A Wayward Game (8 page)

It’s a slim
chance, of course – so slim a chance, in truth, that I wondered if
it was even worth the effort. But I find, unexpectedly, that it has
paid off. Amongst a list of chronologically-ordered spreadsheets, I
find a file entitled “June 2006”, and click on it.

It takes a
moment for me to untangle the vast amount of information accrued
here, the bewildering records of names, dates, and hours. Then I
find the cells for June 15th and 16th, and the names of the two
concierges who would have been on duty on those days. The evening
and night of June 15th-16th, when Sallow and Diane returned from
Dorset, was covered by William Walsh; the morning and afternoon of
June 16th, when Diane was reported missing, by Martha Lewis. I
scribble the names down in my notepad, and take another quick
glance through the doorway. The telephone on the front desk rings
as I do so, and the concierge reaches out and picks up the
receiver, answering in his polite, rather bland way.

As his voice
drones on, I close the spreadsheet and the sub-folder, and return
to the “Staff Records” folder. Scrolling down, I find an Access
database titled “Staff Contact Details”, and open it. It takes me a
moment to locate William Walsh, before his details flash up: 22
Rose Court, Blackheath, followed by a telephone number. I make a
note of these details, and then look for Martha Lewis. Her address
is listed as 13B Wallington Lane, Deptford. I scribble everything
down, and then slip my notebook back inside my handbag and close
the database just as the concierge finishes his telephone
conversation.

I can scarcely
believe my luck. It was such a long shot, so unlikely that these
details would exist after all this time. I smile, and then remember
that I am meant to be feeling unwell, and try to put on a strained,
miserable expression. To complete the pretence, I pick up the
telephone, pretend to dial, and then hold a curious, one-sided
conversation with the buzz of the dial tone: “Hello? Yes, I’d like
to make an appointment . . . Yes, for this afternoon, if possible .
. . Yes, Jane Hollis. Doctor Smith did tell me not to hesitate if I
felt unwell again. Yes, thank you. Goodbye.”

I get up and
walk out into the lobby. The concierge glances up as I pass, and
smiles.

“Are you
feeling better now, Madam?”

“Yes, thank
you. Much better.” I smile back at him, and hesitate just for a
moment. “I wonder – I’ve an old family friend who works here, I
think. I’ve lost contact with him in recent years. William Walsh.
Do you know him?”

The concierge
looks mystified, and shakes his head. “William Walsh? I don’t know
anyone of that name. I haven’t been here long myself, though, just
ten months or so. He must have left or retired before I
started.”

“That’s a
shame. I remember he once mentioned a colleague and friend of his
here, Martha. Martha Lewis, I think her name was. Is she still
here?”

“Martha?” A
shadow passes over his young face. “Didn’t you hear? She died a
couple of months ago. Collapsed suddenly. Heart trouble, I
think.”

“Oh, God. How
awful. I’m very sorry.”

“Well, I didn’t
know her very well, but all the same, it was a terrible shock.”

“No doubt.
Well, thank you. You’ve been very helpful.”

“Do you need
anything else, Madam?”

“No, thank you.
I’ll be quite all right now. Goodbye.”

I turn and
begin to walk away, anxious to get away from Lexwood House now that
I have the information I wanted. It’s a relief to step outside, out
into the cool, fresh air. I walk away from the building and towards
the Thames, comforted by the familiar city skyline. On the
embankment, I stop and look back.

For all its
clean, rational spaces and tasteful luxury, Lexwood House is a
cursed place in my mind, a haunted place. Diane was, ultimately, a
stranger in this place. She was a chameleon, of course, and adopted
the tone of her environment. She did so successfully enough to fool
outsiders, but those on the inside would never have been deceived.
She would never really have been a member of this privileged set,
and being on the outside in such a way automatically puts you at a
disadvantage. Sallow had all the power, and he must have known it.
I look up at the tenth floor, where Sallow still lives, and then
feel my heart constrict as a curtain in one of the windows
twitches.

For an instant
– little more than a second – I see a bleary image of a man who, at
this distance, looks like Sallow. He peers out of the window, and
across into the city. He’s dishevelled, as far as I can tell,
wearing a bathrobe, his hair rumpled with sleep. He should be at
work at this hour, but of course he could be ill, or hung over.
Given what I’ve heard about his leisure pursuits these days, I
guess it’s the latter, or some combination of the two.

The curtain
falls back into place, and Sallow disappears.

Don’t be
afraid. Fear can make you freeze. Over the years, I’ve taught
myself to overcome my fear – not by denying its existence, but by
acknowledging and then defying it. If you’re afraid of flying, get
on the plane anyway. If you’re afraid of water, jump into the pool,
and you’ll be so busy trying to swim that you’ll soon forget to be
afraid. The moment you stop moving, however, you’re done for. I
hitch my handbag up onto my shoulder and walk away, as nonchalantly
as I can. My trembling heart slows as I walk, and my fear fades,
but a nagging unease remains.

I walk back
into the heart of Greenwich, and am surrounded by a sea of
pedestrians and roaring vehicles, and by the security of anonymity.
A gaggle of Italian teenagers, accompanied by a weary teacher, walk
by, talking loudly. A tour bus creeps past, and I catch the guide
talking about Maritime Greenwich. Everything is so commonplace, and
so comforting, that for a moment I wonder if I’m not just allowing
my nerves to get the better of me.

I make my way
back to the tube station, and board the train that will take me
back to the centre of London. I sit down next to the window, and
feel my taut body beginning to relax. The train clatters through a
tunnel, and then emerges into the light once more, and I look back
across the Thames. Greenwich begins to recede into the distance,
but the ugly tower of Lexwood House remains visible for a long
time, glowering over the city, and watching me as I watch it.

Lucy Lowry died
in a car accident four years ago. She has no particular connection
to this story, except insofar as she was, when alive, a reporter
for an obscure local newspaper called the South-West London Gazette
and, during her time there, mentored an aspiring young journalist
called Katherine Argyle.

I stayed in
touch with her over the years, grateful for the help she had given
me, and when she died I went to the funeral, and then helped her
sister to clear out her rented one-bedroom flat in Kingston. There,
amongst all the usual effects of a single thirty-something working
woman – bank statements, old make-up, a jumble of shoes and
handbags, and contraceptive pills to delay the pregnancies that
would now never arrive at all – I found her staff ID card. Knowing
as I did by then that having a few aliases to hand can be a useful
thing, I stuffed it into my pocket and took it home with me. It
wasn’t an honest or honourable thing to do, I suppose, but I like
to think that Lucy would have understood. Sometimes, if you want
that big story, you have to resort to slightly underhand
methods.

I glance down
at Lucy’s card. The photograph shows her as she was shortly before
her death, and she was not dissimilar, physically, to the woman I
have become. She could easily pass for my sister – or even,
perhaps, for me. Like me, she was brown-haired, indistinctive,
easily confused with another. Her hair was a touch lighter than
mine, and her face a little plumper, but no one, glancing at this
tiny photograph, would guess that the woman staring out from it was
not me.

Or so I hope,
at least. I hold the card more firmly, and walk the remaining
distance along the quiet suburban street.

Finding out
William Walsh’s identity and address proved relatively easy, of
course, but that is no guarantee of success. Perhaps he has moved
elsewhere, or even died, since 2006. Even if he is still here, he
won’t necessarily buy my story, or agree to talk to me, but there’s
nothing to be lost by trying. I ring the doorbell and wait, my
stomach fluttering with nerves.

Slow footsteps
echo inside the house, and I hear the sound of a bolt being drawn
back. The door opens, and a pale, wrinkled face looks out at me.
It’s a kindly face, tranquil, and curiously ageless. The blue eyes
that stare back at me are bright, intelligent, and not unfriendly.
The man to whom these features belong is comfortably dressed in a
pale blue pullover and beige trousers, the kind of smartly casual
attire that makes me think that he was raised with a degree of
formality. Only his blue slippers hint that he is doing no more
than relaxing at home. He smiles at me, a little warily, and raises
an eyebrow in an enquiring manner.

“Mr Walsh?” I
ask, smiling at him.

“Yes.”

“Lucy Lowry,
South-West London Gazette.” I hold out my false ID, and hope that
Mr Walsh won’t ask too many questions, or call the office to make
enquiries. He peers at the ID card, and then looks back at me, a
little cautiously.

“Yes? Can I
help you?” he asks.

“Perhaps you
can, Mr Walsh. I’m writing an article about the disappearance of
Diane Meath-Jones. I understand that you were working as a
concierge at Lexwood House, where she lived, at the time.”

“Oh, dear me.”
Mr Walsh sighs, and shakes his head. His voice is pure Cockney, his
diction slightly dated. “How the devil did you find out where I
lived? No, don’t tell me – I know that you journos have your little
ways. Well, yes. Diane Meath-Jones. That poor girl. Breaks my heart
to think of her, even now. But – with all due respect, love – I
can’t see why people can’t move on, and leave her to rest in peace.
Really, I told the police everything I knew just after she
disappeared.”

“Yes, of
course. I do understand.” I smile again, a little apologetically.
“It’s just that, eight years on, there are still no answers for
Diane’s family or friends.”

“Yes, of
course.” Mr Walsh’s face softens. “Yes, it must be bloody awful for
them. I do sympathise. But still, I wonder what good can come of
yet another article about it. Millions of words have been spoken
and written already, and still nobody knows what happened.”

“The case
always attracted a great deal of publicity. It will be years before
it’s forgotten. And – well, personally, I don’t think it
should
be forgotten. Not while so many questions remain
unanswered.”

“Yes. Yes, of
course.” I sense a brief, fierce struggle taking place behind Mr
Walsh’s kindly eyes before, all at once, he seems to give in.
“Look, love, if I do talk to you, don’t go printing my name, all
right? It’s just – well, this is my
life
. I never asked to
be caught up in all of this.”

“Of course, Mr
Walsh. I’d never name a source if they didn’t wish me to.”

“All right.
Five minutes, then.”

Mr Walsh leads
me down the hallway and into a small, flawlessly neat living room.
A newsreader’s voice wafts from the radio in the corner, and he
switches it off as he enters the room. A large tabby cat is lying
on a cushion in the corner, and opens one sleepy eye as I walk in.
It gives me a cool, green-eyed stare and then, having decided that
I am of no interest after all, closes its eyes and falls asleep
again. A grandfather clock chimes the hour. There are a large
number of family photographs on display, some of them rather old.
One of them shows a slightly younger Mr Walsh, standing on a beach
with his arm around a smiling, grey-haired lady.

“My wife,” Mr
Walsh says, as if reading my thoughts. “Died four years ago, God
bless her.”

“I’m very
sorry.”

“It’s not very
nice, being the one left behind,” Mr Walsh says. “You get so used
to that other person being there, it’s like a part of you gets
ripped away. And your life tends to shrink a bit as you get older:
friends and workmates get thinner on the ground, your kids are away
getting on with their own lives, and only your wife is there, and
when she goes – well, I don’t know what to do with myself,
sometimes. Are you married, love?”

“No.” I
smile.

“Pity. Funny
how women tend to stay single for so long these days. Times change,
of course. Would you like a cup of tea? Some biscuits?”

“No thank you,
Mr Walsh. I can’t stay long; I’ve a very full day ahead.”

“I suppose you
have. People always seem to be in a hurry these days. There are
times when I’m bloody glad I don’t have to run around anymore.” He
smiles as he sits down in the armchair opposite. “Getting older
does have
some
advantages – not that you’ll need to worry
about that for a good few years, of course. Well, what did you want
to know?”

“How long did
you work at Lexwood House, Mr Walsh?”

“Not very long.
I never really had what you might call a career, you see. In my
day, you didn’t; you just took whatever work was going. So I did
this and that over the years, and then found myself just three
years short of retirement age, and thought that a job as a
concierge might not be too bad. I’d be sitting down a lot, with
plenty of people to chat to, and pretty easy work. I started there
in,” – he thinks for a moment, frowning up at the ceiling – “2003,
it must have been. Got on pretty well with it, too.”

“You enjoyed
it?”

“It wasn’t too
bad. A bit slow at times. And the people who lived there weren’t as
chatty as I’d hoped. But why would they have been? They were young,
they were busy; they didn’t have time for a daft old codger like
me.”