The Child (Kate Waters #2)(60)

“Don’t you have any help here, Al?” she asked.

“The girl in the flat downstairs sometimes pops by to see if I’m still alive,” he said gloomily. “Lovely girl. Beautiful long hair and a darling figure.”

“Right,” Kate said. “I meant a cleaner or someone to do the shopping.”

“No. I don’t need anyone to do that. I’m fine. Been on my own for years. Since my wife buggered off, really.”

“It must be lonely, though,” she said. “Do you have a family, Al?”

“Yes, two children. Girl and boy. But they are off doing their own thing. Got their own sprogs now. They don’t want to bother with an old fart like me. I prefer to be independent, anyway,” he said. He looked a bit teary, Kate thought, and patted his hand automatically.

He grasped her fingers as she moved her hand away and held on tight, surprising her with the strength of his grip. “You’ve got lovely eyes,” he said.

“So have you, Al. Now shall we look at those photos?”

“They’re in my bedroom,” he said softly. “Bet you go into strange men’s bedrooms all the time.”

“No, not really,” she said, easing her foot off the flirtation pedal and praying that Joe would come back soon. She was pretty sure she could fight off a man of Al’s age if it came to it, but she didn’t fancy the skirmish.

“You stay there, Al. I’ll get them,” Kate said firmly.

He told her there was an album and a carrier bag of loose pictures on top of his wardrobe so she took the dining chair to stand on.

The bedroom curtains were still drawn so she yanked them open to let some light into the room. The pale sunlight filtering through the dusty panes revealed a scene of Dickensian squalor. The sheets on the bed were gray and stained and there appeared to be a chamber pot under the bed. She tried not to breathe through her nose as she clambered up on the chair to peer into the dark space above the wardrobe. Al’s voice suddenly came from far too close to her.

“Have you found them?” he said. “I’ve got a lovely view from here . . .”

Kate looked down, silently cursing the fact that she’d worn a skirt, and saw him propped in the doorway, ogling her legs. Bloody hell, he must be desperate, looking at fifty-year-old knees, she thought.

“Think these must be them,” she said quickly.

“Let me help you down,” he said and moved towards her, but Kate stepped smartly off the chair, keeping it between her and the eager Soames.

“No, all sorted,” she said. “Here, you carry this and I’ll bring the rest so we can go and look at them in the other room. There’s better light in there.”

Al Soames turned, disappointed, and shambled back to his seat. Kate quickly got back on the chair and felt around for anything she might have missed. Her hand brushed something papery and she pulled it out. It was an old manila envelope that had become wedged between the wardrobe and the wall. It was dusty but not sealed and “Parties” was written carelessly across the front. She took a quick look inside and saw a bundle of Polaroid photographs.

“What are you doing in there?” Soames called.

“Nothing. Coming. Just dusting myself off a bit,” she called back.

As she emerged, Joe rang the doorbell, making them both jump. Kate put the envelope down by her handbag and let him in, then got involved in the flurry of activity as he unpacked their picnic.

“Come on, let’s spread the pictures from your albums on your table,” she said. “Then you can see them all.”

She cleared the surface, heaping the detritus on the floor and placing the photos like tarot cards.

“There we are,” Soames said, now standing at her elbow. He was pointing to an image of himself and another man with two girls. The men were laughing into the camera. The girls weren’t.

“The lady-killers,” he said and smirked. “We ran up quite a tally.”

“Who is the other bloke?” Joe asked.

“Friend from the old days. He lived in Howard Street, actually. Good old Will. But I lost touch with him. Oh, look at this one . . .”

The fashions changed and hair got longer then shorter as the pictures progressed through the decades.

Kate was scrutinizing every picture, looking at each face for anything that might help the story.

“Tenant?” she asked, and when Al Soames nodded, she put the picture in a separate pile. He wasn’t good at names, but he promised to get his old rent documents back from his accountant.

“That would be wonderful,” she said to Soames. “Could I borrow a few photos in the meantime?”

“Of course, Kate, if it would help,” he said. She’d got him wrapped round her little finger.

She piled the photos up and slipped them into the envelope by her bag.

“That way, you’ll have to come back. To return them,” he giggled.

Joe caught Kate’s eye and raised a sympathetic eyebrow.

“So when did you sell up, Mr. Soames?” he asked, picking up the baton.

Soames stopped giggling and thought. “Must be fifteen, maybe twenty years ago now.”

“Gosh, a long time.”

“Yes, sold at the wrong time and got shafted by a property developer. He made a mint. And, as you can see”—he and Joe looked round the room—“the wife took most of what was left.”