finished now?’
We were at it for another hour. The same patience, the same open-ended questions, the same absolute professionalism. But that edge of concern in her voice, the knowledge that she now felt sorry for me – that was unbearable.
‘You haven’t really asked me about Max,’ I said, as I realised the discussion was ending.
‘No.’
‘Are you planning to question him again? Because I don’t think he could take that.’
‘Mr Mercer, that would be a very different kind of investigation, and I don’t anticipate that.’
‘Meaning?’
‘You can draw your own conclusions.’ She smiled, that expression of concern again.
‘OK, so what happens now?’
‘We’ll be in touch. Unless of course you or Max wish to access any of the support services we have spoken about.’
‘No. Thank you.’
‘And I must ask you to remain in the country. You will need to reconsider your American trip.’
‘What?’
‘We’d like you to remain in the country.’
‘But you just said, or heavily implied that I, or rather that the investigation wasn’t …’
She cut across me. ‘Mr Mercer, you are helping us with our enquiries.’
‘But I’m not a suspect.’
‘Not at this stage.’
We ended the meeting, and she left me at the kitchen table, paralysed by my thoughts.
There was a
thing,
then. Some
thing
has happened.
It was the water that stirred me. For a moment I was sure I was wrong, that the tap in the neighbour’s kitchen could not be running. Then I knew that it was, and wondered why the sound troubled me.
I shook myself from my trance, became aware of my legs, rose slowly, trying to rub the sleep from them as I moved towards the wall that divided our house from the neighbour’s.
Water. Definitely water.
I put my right ear to the wall. Short percussive bumps. In pairs. And the water was still running.
I moved slowly to the sink, tipped wine from yesterday’s glass, shook out the last drops, and returned to the wall that divided our house from the neighbour’s. I placed the base of the glass against the wall, and put my ear in the bowl of the glass. Again those short percussive bumps. The sound was no clearer than before. I moved my head away, looked at the glass. Wasn’t this the way it was done? I turned the glass around, put my ear to the base of it; the sound was still no clearer. Pairs of percussive bumps. Still the sound of the water through the pipes.
I put the glass down on the table, and returned to the wall, cupped my ear to its smooth white surface with my hands.
A bump. A metallic crash. No second bump this time.
A woman’s voice. A cry of frustration.
I thought for a moment of Millicent, but why would Millicent be in the neighbour’s house?
I opened the front door and went out into the street.
‘Look, sir, look.’
Mr Ashani was standing on the pavement outside our house. He nodded towards the dead man’s house and made to speak, but I smiled and tapped him on the elbow, walked past him to the neighbour’s front door. Then I saw what Mr Ashani had meant me to see.
A locksmith had fitted two small steel plates, one to the door, one to the frame. They had buckled slightly, as if under force, and the padlock that had held them had given. Someone had placed the lock on the low wall in front of the house, as if meaning to replace it.
‘Oh,’ I said.
‘Indeed,’ said Mr Ashani.
‘No yellow tape, though.’ Perhaps the police weren’t thinking murder after all.
‘In this country, sir, police tape is blue and white.’
‘Well,’ I said, and folded my arms.
Mr Ashani shot me an uncertain half-smile and went back into his house.
I rang the dead neighbour’s bell. The door opened. I guessed at once that she was his sister. She was tall, and a little too slight for her frame. Her skin was very pale, and her brown hair hung crisply at her shoulders: the kind of woman my mother would describe as willowy. The kind of daughter my mother’s friends had.
We were at it for another hour. The same patience, the same open-ended questions, the same absolute professionalism. But that edge of concern in her voice, the knowledge that she now felt sorry for me – that was unbearable.
‘You haven’t really asked me about Max,’ I said, as I realised the discussion was ending.
‘No.’
‘Are you planning to question him again? Because I don’t think he could take that.’
‘Mr Mercer, that would be a very different kind of investigation, and I don’t anticipate that.’
‘Meaning?’
‘You can draw your own conclusions.’ She smiled, that expression of concern again.
‘OK, so what happens now?’
‘We’ll be in touch. Unless of course you or Max wish to access any of the support services we have spoken about.’
‘No. Thank you.’
‘And I must ask you to remain in the country. You will need to reconsider your American trip.’
‘What?’
‘We’d like you to remain in the country.’
‘But you just said, or heavily implied that I, or rather that the investigation wasn’t …’
She cut across me. ‘Mr Mercer, you are helping us with our enquiries.’
‘But I’m not a suspect.’
‘Not at this stage.’
We ended the meeting, and she left me at the kitchen table, paralysed by my thoughts.
There was a
thing,
then. Some
thing
has happened.
It was the water that stirred me. For a moment I was sure I was wrong, that the tap in the neighbour’s kitchen could not be running. Then I knew that it was, and wondered why the sound troubled me.
I shook myself from my trance, became aware of my legs, rose slowly, trying to rub the sleep from them as I moved towards the wall that divided our house from the neighbour’s.
Water. Definitely water.
I put my right ear to the wall. Short percussive bumps. In pairs. And the water was still running.
I moved slowly to the sink, tipped wine from yesterday’s glass, shook out the last drops, and returned to the wall that divided our house from the neighbour’s. I placed the base of the glass against the wall, and put my ear in the bowl of the glass. Again those short percussive bumps. The sound was no clearer than before. I moved my head away, looked at the glass. Wasn’t this the way it was done? I turned the glass around, put my ear to the base of it; the sound was still no clearer. Pairs of percussive bumps. Still the sound of the water through the pipes.
I put the glass down on the table, and returned to the wall, cupped my ear to its smooth white surface with my hands.
A bump. A metallic crash. No second bump this time.
A woman’s voice. A cry of frustration.
I thought for a moment of Millicent, but why would Millicent be in the neighbour’s house?
I opened the front door and went out into the street.
‘Look, sir, look.’
Mr Ashani was standing on the pavement outside our house. He nodded towards the dead man’s house and made to speak, but I smiled and tapped him on the elbow, walked past him to the neighbour’s front door. Then I saw what Mr Ashani had meant me to see.
A locksmith had fitted two small steel plates, one to the door, one to the frame. They had buckled slightly, as if under force, and the padlock that had held them had given. Someone had placed the lock on the low wall in front of the house, as if meaning to replace it.
‘Oh,’ I said.
‘Indeed,’ said Mr Ashani.
‘No yellow tape, though.’ Perhaps the police weren’t thinking murder after all.
‘In this country, sir, police tape is blue and white.’
‘Well,’ I said, and folded my arms.
Mr Ashani shot me an uncertain half-smile and went back into his house.
I rang the dead neighbour’s bell. The door opened. I guessed at once that she was his sister. She was tall, and a little too slight for her frame. Her skin was very pale, and her brown hair hung crisply at her shoulders: the kind of woman my mother would describe as willowy. The kind of daughter my mother’s friends had.
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