Mr. Flood's Last Resort(16)

“I can miss the bus.”

“I’ve somewhere to be,” he says kindly, apologetically.

“Of course you have, that’s grand.” I nod.

Sam glances at me. “Look, can I meet you again? Not here, somewhere we can talk?”

Where to meet? A café? A pub? As a care worker Sam Hebden will have full disclosure from the Criminal Records Bureau. He will have references and a traceable history. He will have passed through multiple checks and safeguards. He will have been cleared to work with the vulnerable and the needy, unsupervised, in their own homes. I am neither vulnerable nor needy.

I write down my address on his cigarette packet with my fatal crossword pencil.

As the bus pulls away I watch him turn and walk down the road with the easy stride of an honest cowboy. He could be at a rodeo, the sun beating down on his leather chaps, his shirt open at the neck, his hair golden in the late-afternoon light.

He licks his lips, narrows his eyes, and mounts his horse in one easy, effortless move. He swings his horse round, his hands on the reins, masterful, yet relaxed, and surveys the horizon with his gray-eyed gaze— *

“WATCH YOURSELF,” says Renata. She’s sitting in a kimono at her kitchen table supervising the unwrapping of the chips. “He’s onto you; he knows that you suspect him of killing his wife and that you’re on the hunt for evidence.”

St. Rita of Cascia (marital strife, spousal abuse, lost and impossible causes) is standing sentinel in the corner by the fridge freezer. She is of grave appearance: dressed in monochrome robes. Far fainter than St. Dymphna, less fully realized, with the slippery transparency of onion skin. St. Rita never talks, although she often exudes sympathy.

“I don’t suspect Mr. Flood of anything of the kind,” I say. “And I’ll hunt for nothing in that house.”

St. Rita shuffles slightly. Her face is a little pained inside her veil. She has the medieval style about her: all heavy eyelids and negligible eyebrows. Her stigmata, an ulcerated thorn wound on her forehead the size of a twopence piece, turns from dull mulberry to raw crimson. She glances around her and draws her cape over her shoulders.

We eat in the kitchen most evenings. Its distinguishing feature is its liberal use of wood cladding. Anything that isn’t clad in wood is tiled with a representation of a Victorian street scene. Like the rest of Renata’s flat, the kitchen is unreasonably clean. Renata doesn’t believe in labor-saving devices because she never cooks, barring the fondue she serves at her monthly Transgender Friends evenings, otherwise it’s a mixture of takeaways and what Lillian leaves foiled in the fridge.

“Don’t deny it, Maud.” Renata accepts a jumbo saveloy and half the chips, inspecting them carefully in her phobic little way. “I’ve told you, there’s a case unfolding up at Bridlemere.”

The two photographs and the milk bottle lie on the kitchen table in plastic freezer bags; they are labeled with the date of their discovery, like police exhibits.

“Mrs. Flood wasn’t murdered, Renata. She fell.”

“So you say. But what about this?” Renata gestures at the freezer bags. “Nasty, no?”

I glance down at Mary Flood: her yellow dress, her pale legs, her cloud of russet hair, and her burnt-out face. Then I look at the little girl: her navy coat, her red patterned tights, her cloud of russet hair, and her burnt-out face.

“The boy, though, he is perfectly unscathed,” observes Renata.

I look at Gabriel, scowling at the camera in both instances.

We sit in silence for a while. St. Rita is motionless but for her lips, which betray a speechless prayer. Now and again her halo, an understated burst of rays, glows with a pleasant light.

Renata regards me slyly. “Mr. Flood told the police that his wife had climbed up on a chair on the first-floor landing to dust a light fitting.”

St. Rita’s halo flares and gutters. She stops mid-prayer and blesses herself.

“According to Mr. Flood,” says Renata, “Mary lost her balance and went straight down the stairs. She died in hospital as a result of her injuries.”

I frown. “And you know this, how?”

“Lillian looked it up. Mary Flood’s tragic death was in the local paper.”

“You told Lillian? Now, why would you tell Lillian?”

“Why not? She’s very discreet and she likes solving murder mysteries.”

“Renata, what are you even talking about?”

Renata pauses. “He pushed her, Maud.”

“Ah no—”

“He did. He killed her and made it look like an accident.”

“I’m losing the will—”

“You ought to keep an open mind.” Renata sifts through her chips. “Murder is possible even in nice parts of West London, you know.”

“Look,” I say, “Mr. Flood is a malignant old fecker but that doesn’t make him a murderer.”

“But still, there’s something not right up at that house. The old man builds a labyrinth of junk and then defends it.” Renata blows on a chip, then eats it with an air of distaste. “Beating up care workers, threatening council staff. Now I would say that those are the actions of a man with something to hide.”

“He’s a hoarder; they were coming for his rubbish!”

“Well, I fail to—”