is just a reimbursement cheque, standard business practice, something you probably don’t understand. Think of it as payment for having done our groundwork.’

‘I haven’t done anything.’

‘Your girlfriend spoke with Mr Singh and talked up the idea of selling. She’s paved the way. So in effect, you’ve been freelancing for us, and we’d like to repay you for your efforts. All you have to do is let us put the property in our name.’

‘You guys are amazing.’ Paul shook his head in wonder. ‘Take a look around you.’ He ran his hand over the polished counter. ‘How old would you say this pub is?’

Garrett looked at Moss, puzzled. ‘I don’t know. The fittings are original, maybe 1870?’

‘A couple of years ago, a property company tried to tear the pub down and turn it into offices. The street’s residents put up a fight until the council was forced to list the bar, and the company backed off. Now it’s the most popular local in these parts. They’re on to people like you around here. I’m surprised you got through the door without setting off the Scumbag Alarm.’

‘You won’t be able to go to the council on this one, Mr Farrow.’ Garrett’s smile faded as he took back the envelope. ‘Balaklava Street has nothing worth listing, the place is filthy and the floors are rotten. You’ll need new electrics, new plumbing, a new roof, damp courses. It’ll cost you a fortune to do up. It’s only good for pulling down and starting again, and you’ll never get the planning permission without throwing a lot of cash at Camden. You just missed the gravy train.’

‘Then why are you looking so miserable about it?’ Paul rose to leave. He needed some fresh air, but for now the streets of north London would have to do. ‘Thanks for the drink.’

‘River water,’ said Oswald Finch testily. ‘Which word don’t you understand?’

‘She was sitting in a chair, not fished out of the Thames,’ replied Bryant. ‘How can it be river water?’

‘Do you know what the most popular murder weapon is in Britain? A screwdriver. Have you
ever
brought me a screwdriver victim? No, I get human sacrifices, torsos in bin-bags and curare poisonings. Just once you could bring me an open-and-shut job. A nice simple confession on the statement—
He came toward me so I hit him.
Common assault not good enough for you?’

Bryant looked around at the depressing green walls of the Bayham Street Mortuary. The fierce overhead strip-lighting buzzed like the faint memory of a head injury. The police building had been converted from a Victorian school, and had so far defied all attempts at modernization. Rumbling steel extractor ducts had been set into the ceiling to alleviate the emetic smell of chemicals, but it still looked like a place where Death would choose to sit and read a paper. Finch’s countenance, peering over a plastic sheet at him like a doleful hatchet, added an extra layer of gloom to the proceedings.

‘Which river did it come from?’ asked Bryant. ‘When will the sample be back?’

‘It’s already back. Your lad Kershaw brought it over a few minutes ago. I rather like him. He seems to know what he’s doing, which makes a pleasant change in your place.’

‘That’s odd, you never like anyone. Have you noticed how fruit gums don’t have any taste since they stopped putting artificial flavours in them?’ Bryant proffered the tube. ‘I shouldn’t eat them, they stick to my plate. I don’t see the old lady anywhere.’

‘I’ve put Mrs Singh away. She’s to be spared the indignity of any further exposure in this room. Look at the lights they’ve put in, it’s like McDonald’s.’

‘Smells like it as well. Have you been cooking meat?’

‘I caught my assistant eating a doner kebab in here last night. I warned him that his dietary habits could legally invalidate us. This is supposed to be a sterile zone, although I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve found your cough drops in a body bag. My toxicology database makes no provision for boiled sweets. Ah, here’s your Mr Kershaw now.’

Bryant was amazed. Oswald Finch was clearly taken with the new recruit. Perhaps he knew about Kershaw’s powerful political connections, although at his advanced age he couldn’t be hoping for promotion. Kershaw was wide-eyed, bespectacled, blond and unironed, with a cowlick of gravity-defying hair, as tall and thin as a sparkler, a later edition of Finch. He tapped at a plastic-coated analysis data-sheet and grinned, reminding Bryant of himself in his early twenties. ‘Well, it’s not actually a poison,’ he told them, ‘but there’s enough muck in it to have given her a nasty stomach ache, if it had managed to travel that far. Traces of mercury and lead, various harmful nitrates and plenty of interesting bacteria, the kind of cryptosporidia that lurks about in dead water, only prevented from proliferation by low temperatures. I think we’ve got ourselves some Monster Soup.’ He slipped the page to Finch, who read the bar graphs.

‘What do you mean?’ Finch asked over the top of his glasses.

Bryant smiled knowingly. ‘I think Mr Kershaw is referring to the title of a famous satirical print published in 1828, dedicated to the London water companies. It shows a horrified woman dropping her tea as she examines a drop of London water and finds it full of disgusting creatures. People drank from the Thames, which was incredibly polluted by faeces and rotting animal carcasses.’

‘Just so,’ Kershaw agreed, nodding vigorously.

‘You’re saying this is Thames water?’ asked Finch.

‘Exactly.’ Bryant found himself concurring with the new boy.

‘The kind of bacteria you find in dead water?’

‘That’s right.’

‘But the Thames isn’t dead. Far from it.’

‘Sorry, perhaps I didn’t make myself clear. It’s Thames water, all right, but extremely stagnated.’

‘Does it taste bad?’

‘Really,’ Finch complained, ‘how would he know a thing like that?’

‘Oh, absolutely vile,’ said Kershaw, happy to answer the question. He turned to Finch. ‘Naturally I did a taste test to see if she could possibly have ingested it by mistake, but I think it’s highly unlikely.’ He shoved his glasses back up his nose. ‘I checked with Mr Banbury about the contents of her kettle—I had an odd thought she might somehow have filled it from an unclean source, but no, pure London ring-main water from her kitchen tap, fewer trace elements than many bottled designer waters.’

‘Then I can’t imagine what it was doing in her mouth.’ Bryant offered Kershaw a fruit gum.

‘That’s your job to find out, isn’t it?’ snapped Finch, annoyed by the shifting loyalties around him. ‘Meanwhile, I can tell you we’re heading for an open verdict.’

‘Why, what’s the cause of death?’

‘Heart stopped beating.’

‘Yes, I know that—’ Bryant began.

‘No, I mean it just stopped beating. No reason.’

‘There has to be a reason.’

‘No, there doesn’t,’ Finch replied stubbornly. ‘Sudden death can happen to anyone at any time, although one is more vulnerable at particular ages, especially in infancy and dotage.’ The pathologist narrowed his eyes at Bryant. ‘So you’d better watch out.’

‘She was in some kind of stressful situation,’ said Bryant, chewing ruminatively. ‘She must have been, with the water in her mouth. It would be easy for us to make the biggest mistake of all.’

‘What’s that?’ asked Kershaw.

‘Insist on a logical explanation.’ Bryant jammed his shapeless hat back over his ears. ‘She might simply have lost her wits. We only have hearsay on her mental health. The Royal Free appears to have mislaid her hospital notes.’