Authors: Marty Wingate
“Good, yes, let’s do that. You ring me when you’re finished. Where did you say
this flat is?”
Pru laughed as she dug out the paper from her bag. “Is this an interrogation?”
“Certainly not, just casual curiosity.”
She read Romilda’s address to him, they rang off, and she was so caught up in a minor daydream about meeting him for a late drink in a quiet pub that she didn’t even notice when the next bus stopped until someone asked, “Are you boarding?”
The Victorian brick building contained a row of shops on street level, including the Caffè Nero. The coffee shop had taken in its sidewalk tables and chairs for the night, and, as this was mostly a business district, all the other shops were closed, too. The door to the small lobby was unlocked. Pru saw no lift when she passed through to the stairs. Yes, boxes and boxes to hand-carry up all the long flights of stairs made necessary by those high ceilings.
It was a building of flats in sore need of refurbishment, but maybe that’s why Romilda could afford it. The wood fixtures all showed the wear of decades and decades of use. The handrail on the stairs was shiny with the millions of hands that had skimmed its surface. The floor dipped here and there, and the doors to all the flats had been nicked by keys missing their marks. Several doors looked chewed at the base. The stairs were carpeted, but the carpet had worn through in the center where every foot had fallen; now, bits of wiry carpet padding stuck out as if tiny land mines had exploded.
The door to 219 stood slightly open. “Romilda?” Pru asked before stepping in and closing the door behind her. The place was dark, but lights shone from the street.
“Pru, here it is!” Romilda emerged from a corner, held out her arms, and spun around the empty room. Her hands appeared pale, and Pru couldn’t see any cherry-red tips.
Maybe she’s between polishes,
she thought. “What do you think?”
Pru thought it was a good thing it was dark. Even in the poor lighting, she could see the peeling wallpaper and the pitted bare floor. Around the room all along the baseboard was a necklace of grime from years of pushing a mop back and forth and never really cleaning.
One large window, at least four feet wide and six feet high, faced out to the street, the bottom of the window only about a foot above the floor. In addition to the narrow stone ledge that ran around the building, there was a small … Pru didn’t think she could call it a balcony. It was a ledge, perhaps two feet deep and just wider than the window; a wrought-iron decorative bib about a foot high ran around the edge. She could see cigarette butts strewn about.
Ah,
she thought,
the smoking section.
She must think of something nice to say. “Wow, Romilda, won’t it be great to
have your own place?”
“Now, give me your expert opinion, Pru,” Romilda said as she walked over to the window, which stood wide open. “I want to know exactly what I can grow. Come over and take a look at my little garden spot.”
Pru set her bag down and walked over to the window. Then she put her hand on the inside frame and leaned out slightly. Around the edges of the extended ledge, she could see the ground far below—it shifted slightly and she felt dizzy. She leaned back in.
“Well, I’m sure you could put out some pots, and they would be easy to tend,” she said.
Romilda stood behind her. “No, Pru, we need to see the whole thing. You’ll be surprised at how much room I have. Come on, let’s get out there.” She put her hand on Pru’s back, pushing her gently toward the window. Pru pushed back.
“No, Romilda, really, I don’t need to go out there. I can see from here.” She never found it easy to explain her fear of heights; completely avoiding dicey situations worked best.
Romilda hustled her closer to the window. “Pru, let’s take a good look.” Her voice got louder as she pushed Pru forward. Pru was surprised at Romilda’s strength. She wasn’t tall, but she had the distinct advantage over Pru of not being affected by the dizzying view of the ground below.
As Romilda pushed, Pru tried to get loose and back away from the window, grabbing at Romilda for some security. Instead, Romilda shoved her hard and Pru lurched partway through the window, landing with both hands on the tiny balcony and catching another glimpse of the ground below. Her head began spinning and that old, sick feeling came over her. Suddenly, she wasn’t sure where her feet were.
“Get out!” Romilda shoved her backside with great force, and Pru toppled out onto the smoking section, scrambling for something to hold on to.
“Romilda!” she shouted, and she heard the window slam behind her. “Romilda, let me back in, please.” She couldn’t look back; she couldn’t turn her head at all. She plastered herself against as much of the window and frame as she could. From inside, she heard a door slam, followed by a
crack,
and the little balcony beneath her shuddered.
She screamed, but not loudly, because that might make her fall. “Oh, God, oh, God.” She slowly stood and eased herself onto the ledge and away from the cracking balcony, trying to find something to hold on to. She kept her eyes on the window in the building across the street, like someone who is seasick tries to focus on the horizon, but below her, she knew the ground was rolling, just like the ocean.
Her right hand grabbed hold of some metal protrusion in the wall of the
building—a big eyebolt, a flagpole holder, she didn’t know. All she knew was that it didn’t move. Her left hand held the frame of the window that Romilda had slammed shut. Her right foot was on the narrow building ledge, her left still on the balcony. She heard another crack and felt another shudder. Moaning slightly, she edged her left foot over to the stone ledge, which wasn’t deep enough to stand with her toes straight out, and so her feet pointed in different directions, like a ballet dancer’s first position.
And now what?
she thought. The street was deserted; Romilda—whoever Romilda was—probably had disappeared. Her bag and phone were inside the flat, if they hadn’t been stolen, but that made no difference. Her phone could have been two inches away, and she never would have been able to move a hand to make a call. Could she stay up here until someone noticed? How many hours would that be? Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the ground shift and tilt.
She heard him, quietly at first, and then shouting from the street below. “Pru? Pru?”
“Christopher?” She needed to speak louder or he wouldn’t hear her. “She pushed me out. I need some help.”
There was no asking what happened; that was for later, if she could get to that point. “Is the window beside you locked?” he asked. “Can you pull it up?”
“I don’t know if it’s locked. I can’t get to it.”
“Your hand is on the frame. It’s just a few inches away. Can you reach over and—”
“No, I can’t. I can’t move. Christopher, I’m not good with heights.”
He didn’t speak. “Christopher?” she whispered. He hadn’t gone away, had he? She heard him talking, and she realized he must be phoning for help. She pictured the fire brigade coming to her rescue. She pictured the ladder coming up close to her. She wondered how she would get on it.
“Pru, can you look at me?”
“No, I can’t look down. The ground moves too much.”
“Can you close your eyes?”
“If I close my eyes I feel like I’m tipping forward.”
“Don’t close your eyes,” he said quickly. “I’m coming up there. Which flat is it?”
“It’s 219. Shouldn’t you go after her? I can tell you what she looks like.”
“No, I’m coming after you.”
“Good,” she whispered.
After a minute, she heard him at the window. He lifted it slowly and said, “Pru, I’m going to come out and—”
“Don’t come out here. That extension in front of the window is unstable—I think it’s going to collapse. It cracked when I was on it. I don’t want you to fall.” She gave a little laugh. “That’s pretty silly, isn’t it? I’m the one that’s going to fall.”
“You will not fall,” he said in a commanding tone.
“Yes, right, Inspector.”
“I’m going to touch your left hand,” he said. “I’m not going to try to move it. I’m just going to touch it.”
“Okay.” His hand felt warm and comforting as it covered hers, flattened on the
window frame.
“Pru, move your left foot toward me. Just slide it a few inches.” She concentrated hard on the feel of his hand and slid her foot over. “Now, slide your right foot over.” Once she had done that, he said, “Now, your left foot again.”
“I can’t go any farther, Christopher. I’ve got hold of something with my right hand, and if I move any more, I would have to let go of it. I can’t do that.”
“Pru, turn your head and look at me.”
He couldn’t be more than two feet away, but he might as well have been in Dover. She knew that normal people would just take the two steps and be inside the flat again, but she wasn’t normal, not when it came to this.
“Pru, look at me.” She moved her head, but kept her eyes focused in the same place across the street until she could shift them directly to his face. He had his left foot propped up on the window ledge, and he was leaning far out the window. It didn’t seem to bother him. “I’m going to put my arm on your waist—not in back, in front, to help you stay on the ledge. All right?”
“All right,” she whispered, keeping her eyes on his. He reached forward and pinned her lightly against the wall. It felt good. It felt safe. She heard a siren getting closer.
“You can let go with your right hand now,” he said. She loosened her grip on the metal piece. “I won’t let you fall,” he said. “Come closer.”
If she could get her left foot inside the window, then maybe, maybe. She inched toward him, keeping herself flat against the wall, until she reached the opening, and he pulled her in, both of them tumbling together and almost landing on the floor. She turned and wrapped her arms around him, holding him as tightly as he was holding her. He had one hand on her hair, and she thought she heard him whisper, “My darling,” in her ear just as the fire brigade arrived.
And the police. When they reached the flat and began talking, asking questions, looking around the flat and out the window, she thought she’d better open her eyes. “I’m okay.” He loosened his arms slightly, and she thought she might be able to stand. Then she thought again. “Maybe I’ll lean against the wall, would that be all right?”
He helped her over to a wall away from the window. When she leaned against it, she decided it might be easier to just slide on down to the floor and sit for a moment. She discovered that she sat down next to her canvas bag. So Romilda wasn’t a thief.
Christopher kept hold of her hand as he explained the situation to the officers.
“She pushed me. She pushed me out the window. I can give them a description of her—I’m better now. Let me stand up.” Although still shaky, she felt silly on the floor
while everyone else bustled around.
Christopher helped her up. “We can go to the station, and you can give your statement there. There’s no need to stay here. They’ll look for evidence. She’s long gone by now.”
“Your station?”
“No, we’ll go to the Kennington station.” He put an arm around her. “Now, will you be all right on the stairs?”
“Of course I will,” she replied and gave him a chagrined smile, “as long as I can hold on to you.”
“I’m not about to let go.”
Perhaps they were letting her leave the scene on her own because she was with a DCI from another borough, but—regardless of the reason, she was grateful. By the time they reached the ground floor, she was steadier. Christopher had parked one street over, and he offered to have her wait and he’d get the car.
“No, I’ll walk with you. I’m better, really I am.” They reached his car, away from the comings and goings of the police, and he took her in his arms again, kissing her hair. It felt comfortable, more than comfortable, but before she could enjoy the comfort too much, she was aware of a growing anger inside.
“I feel like such a fool,” she said. “I don’t even know who she was.”
His voice was gentle. “Come on, let’s get to the station so you can give your statement.”
On the short drive, she fumed. “I should’ve known something wasn’t right. I should’ve known.”
“You did know,” he said.
“I did?”
“I could hear it in your voice. You were uncomfortable with her or what she said. You knew it wasn’t right.” His hands tightened on the steering wheel. “I shouldn’t have let you go there alone.”
“No, you can’t take responsibility for this. What do you think I would’ve done if you had told me not to go?”
He glanced at her and with a small smile said, “Well, there’s that.”
As he parked, she said, “But if I knew something wasn’t right, then why didn’t I know that I knew?”
“You’re a compassionate and trusting woman. It’s just your nature. You look for the good in people.” He took her hand.
For a moment, she let this lovely statement wash over her. And yet … “Is that a
nice way of saying I’m gullible?”
He didn’t reply, but asked, “Are you ready?”
She leaned over, cupped her hand behind his neck, pulled him to her, and kissed him, a long, slow kiss. “Yes,” she said, “I’m ready.”
It wasn’t a quick process. Christopher sat with her in one of the questioning rooms while she filled out forms. He fetched her tea in a polystyrene cup, which she accepted with a smile. It tasted terrible, and by the look on his face, he knew it. She gave her statement, describing every minute she’d spent with Romilda, and went through, step by step, what had happened that evening.
“How much do you know about this woman?” the sergeant asked.
“Her name … Romilda.”
“Do you know her surname?”
“No, she never told me.”
“Where she worked?”
“No, she had a different story every time I met her.”
At one point, a uniformed officer came in and spoke to the sergeant, who then turned to her and said, “Ms. Parke, we have your fingerprints on file.”
She was sure he didn’t mean it to, but it sounded to her ears like an accusation—as if she were the criminal.
“Ms. Parke is assisting on a case of mine, one she was a witness to,” Christopher said.