Thirteen Steps Down (22 page)

stalker--that's very serious. You'll have to tell the police."

"I can't keep telling them. He's not the first one, you see. Perhaps he'll

give up now. I always hope they will. But what are you doing here?"

"I might say the same for you. I'm a banker." He pointed to a Georgian

edifice with a brass plate that said Laski Brothers,International Bankers

since 1782. "I work there."

"Do you?" Nerissa had a very narrow idea of what a banker did. "D'you

mean that if I went in there and asked them to cash a check you'd be

behind a glass thing and you'd give me a bunch of notes?"

He laughed. "It's not quite like that. I've come out for my lunch. I don't

suppose you--?"

"I'm lunching with my agent," she said. "I've absolutely got to." She

looked at him with yearning love, thinking of Madam Shoshana's

prediction. "I wish I didn't but I must. "

"I'll say good-bye then." Perhaps it was her imagination butshe had

never seen him look quite like that before, interestedin her, curious

about her. "You know," he said, "you're quite different from the—the--er,

misconception I had of you," andhe was gone.

She went into the restaurant where she could already seeher agent

waiting at a table. What did he mean by "misconception"? That he'd

thought she was awful and had found out she wasn't? Or, more likely, in

spite of that look that might have been mere sympathy, that he'd thought

she was nice but now he knew she was horrid? Still, he'd been on the

point of asking her out to lunch ...

The urgent message summoned Mix to the head office. His departmental

manager, Mr. Fleisch, had a few things to say tohim. A call had come

from Mrs. Plymdale, no longer soft ande asy-going, to complain that the

new belt he had installed on her treadmill had come adrift and though he

had promised to repair it at eleven, he hadn't turned up. She had to use

her treadmill every day or she would get out of the rhythm. She really

needed to exercise. Both her parents had died of heart disease and she

was frantic with worry. Not only that but Mr.Fleisch had heard from Ed

West that Mix had failed to maketwo essential calls on his behalf that Ed

was prevented frommaking by illness.

"I've been going through a bad patch," Mix said without further

explanation.

"What kind of a bad patch?"

"I've not been well. I've been depressed."

"I see. I'll make a booking for you with the company's doctor."

Mix would have liked to refuse this offer but he didn't know how.

Matters would only be made worse by his failure to see the doctor, a dour

elderly man, unpopular with the staff. Mix went home. It had been a bad

day. All the time he was following Nerissa he had been planning what he

would say to herwhen, having gained on her according to plan, she

turnedaround and saw him. Remind her of last Thursday would be the

first thing, then maybe put in a word about how sorry hewas if he'd

offended her mother. Would she show him therewere no hard feelings by

coming and having a coffee with him? She had been so sweet and

gracious that previous time that hethought she would, she couldn't really

refuse in the circumstances.And then that man had appeared, a young

goodlooking man who appeared to be a friend of hers. Just his luck.

But he wouldn't let it put him off.

A message on his mobile summoned him to call on Colette Gilbert-Bamber the minute he finished work. It wouldn't be for something wrong

with the equipment but what Mix called "a bit of the other." He'd still get

forty pounds for the call-out ... If he was so attractive to Colette, surely

he should be to Nerissa? But he wouldn't go. It had been a bad day and

he didn't fancy it.

It was oppressively hot again and the house would be hot and stuffy.

How it could be so dark when the sun was shining brilliantly he didn't

really know. Didn't she ever draw the curtains back? Did she never open

a window? He stood for a moment where Nerissa had stood last week and

spoken to him so sweetly-and her mother so nastily. But he wouldn't

think of that. And he wouldn't hold his arms folded like that across his

body so that he could feel the roll of flesh round his waist that sagged

over the belt of his trousers. Walk, he said to himself, get into a walking

routine tomorrow and do it every day.

The place might have been uninhabited for years, he thought, as he

started up the stairs. Would it do any good if he complained to old

Chawcer about the lighting system, the way the low wattage lamps went

out before he reached the next switch? Probably not. People like her

thrived on darkness. It was ridiculous, anyway, having to put lights on in

summer in the afternoon.

No cat's eyes glowed from the tiled staircase and, thank God, there was

no sign of Reggie. It was all in my mind, he thought, I was right about

going through a bad patch, I must have begun to see things that weren't

there. Whatever Shoshana said, ghosts were always hallucinations, the

result of stress or pressure. The Isabella lights, dull red and green and

purple, lay as still as if they were painted on the floor, but bright golden

sunshine streamed out of his hallway when he opened the doorto his flat.

Perhaps, before he went in, he ought to go next door to the room where

Danila was. He really ought to check on her everyday until--well, until

what? He got used to her being there? He'd moved her out and on to

somewhere else? Leaving his own door wide open for the sake of the

cheerful glow of light, he opened the bedroom door next to it.

The same sunshine was in here, or would have been if the window had

ever been cleaned. But he didn't think about that once he had smelled

the smell. It forced him to take a step backward. And now he knew what

it was. For weeks th eweather had been almost unnaturally hot,

yesterday had been unbelievably warm, and this smell was the result. He

couldn't understand it; the body was wrapped and nailed down

underfloorboards. He braced himself to go in, closed the door behind

him, no longer thinking of ghosts. This was real; that had been all in his

mind. He had never smelled anything like it and, standing there, taking

in a long inhalation, he shuddered. Why had he come in here this

afternoon when he already felt so bad?

Would it go away? Eventually, perhaps. He found he had no idea

whether decay continued for weeks, months, even years,or if it faded at

last. Old Chawcer might come in here at anytime. He couldn't risk it.

He'd have to go to work and while he was out of the house he'd never

have a quiet moment.

At present there was no point in staying here. After smelling that smell

he felt he would never eat again. Those bodies in Reggie's house,

especially the two he put in the recess in the kitchen wall, they must

have smelled. Perhaps not, for it was December and cold and Reggie had

been caught and arrested soon after he put them there. Mix stood at the

top of the stairsand listened. Utter silence. He peered down the stairwell

and began to move down. He was on the bottom step of the tiled flight

when her bedroom door opened and she came out in a red silk dressinggown and feathered mules. He was about to retreat but she spotted him.

"Is anything the matter, Mr. Cellini?"

"Everything's fine," he said.

She sniffed. "I wish I could say the same. I believe I have the,influenza."

Mix had once before in his whole life heard flu called that. His grandma

had had a joke about it: "I opened the windowand in flew Enza."

"Hard luck." If she was ill she wouldn't be able to go intothat room. If

only she could be very ill and for a long time! "You ought to be in bed," he

said.

"I need the bathroom. May I trouble you to do me a great favor and

telephone my friend Mrs. Fordyce--you met heroutside my house last

Thursday--and tell her of my--myplight? The number is in the directory

by the phone. Fordyce. Can you remember that?"

"I'll try," said Mix, putting a wealth of sarcasm into his tone. It passed

unnoticed. He went downstairs, thinking it was typicalof her to get the

flu on what was probably the hottest day ofthe year. He could barely see

to find the Fordyce woman'snumber. Suppose she recognized his voice

from Thursday? Heput on an upper-class intonation. "Miss Chawcer has

a virus. She's very unwell. It would be an enormous help if you'd come to

see her tomorrow and maybe her doctor would call, if you know who that

is."

"That's Mr. Cellini, isn't it? Of course I'll come. First thing in the

morning."

In which case, he'd better be out of there before she appeared, but

without him she wouldn't be able to get in. Well, old Chawcer would just

have to get up and answer the door .He wandered about and saw she'd

left the back door unlocked. He locked and bolted it. That would be a fine

carry-on, in a rough area like this, any amount of lowlife coming in and

helping themselves to whatever they fancied. He was in enough trouble

without that.

He had never been in this huge living room before. Drawing room, she

called it. He couldn't understand why unless it was because people used

to draw pictures in it before the days of television and radio. The dust

and the musty smell made him wrinkle his nose, but as smells went,

compared to the stench upstairs it was nothing, nothing. Light shouldn't

have been needed at this hour but it was always dusk in this house.The

main light switch didn't work. He went about turning on table lamps, the

last one on the desk beside several half-finished letters.

Who the hell was she writing to in this crazy way? One started, "Dear

Dr. Reeves," another, "My dear Doctor," athird, "Dear Stephen," and the

last, "My dear Stephen." A lotof muddled stuff followed, all hard to read

in her looped spideryhand, but the finest copperplate would be difficult

in this twilight. Then a name caught his eye: Rillington Place. "I know

you saw me in Rillington Place one day in the summer avery long time

ago. You were driving past, on your way to acall, I expect. On the

following day I came to your surgery forthe first time. As I am sure you

recall, I and my parents had been patients of Dr. Odess. I found out,

when the trial of Christie took place, that he had been that dreadful

man's medical attendant. Not that this, of course, had anything to do

with our leaving him to come to ... "

A few more words were heavily scored through. She hadwritten no

more. This proved she had been to Reggie for anabortion, Mix thought.

Maybe she was writing to this doctorabout it because he was going to do

the job but Reggie wouldbe cheaper. Reggie frightened her, so she found

someone else to do the termination and this doctor was offended because

he didn't get the money he'd expected. That must be it. He'd taken

Chawcer off his list as a result and refused to treat her anymore. Now,

after all these years, she was writing to explain.

The room wasn't simply dark as a place is before the lights go on. The

lights were on, table lamps with cracked parchment or pleated silk

shades, much frayed, but the effect of them was less to illuminate than

to make shadows. Not one was in an alcove or beside a wall, so that the

corners were in deep darkness. And it was so hot that the sweat began to

stream from hisface and trickle down his back. Mix thought it the most

dreadful room he had ever been in. With that carved dragon snaking

across the top of the vast sofa and that blotchy mirror in a blackand gilt

frame, it could be the setting for a horror film. She could make a bit of

money like that, tell movie people about it and get a fat fee. They

wouldn't have to change a thing.

Switching off the lamps was a creepy task. Darkness yawned behind

him and after the last one was off he went to the French window and

pulled back the long brown velvet curtains with violent jerks. Dust was

shed in great clouds, making him cough. But light came in, plenty of

light to dispel the worst of the horror. If downstairs had been nasty,

holding God knew what secret things and hidden threats, upstairs

loomed forbiddingly, with Reggie perhaps waiting for him and the body

invisibly but surely decaying. It was almost as though it had a new life of

its own, almost as if it were moving as it changed. Don't think of that, he

muttered to himself. Forget what Shoshana said, it was all in your head.

He passed Chawcer's door. There was no sign of the cat and, of course,

none of Reggie. As he'd used to do but hadn'tdone for a week now, he

closed his eyes when halfway up the tiled flight, opening them at the top

and looking down one passage after another cautiously and fearfully.

Nothing there, not even Otto. Inside his own living room, sitting in a

comfortablechair, a large gin and tonic at his elbow, he told himself

allwas well, he was lucky, he'd been reprieved for a while. She'd be too ill

to go up there again and he must use that time, perhaps a week,

somehow to remove the body from that room.

Was there a way of getting it into the garden? Not if that Fordyce