Down Cemetery Road Part 21

'Later. It'll keep.' But her mind was focused on it now, and for all Wigwam kept rattling on, Sarah heard barely a word.

'Because of her Tai Chi lessons,' Wigwam finished.

'. . . I'm sorry, Wigwam. I was drifting.'

'Caro's looking after the babies,' she began again. Wigwam always called her children babies. 'But she has to leave at eight fifteen because of '

'Yes. I got that bit.'

'So I'll have to be back by then. But I'll send Rufus round to keep you company.'

'That's okay.'

Wigwam's face twisted into an awkward expression. 'We ell . . .' she said.

'What's the matter?'

'Mark made me promise,' she confessed, 'I'd not leave you on your own.'

So what does he think I'll get up to? her inner voice snarled. Mainline baking powder? And then thought: No, what he's worried about is, I'll not take my pill, I'll start to be a nuisance, I'll get into trouble.

I'm already in trouble.

She thought the letter meant trouble: that's why she couldn't keep her mind off it. So to calm Wigwam down, she agreed that Rufus could come round if he must, though she had work of her own to get on with letters to write and would absent herself while he settled in front of the telly. A scenario which made her want to gag, actually, but better by far than actually watching it with him, or talking to him; or anything, in fact, involving being in his presence. Not that she could express any of this to Wigwam. So instead she kept herself nodding and smiling, feeling long-slack muscles in her cheeks stretch to aching-point, while Wigwam ran through the local gossip one more time. All Sarah wanted was for Wigwam to go, so she could open the d.a.m.n letter, and find the worst. Her best friend, whom she felt she hadn't talked to for months, and all she wanted was for her to go.

Which she did, eventually.

'You're sure you'll be all right?'

'I'll be fine.'

'I'm sure Mark won't be too late.'

'Wigwam. I'll be fine.'

She closed the door gently but put the chain on, too, once Wigwam's steps had echoed out of hearing.

In the sitting room she sat for a while with the letter in her lap. It was from Joe. She knew that already: didn't know the handwriting, but knew it was from Joe. Too like him to get her address wrong. With anyone else, that would have been a nuisance; from the private detective, it was a kind of quiet joke. Joe once got arrested looking for somebody's dog: hadn't Zoe told her that? Couldn't detect his way out of a paper bag; but she helped him out of the envelope, anyway; unfolded the first sheet and read it through twice:

Dear Sarah

I suppose what I should have remembered is, we all have to exorcize our own demons. Who am I to tell you to stop looking? No matter what it is you're looking for. So this little girl, since she's so important to you, I hope you find her, though I still think we went barking up a wrong tree yesterday. I shouldn't have got angry, though. I told you I'd help: I should just help. Even if that means driving to Surrey on a fools' errand. Better, I think, to start with the obvious. I enclose a copy of a letter I've sent to the Ministry of Defence. According to their press release, Thomas Singleton died four years ago, so how come he died again so recently? Perhaps they know nothing about it. If not, better they join in asking the questions, don't you think? They're much more likely to find the answers.

And wherever the answer to Singleton's death lies, I think you'll find his daughter there also. And if they do know all about it, they'll understand that a few discreet answers now might save them a lot of press coverage later. They are great pragmatists these days, Sarah, the men in suits. All they need do is give a little, right? Save you causing more trouble.

I get the feeling you could cause a lot of trouble if you tried.

I'll be in touch. Joe The enclosed letter was as he said it was: a formal Dear Sir laying out the bare facts of Thomas Singleton's death and his daughter's disappearance; all neatly typed; every spelling in place. He'd even put his own reference number down. This, too, Sarah reflected, had been removed from his office files. Or Zoe would have found it; Sarah had the feeling that woman would find pretty much everything she put her mind to.

On a sudden impulse, the kind best acted upon immediately, she picked up the phone and called Directory Enquiries, or whatever they were called these days, and after a very short wait was given the phone number to go with the address Joe had sent the letter to. She wrote it on the letter itself in big red marker pen, the only kind near to hand. Maybe she would call. Not now, obviously. Other impulses were best slept upon; they had to be given time to go away. That was as far as she'd thought things through when she heard the rapping on the door on the back door.

Which led nowhere. Which led to the back garden, and it was true you could squeeze past the hedgerow at the far end and reach the street behind through the side pa.s.sage of the house they backed on to, but n.o.body did this, not even burglars. Sarah didn't know the neighbours in that direction; wasn't even sure the word 'neighbours' applied. All of which suggested an unwelcome presence, but unwelcome presences didn't knock, and there was no getting round the fact that what she had to do now was stir herself, walk through to the kitchen, see who it was. It was Rufus.

Her reluctance mingled with relief, she let him in. The time it took her to reach the door, a number of horrors had ripped through her mind; none specific, but each shaded red, the colour of Joe's shirt afterwards. Even Rufus was an improvement. She let him in, closing the gla.s.s-paned door behind him and turning its key once more.

'h.e.l.lo, Rufus.'

'Sarah.'

'Why the back way?'

He shrugged.

Even arriving alone, Rufus had the air of somebody tagging along. It bordered on spooky.

'Wigwam said you needed company.'

'I'm all right. Really.'

''s...o...b..ther.'

He wandered through the kitchen, into the sitting room. It should not have been surprising that at a time like this Sarah should feel she didn't know Rufus, because she didn't. Times she'd made the effort to draw him out had been for Wigwam's sake, and wholly unsuccessful. Mostly because Rufus wasn't interested in anything. For all the impact he made, he might have remained in that limbo where all the people you've never met live.

'Would you like a cup of tea?' she asked.

'Cheers.'

So now she had to make him a cup of tea.

She put the kettle on, rinsed a cup, thought about it, rinsed another. The idea of food still made her gag, but she had to get something inside her. Meanwhile Rufus called from the sitting room, 'It's started. I heard earlier.'

'Started?'

'The War.'

Thee not thuh. And War not war. There'd have been a glint in Rufus's eye, too: war did that to boys. Last time, they'd played in sandpits on the TV news.

But she had nothing to say. Nothing to offer. They'd be striking each other dead in the East right now more charred corpses soldered to their tanks and she wanted to know nothing of it, an ignorance as easy to achieve as turning off a radio. They'd yet to pa.s.s a law demanding you were well informed. During wartime, that was the last law they'd pa.s.s.

The kettle boiled. She made the tea. She pa.s.sed a cup to Rufus, who had come through from the sitting room, and who took it by the base, apparently not noticing how hot it was. He cleared a small s.p.a.ce for it on top of the crowded fridge, then dragged his warm fingers through his hair, a gesture that recalled him pulling his mask off. But that had been when he was Stan Laurel, and now he was only Rufus.

'She talks about you, you know. All the time.'

'Wigwam?'

'Before, it was how nice you are. Sarah says this. Sarah lent me that. These days, it's Poor Sarah. All the time. Poor Sarah.'

'She's a good friend.'

'She's a soft touch. I can't really imagine you two being pally.'

'You don't have to imagine it,' she snapped. 'It already happens.'

He grinned, pleased about sc.r.a.ping a nerve. And there was the malice she'd glimpsed when he'd frightened her in town: if he hated her so b.l.o.o.d.y much, why was he here anyway? Because Wigwam asked him? All he'd had to say was No.

He plucked a magnet from the door of the fridge, examined it and put it back. 'Been resting up then, have you? After your bother with the cops.'

'I don't really want to talk about it.'

'Suit yourself. What's to talk about anyway? You're scoring dope, you got caught. End of story.'

Sods' Law, this, that now she really wanted him to blend into the wallpaper, he'd discovered he'd got a tongue.

'Rufus '

'It's okay. We've all been there.'

'Look, Rufus, it's kind of you to come round. But it's really no problem. Mark'll be back soon and I don't want '

'No worries. All I'm saying is, that should have been it. You know? You've got the cops leaning in one direction, you've got your nice cosy life in the other. It doesn't take a genius to figure out when it's time to quit.'

She rubbed her temple. There was a sharp pain buried there, and if it ever got out it would make a noise like a banshee. It was about now she'd be taking a blue pill, if she was ever going to take one again. The thought came to her unbidden that a whole stretch of her life had just come to a close, and it wasn't the absence of the pill that rang down the curtain.

'So what you doing still writing letters, Sarah? Your jewboy's dead. Can you not take a hint?'

Nothing changed. The ground beneath her feet crumbled and gave, but that was all. And the only things she could think of to say were the hackneyed, the cliched, the grim: What did you say?

You can't be serious!

You don't mean you So she said nothing.

But Rufus said, 'He to protect you, was he? Big strong man like him? Case you ran into any bad guys?'

'It was you. You were late turning up that night the bomb went off.'

'Mmm hmm.'

'Only n.o.body took any notice. Because even when you're there, you're hardly there.'

He grinned and hid his face behind his hands. 'Peep-oh!'

'Who are you?'

'Call me Rufus.'

'Who are you?'

'But my real name's Axel. Hey, what do you think that fat b.a.s.t.a.r.d would make of that?' He twisted his face into a pompous mask: not at all a bad Gerard, actually. 'That's not a name. That's an abomination.' Then untwisted, and was Rufus/Axel once more. 'Course, under fresh circ.u.mstances, I'd wipe the f.u.c.king floor with him.'

'Who are you?'

'I'm your bad dream, Sarah,' he said. 'I'm the stair that creaks when there's n.o.body home. I'm the light that goes off without warning.' He produced, from behind his back, her copy of Joe's letter; the red marker pen bawling out her intentions for the world to see. 'I mean, what the f.u.c.k is this? Your friend is dead, Sarah. Not to mention well st.i.tched-up. And you've got coppers wondering when you'll start shopping for a new freelance chemist. You were supposed to give it up.'

'I did give up. I have.'

'So why the letter? Why the phone number? Why couldn't you just let it be?'

She looked behind her, at the back door. The key had gone. When she looked round, Rufus held it. He smiled, and dropped it in his cup of tea. 'Won't be needing that.'

'You killed Joe. You planted the c.o.ke.'

'And you just had to get back on the bus, didn't you? What is it with you, is it the kid? Is it still the kid? She's a little girl, Sarah. There are f.u.c.king hundreds of them.'

'Where is she?'

'That doesn't matter any more.'

'Is she alive?'

'Do I care?'

'What are you going to do?' she whispered. Her voice barely staining the quiet air.

'I'm going to kill you,' he said patiently. 'What did you think I was going to do?'

'But they'll know, Wigwam'll know, she'll tell '

'Christ. Sarah, do I care? I'd have been out of here weeks ago already, if it weren't for you. Six months I spent married to that poor cow.' He reached something down from the fridge: she couldn't see what it was. 'And just between you and me, I'd have had more fun sticking my d.i.c.k down a rabbit hole. Ill of the dead and all that, but '

'No!'

'Oh yes.'

'No. You can't have. You mustn't '

'Sarah. Listen to me. You stuck your nose in something bigger than you know. And me, well, my job's to go round cleaning up other people's mess. It's a filthy business, but guess what? I love it. I mean, I really get off on it. Which was bad news for the missus, but hey, them's the breaks. And as for you '

But he couldn't have killed Wigwam he couldn't have killed Wigwam he couldn't have killed He put his hands together, then pulled them apart. A thin cord appeared between them; he did it again. Now it was a double strand.

'As for you, I get the feeling you'd be a wet one.'