That’s what got me thinking in the first place.
Now I’m not about to smash any windows, but I’d bet that Penry doesn’t have friends on this street. People to say hi to, perhaps, but not go-down-to-the-pub-with mates. The street is too suburban for that, a bit too wife-and-2.4-children. So no neighbors who have a spare key.
Then there’s his kitchen sink. He’s not slovenly, but he’s not organized, not house-proud. He’s a man’s man. Beer cans in the kitchen garbage. More beers down the pub. That sort of man needs either a wife or a spare key. And he doesn’t have a wife.
The lady opposite goes inside, so I can turn my attention to the back door. The one belonging to the kitchen, not the conservatory.
I turn the handle, super-gently. It’s locked.
No flower pots. A couple of bricks and a few rotted lengths of garden timber, but nothing under those. The doorframe’s set into the wall, so nothing concealed on top of it or at the sides. Nada.
Damn. I feel a brief surge of frustration, but it’s quickly replaced by a sense of confidence. I’m not wrong. I know I’m not. My reading of Penry is correct. There must be a spare key here somewhere. There
must.
Then I realize. The conservatory was the last thing, not the first. Those keys on the doorframe breach security 1.01, but he hung them at a point when he’d already embezzled so much money he must have known he’d be caught. It was a what-the-fuck? kind of thing, and Penry hadn’t always been that way.
I turn round and survey the garden. I’m Penry. I’ve just retired from the force. Honorable career, ended by injury. Police pension. Single man. I need a set of keys handy, but I’m not going to be stupid about it. I haven’t even completed the thought experiment before I’m walking over to an old brick-paved area at the back, complete with bench, tottering gazebo, and barbecue. I check the bench, then the barbecue, then the paving area itself. At the side nearest the garden fence, a brick is loose. I tease it out in a crumble of old mortar, and a key winks brassily at me from its nest.
20
Front door or back door?
The key looks like it could fit the back door, so I try it and it works first time. I’m into the kitchen. Still a mess. The mug that I threw into the garbage has been taken out and left on a corner of the sideboard. I drop it back in the garbage. Remind him to be tidier.
Shoes off and dangling from my hand, I go farther into the house. It’s still early, not yet seven fifteen. No way is Penry an early riser, but I don’t know how lightly he sleeps. I would seriously not enjoy him waking up and finding me here. I’m not feeling frightened exactly, because my head’s a bit too spacey to feel anything as specific as that, but I recognize the symptoms. Heartbeat. Rapid breathing. An overalert jitteriness. Not good.
I still want to be here, though.
The conservatory is still empty. I’ve got an impulse to lift the piano lid and thrash out a tune, bring some noise into this place. I don’t, of course. I still can’t see any music, and I’ve got a sneaking feeling that Penry can’t even play the piano. A music room with no music. A conservatory with nothing to conserve.
The living room looks much the same as it did last time. The information wanted poster has been folded up and left on the table. I spread it out again to make it easier for him to read and circle the telephone number that people should call if they have information.
In the corner of the room by the hi-fi, there’s a mobile phone charging up. Ah! Thank you kindly, I don’t mind if I do. I drop the phone in my pocket and look around to see if there’s anything else worth taking. There isn’t. No papers. No diary or Filofax or contacts book. The only desk has nothing much on the top of it—some computer cables, a note dispenser, a mug of pens, some phone directories—and the only drawer is locked.
There’s probably a key to the drawer somewhere, there are probably more things to find, but I’ve lost my nerve. My fear has finally caught up with me, and I don’t like being here. I don’t want to make a noise and risk waking the beast.
So I leave again. As fast and quietly as I can. I lock up and leave the key back where I found it. I don’t feel safe again until I’m in my car, and even then I have to drive for ten minutes before I feel safe playing with my new toy. The mobile phone’s got twenty-six numbers in its address book, which I copy out into my notebook. No messages in the in-box or sent items. I try to check voice mails, but it asks me for a password. I try 0000, then 1234, then 9999, and then find myself locked out. Silly me. His date of birth, May 4, 0504, was probably a better bet. And I forgot to take his charger. Never mind. Twenty-six phone numbers is a good haul.
I drive back home and get myself some peppermint tea. Bach feels too dull for a moment like this, so I replace it with Dido’s
No Angel.
Not the coolest music choice in the world, but if it’s cool you’re after, then you’re knock-knock-knocking at the wrong door. My maximum ambition is to make it to normal. I jump back into bed, fully clothed except that I take my skirt off first, with Dido hollering away underneath me. You go, girl.
Twenty-six phone numbers and a whole day to play with them.
I go for the landlines first. I decide that I’m a flower delivery company sorting out our Monday delivery schedule. I call the first number—a Cardiff one—and get an answering machine. No names. Just “the person you are calling is not available” in a prerecorded voice. Not helpful. I hang up. The second line is just listed as “Jane” in Penry’s phone, but the answering machine message refers to “Jane and Terry.” I make a note, but don’t leave a message.
Then the third number; a woman picks up. I go through my spiel. Missing address for the delivery tomorrow. I’ve got 22 Richards Court, but there must be a muddle because I’ve got three deliveries booked for that address. The woman buys it and gives me her address, which is in Pontprennau, up by the golf club. I say, “Oh yes, up by the golf club,” and she says, “That’s right, just by the golf club.” Then I ask her to confirm her name, “because we just need to know we’re delivering to the right person.” There’s no logic there at all that I can see, but the woman says, “Yes, of course,” then gives her name as Laura Hargreaves. “Thanks, Laura,” I say. “That’s great. I’ll probably see you tomorrow, if you’re in.”
“Oh thanks, so much. I love flowers. I wonder who they’re from.”
“Well, I’m not allowed to tell you that, but it’s a lovely bouquet that they’ve ordered. What’s your favorite color?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Cream probably, in flowers. I love roses—but I love all flowers, really.”
I promise her a huge bouquet of cream roses and hang up. I’m enjoying myself now. It’s nice to be able to spread a little joy. I make twenty-three more calls, get through to fourteen people, collect twelve addresses and ten names. I make another round of calls to the numbers where I only got through to voice mails and this time collect one more name and address. I think I’d make a good flower delivery person. I’ve got a lovely telephone manner, even if I do say so myself.
Underneath me, Dido has run out of song, and anyway I need to go out. I send a batch of texts to the people I didn’t get through to, then tootle over to Sainsbury’s and stock up for the week. I’ve got a theory that if I buy lots of easy-to-cook, healthy food, I’m going to start eating properly. Not quite the homemade tortellini version of proper, but then I’m only a flower delivery girl. I get a few extras, including one of those little potted begonias that come with their own wickerwork Red Riding Hood baskets. It’s a bit twee for what I want, but it’ll have to do.
I pay up. Tootle home. Put the shopping away. Make some more calls. Prepare a meal for two. It’s a bit hard knowing what to prepare, because I’m not sure when my guest will be arriving and how hungry he’ll be, so I settle for a brunchy bagel, cream cheese, smoked salmon, and OJ spread. Easy to top up with scrambled eggs if needed. Good for any time of day or night if you ask me.
I sling Lady Gaga on the stereo, think about hoovering, but decide to tough it out for another week. I have no musical taste at all. I never know who I am, so I buy randomly and try different things, wondering if one day I’ll find the real me. Will I know when it happens?
While I’m waiting for enlightenment, I take Penry’s SIM card out of his phone and drop it into a kettle full of boiling water, then drain the water and pop the SIM card back in the phone. Penry will want to make good any damage I’m causing, but nobody backs up their phone contacts properly. If I destroy his SIM card, I’ve probably bought myself a little extra room to maneuver.
With regret, I take my pictures of April off the wall and am annoyed to find that the Blu-tack has left marks wherever it’s been. I pick at the adhesive scabs with my fingernail but already know that I’m going to take no further action.
21
Penry arrives at four.
My name and address are in the phone book, but I’m hardly the only Griffiths in Cardiff and not even the only F. Griffiths. When Penry’s ugly old Yaris pulls up, it’s pretty clear that he isn’t sure he’s got the right address. He probably thinks this bland little house is too upmarket for a humble D.C. I twinkle a wave at him through the window and throw him a reassuring smile.
At the front door, I tell him to come on in, but he shoulders past me, smoldering with aggression.
I’ve put his phone out on the living room floor, along with the Red Riding Hood begonia and a little bit of Christmas ribbon. My way of saying thank you. He takes the phone but leaves the plant.
By this stage, I’m in the kitchen putting the kettle on.
“What the fuck is this?” he says at the door.
“I’m not sure. I think you’d call it a brunch, but I suppose it’s more of a brinner now. I wasn’t sure what time you’d be coming. There’s scrambled egg, if you’re hungry.”
He doesn’t say anything about egg, or whether he’d prefer tea or coffee. I’m guessing coffee, so I make him a brew. I never drink it myself, but I always keep some for visitors—only instant, mind you. I put in four teaspoons of coffee and stir it round. Peppermint tea for me.
“You know how people who don’t drink coffee always say they love the smell of coffee?” I say.
Penry doesn’t reply. He still hasn’t moved from the doorway.
“Well, I don’t. I don’t like the smell or the taste.”
I sit down. The kitchen is the nicest room in my house. Not because I’ve done anything to make it nice, but because it’s reasonably clean and has big French doors out onto the garden. If it’s even a half-nice day outside, the kitchen feels bright and airy.
“Help yourself. Tuck in. This is Sainsbury’s Taste the Difference smoked salmon, but I think they just charge you more and you can’t actually taste the difference. Or can you?”
Penry seems a rather passive conversationalist, but he does come over to the table, yanks out a chair, and sits.
“You are a fucking tit,” he says.
“Oh, these are nicer toasted, aren’t they?” I busy myself toasting the bagels. “It is a murder investigation, you know. Janet and April Mancini. Stacey Edwards too now, as well.”
He doesn’t react to Edwards’s name. I hadn’t expected him to, but it was worth a try.
“I found her, actually. Climbed in through a window and there she was. Do you want to know how she died?” Penry doesn’t respond, so I tell him anyway, right down to the cable ties and duct tape. “Obviously no autopsy results yet, but she died the same way as Janet did. High as a kite. Airways blocked. Dr. Price, who did the autopsy work on the Mancinis, reckoned it could take just a minute or two. Finger and thumb. Just like that.”
I drop a bagel on his plate and one on mine. I haven’t eaten since breakfast, so I’m genuinely hungry, and I tuck in straightaway. Penry must be hungry too, because he drops a bit of salmon onto the bagel and starts eating. He hasn’t pulled his chair closer to the table. He’s not eating with a plate, knife, or fork. And he’s not trying the cream cheese, which is a shame.
“Did you call anyone?”
“Yes. Everyone. I thought your mam was nice. She called me love and said “Bless you’ twice. I told her that she’d be getting a bunch of tulips tomorrow, so you might want to arrange that if poss.”
Penry opens his mouth. Not to eat, but to say something. It’s not just a fucking-tit type comment either, because there’s a depth of calculation in his eyes. I silently urge him to say whatever it is that he’s contemplating, but he decides against it. He doesn’t even come up with another insult. He just slaps a chunk more salmon into a bagel and stands up. Ready to leave.
I stand up too, to see him out. We’re standing in the space between the living room and the hall when Penry turns to me. Half of me thinks he’s going to say something useful. Half of me thinks he’s going to swear at me. But both halves are wrong. Nul points all round. With almost no warning or backlift, he hits me openhanded across the face. I’m stunned—literally and metaphorically—by the force of it. The blow knocks me across the hall, and I think I strike my head on the wall opposite. Whatever. By the time I’ve recovered my wits, I’m lying crumpled up on the floor at the foot of the stairs. Penry is towering over me.
He’s two miles high and he’s going to kill me.
I don’t say or do anything. I can’t. My vision is shot through with bolts of black and red. There’s blood inside my mouth. My skull feels as though it’s been detonated by professionals, then reassembled with sticky tape. I honestly didn’t know that one blow could do this. I’ve never lacked physical confidence, but I’ve also never been hit like this. It feels like a brick wall just reached out and whacked me. My skirt is thrown up above my knees, and I find my right hand tweaking it down. That is the limit of my resistance. Even my hand feels weak.
This is what it is like. Total surrender. I never knew what that meant before. Never knew how total it could be.
Penry towers over me for another few seconds, then turns on his heel and goes. Only when the front door closes—and not even then—do I attempt movement.
I kick my legs out in front of me, and arrange myself so that I’m sitting on the bottom step. I review the damage. The right side of my face, where Penry struck me, is moving from numb and shocked to hurting and furious. I poke it gently with my fingertips. Everything is bruised, but neither cut nor broken. I think the blood inside my mouth comes from my cheek being slammed against my teeth. There’s also a cut on the other side of my head, where I hit the wall. My teeth feel loose, but I think that’s just shock. My neck feels painful everywhere, but I think that’s just the combined effect of shock and whiplash. There’s a taste in my mouth which I identify as vomit.