The Gardens of the Dead (30 page)

‘Yes.’
She carefully touched the corner of one eye.

‘So it’s
easy street for you then, Babs.’ Mr Lawton must have made a packet, what with
the development of the docklands.

‘Well,
he held on to his turf, so he could negotiate, sort of thing. That was the
idea. And you?’

‘Antiques.’
Nancy felt a punch of self-hatred for the lie, for the lack of pride in what
she did, for who she was.

‘Oh,
very nice.’

‘Well,
you know, second-hand. I’ve a small shop.’ Before Babycham could ask
whereabouts, Nancy said, ‘I suppose you’ve got tons of kids?’

‘Three.
And you?’

‘None.’

‘Sorry.’
She dabbed the other eye. ‘It’s arctic.’

Riley
had said, ‘No children. No talk of it. It’s just the two of us.’ He’d spoken
like it was a deal before they hit the sand. They’d make it out of this hell
together. Confident and romantic, he’d ducked like John Wayne on Iwo Jima.
Nancy had agreed, not knowing that Riley never changed, that he’d come out of
the packaging ready made and complete, all the screws in place. There was
nothing to add on, no expensive extras. Whereas she’d been incomplete, with
gaps, so many gaps. She’d always wanted to be a mother, and the nearest she’d
got was Arnold. Shame and a kind of hatred — again, of herself —twisted in her
stomach, like when she’d been starving after a day on grapefruit, part of a
diet that was meant to transform her shape in two weeks. It hadn’t worked.

Babycham
said, ‘Harold didn’t sell up when he wanted, you know.’

‘Why’s
that?’

‘He had
to. After he got fined.’

‘What
for?’

‘Health
and safety.’ The hankie went up a sleeve. Her eyes were fine now, and her
cheeks not so red. ‘Did you not hear? A lad drowned off E Section.’

‘No.’
Nancy shuddered as something fell inside her — like one of those metal shutters
that could stop a car, never mind a smash and grab. Her voice failed.

Years
back a woman had come to the shop and handled a mirror — checked her lower
teeth and a spot on her chin. She’d been sociable and asked how business was
going. Then she’d shocked her by using her name: ‘Nancy I’m not a customer. I’m
a copper.

Feeling
sick, she’d said, ‘What have I done?’

‘Nothing.
Can we have a talk, just us two, going no further?’

‘Well,
I suppose so.’

She’d
tried to win her round, with talk of the poor mother, and that man Bradshaw,
the father, who’d walked out of the court. Cartwright, that was her name.
Jennifer. She’d made insinuations. It was like being trapped in Wyecliffe’s
office all over again.

‘Where
was he last Saturday?’

‘The
car-boot fair at Barking.’

‘It
rained.’

‘He
went.’

‘What
time did he get back?’

‘I was
asleep.’ That hadn’t been true. But lying awake was her secret.

‘What
time did you go to bed?’

‘Elevenish’

‘The
fair would have wound up by six or seven?’

‘Yes,
but his van broke down.’

‘Where?’

‘How
would I know?’ These police and their daft questions.

Babycham
said, A lad went through some of the planks. Harold had put up a notice, a
fence, bollards, but they’d all been moved. Dumped in the river.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes.
He’d checked them on the Friday at seven o’clock, but they’d gone by Saturday
night.’

Nancy
said nothing. Babycham stepped closer. Fur tickled Nancy’s wrist.

‘And
that was when the lad drowned, the Saturday They said he was a trespasser.’

‘And Mr
Lawton got fined?’

‘Because
of the holes in the fence and the missing bollards.’ Like she had an itch, she
repeated. ‘They said he was a trespasser.’

‘I
suppose he was, then.’

‘Well,
I don’t think so. And neither does Harold.’

A
slow-moving HGV had snarled up the traffic. It crawled past, heaving a trailer
with a huge shed on it, more like a fairy-tale doll’s house, painted red and
white. There were two windows and a door in the middle. Someone’s moving home,
joked Nancy to herself, her eyes smarting. The idea stung everywhere at once,
as if she’d crunched a nest underfoot; wasps, angry and purposeful, swarmed
around her.

Jennifer
had said, ‘Where was the van fixed?’

‘On the
spot.’

‘Who
by?’

‘He
does it himself … He keeps everything he needs in the back.’

‘Why?’

‘Well,
it’s been breaking down a lot recently’

‘For
how long?’

‘Six
months.’

And he
always does the work himself?’

‘Yes.’

At the
side of the road?’

‘Yes.’

‘Have
you seen him do it?’

‘Once.’
She’d said it with a gusty success, as if she’d swatted a big one.

‘When?’

‘At
home. About three months back.’

Jennifer
had looked inside a wardrobe and checked the joints. ‘Does he always tell you
when the van breaks down?’

‘Well,
if he doesn’t tell me, there’s no way I’d find out, is there?’ These police. No
wonder they didn’t catch anyone. ‘We’re man and wife, you know. That’s why we
talk.’

‘Of
course, Nancy … But there are people who say things … and your husband won’t
help himself, you know that. That’s why I’ve come to you.’

‘Saying
what sort of things?’

Babycham
said, ‘We think it was deliberate.’

The
doll’s house had gone, and Nancy hadn’t noticed. She hugged herself, gripping
her elbows. ‘Deliberate? You mean the lad jumped in?’

‘No. I
mean someone pushed him. Or let him fall. Got him out there. When it wasn’t
safe.’

‘Why do
that?’

‘I
wonder.’

‘Who’d
do a thing like that?’

‘There’s
no knowing, is there?’ It was a real question. Nancy stepped back, away from the
tickling hairs. ‘Then Mr Lawton should’ve fixed the fence.’

Babycham
dug out the hankie and prodded the corners of her mouth. A matey tenderness
from the yard made her voice suddenly hoary — like when they’d told Carmel
Pilchard to get knotted, that she couldn’t join in — ‘You haven’t changed.’

‘Neither
have you.’ For one brief, terrible moment they were both barelegged in
knee-high socks, with bruises on their knees. Pilchard’s main had one eye and
her dad was doing time. ‘Serves him right with a name like that,’ Babycham had
said. Nancy had thought that a bit on the harsh side.

‘Best
be off,’ said Babycham, checking her watch — it was small and gold with
trinkets dangling off the strap: a horse, a pig and a penny ‘I’d stay but I’ve
a plane to catch. Winter break.’

‘Very
nice.’

‘Who’d’ve
thought there’d be an airport between the King George and the Royal Albert. The
place was dead.’

With a
quite awful longing, Nancy wanted to go back to those days of heavy morning
mists … when they’d first arrived at the docks, when she’d tramped up the
iron stairs to the office with a view of the river. On some days, you wouldn’t
be able to see it until lunchtime. As the sun burnt through the sodden cloud,
the waves would appear, here and there, like silver chains. She wanted to wind
back time some more, into the yard, by the toilets, when they’d changed their
mind about Carmel. They’d felt sorry for her main. Exclusions weren’t so bad,
then, although it had felt like it. She said, And who’d’ve thought you’d be
cooking dinner for Mr Lawton.’

Babycham
pressed a button on a key and a nice car winked. It was like magic.

Nancy
said, ‘I’ll see you around, then.’

‘No.
You won’t.’ She didn’t deal in returns, Babycham. And she always spoke her
mind.

‘Ta-ra,
then.’

‘Yes, ta-ra.’

When the bus pulled into
the depot, Nancy changed numbers and followed another route, her face set
against the window It was useless, but she kept looking for Mr Johnson, while
her mind kept turning to Arnold. Her breath steamed up the glass. She gave it a
rub with the sleeve of her coat … and out of nowhere, she remembered seeing
her man at the top of their street at two in the morning Nancy knew it was him
from his walk, and the way his arms swung like loose ropes.

9

As Nick drove through the
pinks and thatch of Suffolk, he continued to brood upon the tall figure at the
window of the Butterfly Room. Charles had been watching as Nick pulled away on
yet another solitary jaunt in the Beetle.

Ironically
since Nick had left Australia, a great distance had fallen between them. Nick
had been making short expeditions: from Larkwood, to Mr Wyecliffe, to Dr Okoye,
to Mrs Dixon and now, coming full circle, back to Larkwood again. And he had
said nothing to his father — not since he’d concluded that the dear old buffer
hadn’t the faintest idea what his wife had been up to. Driving through the
monastery gates, Nick resolved to buy some red mullet and white Burgundy He
would cook the meal that his father had planned on the day Elizabeth had died.
And, when they were warm and tipsy he’d tell him all that had been happening
while they’d both been far away on different continents.

Nick couldn’t take his
eyes off his mother’s accomplice: a solemn man in a school blazer that was far
too small for him. The white cuffs of an ample shirt stuck out from the
sleeves. A blue-and-yellow-striped tie suggested membership of an exclusive cricket
club. His eyes were dark, like rings in pale saucers.

Apart
from Nick and Mr Bradshaw, seated round the table were Inspector Cartwright and
three monks: the Prior of Larkwood, Father Anselm and Brother Cyril — a man
whose pinned sleeve would have evoked Admiral Nelson, had it not been for his
defining squareness. He seemed to have lost his neck, never mind an arm. They
assembled in a cool room of thick white stone. Arched windows threw sunshine
across the old flags like banners of yellow cloth.

‘It’s
all very simple,’ said Brother Cyril, as if it were a complaint. ‘In a
nutshell, it’s a scheme to sell information, but it’s hidden within a
legitimate business. I became suspicious because if you look at the receipt
numbers and the dates and the description, on one and the same day Mr Riley
sometimes sells an object but then buys it back again. I’ll give you an
example. Let’s take that ashtray Imagine it’s on Mr Riley’s stall. There’s a
little sticker on it marked ‘£15’.
But he sells it for £30.
Then he buys
it back again for £15. It’s a crazy way of accounting for the fact that he’s
made £15 and the ashtray hasn’t left the table.’

‘But
that isn’t what we’ve been told,’ said Inspector Cartwright. ‘Our understanding
is that people arrive, give him money and then leave.’

‘Of
course they do, because that’s exactly what happens: they buy some information.’
Brother Cyril scanned his audience. ‘The shenanigan with the receipts is done
afterwards. It only occurs on paper. The ashtray doesn’t even move. But the
receipts show that a different kind of sale has occurred. They prove that Riley
pocketed £15.’

‘But
why do you think he’s selling information?’ asked Father Anselm tentatively.

‘Because
otherwise,’ snapped Brother Cyril, ‘someone’s giving him money for nowt.’

Nick
was amazed. Neither of the other monks was in the least discomfited by the ill
temper of their confrere.

‘And
why go to such lengths?’ added the Prior. Each eyebrow was like a chewed
toothbrush, and his glasses were lopsided, with a paperclip on one side for a
screw He had received Nick with surprising warmth.

‘There’s
only one explanation,’ said Brother Cyril, raising a thick index finger. ‘If he
got rumbled, he could trace every transaction, just like I’ve done. He can
account for every penny received. There’s no cash in hand. So he can show that
when all’s said and done, he’s paid tax on the lot. In fact, he’s in breach of
all manner of accounting rules because this is a completely separate business
— and he wouldn’t pay any tax at all if he’d set it up properly And that brings
me to the heart of this completely barmy system.’ He laid his arm flat on the
table, fingers splayed. ‘On the one hand, he must think that what he’s doing
is legal, because he could have sold his information over a pint of beer.
Instead, he fills out all this paperwork to demonstrate what he’s doing. On
the other hand’ — he shrugged the shoulder with the missing arm — ‘he’s
obviously hiding something. And that suggests it’s an illegal activity.’

‘But
who, then, is he hiding it from?’ asked Inspector Cartwright.

‘Nancy’
replied a husky voice.