The Child (Kate Waters #2)(59)

There was a crackle and an angry voice barked: “Stop ringing my bell. Who the hell are you?”

“Mr. Soames? I’m from the Daily Post. I wondered if I could have a word.”

“The Daily Post? What do you want?”

“I’m doing a piece on the discovery of Alice Irving’s body in Woolwich. In Howard Street, Mr. Soames, and I need your help. You used to be the main property owner in the area and the locals say you are the man I need to talk to. The fount of all knowledge, they say.”

“Flatter, flatter, and flatter again,” an old news editor used to say. “Gets you through the door every time.”

“Oh. Come up then,” the voice said and buzzed them in. Kate went first.

“And we’re in,” she said cheerfully.

The door to Soames’s second-floor flat was open and he stood just inside, waiting. He was a shambling figure, with day-old bristles and dressed in a jumper and pajama bottoms, the frayed cord holding them up dangling limply.

“I hope we didn’t get you out of bed,” Kate said. Soames eyed her suspiciously.

“Bit of a slow starter these days,” he said and led them into his sitting room. It looked like a burglary had taken place. A table was overturned, a spilled bowl of Rice Krispies had pebble-dashed the carpet, and a landslide of books and stray pieces of paper littered the floor.

“Excuse the mess. Had a bit of an accident this morning,” the old man said, waving his hand over the disaster zone.

Kate stooped to pick up the bowl and table. “There you go,” she said. “Did you hurt yourself?”

Soames looked pleased at the attention. “No, no. Just a bit clumsy when I first get up. It’s my age.”

“Shall I make you a cup of tea?” Kate asked and smiled at him. He had lonely old man written all over him. A bit of a gift for her. Lonely people loved to talk.

“How lovely,” he said. “What was your name again?”

“Kate, Kate Waters, Mr. Soames.”

“Call me Al,” he said and grinned roguishly. Kate’s stomach turned. Be nice, she told herself.

“This is Joe Jackson, my colleague,” she said. Joe was standing behind her, apparently afraid to move in case he set off another avalanche of detritus in the flat.

“Pleased to meet you, Joe,” Soames said, extending his hand. They shook and Joe balanced himself on the arm of an overstuffed armchair.

“Goodness, you’ve got a lot of stuff in here,” Joe said.

“Souvenirs of a life well lived. And a lot of rubbish,” Soames said, standing by a mantelpiece studded with dusty ornaments and ancient stiffies—gilt-edged invitations—to parties long over. Kate noticed that his pajama bottoms were coming adrift and hoped they’d stay up.

“Why don’t we sit down, Al?” she said sweetly, mouthing to Joe to put the kettle on.

“Yes, of course. Where would you like to sit, my dear?” He was now clutching his pajamas to stop them from falling down, and she looked round desperately. Every seat was taken, but she moved a stack of magazines from a dining chair and brought it close to the old man’s armchair. He hovered at her elbow as she arranged things, patting her shoulder as she sat and then taking his own seat. Always the gentleman, she thought.

“Now then. You want to talk about my properties in Howard Street,” he said and settled back to give them the benefit of his experience.

“Yes, particularly in the eighties, Al,” Kate said.

“I had five houses in that street, if I remember. Dozens of others elsewhere. Quite an empire,” he said.

“Really? That’s amazing,” Kate said, egging him on. “So, you must have had hundreds of tenants.”

“Of course.”

Soames grinned. The rogue emerging again. “Turned them into bedsits. Lots of lovely young girls, I remember.”

“I bet,” Kate said and Soames winked at her. A quick wink. But it spoke volumes. She felt sick.

A rattling of china heralded the return of Joe, carrying a tray of cups and saucers. Everything had a patina of grease on it and Kate tried to drink without her lips touching the rim of the cup.

She had been in worse homes. There was one where she had to step over dog mess in the hall, and a house where a mother served her child’s tea, a fried egg, from the frying pan straight onto the arm of the sofa. Other people’s lives, she told herself.

She put the sticky cup on the floor. “I’ll wait until it cools down,” she said.

“Have you kept lists of your tenants in Howard Street, Mr. Soames, er, Al?” she asked. “Would be great to see who was living there at the time Alice was buried. And I’d love to hear more about you in those days. Your memories, I mean.”

Soames went pink with pleasure. “Well, if you really want to, my dear.”

“Have you got any photographs of you from those days? It would be great to see them.”

“Oh yes. I kept everything,” he said.

? ? ?

Kate had sent Joe out to get some sandwiches while she carried on charming the old man. It was getting towards one o’clock and she’d offered to get Soames some lunch, but there was nothing in the fridge apart from a pork pie with a fuzz of mold blurring its outline and a half-empty bottle of gin.

“Haven’t managed to get to the shops yet,” Soames had said and she wondered when he had last been out of the flat.