Dark Eyes of London (4 page)

Chapter Seven

It was well after nine when Tom got home that night.  He spent around half an hour sitting in Trafalgar Square watching the passers-by. The fine drizzle turned to rain just after midday. He looked up at the sky, which was now filled with heavy dark grey clouds. He pulled his anorak hood up, and walked across the square. He didn’t feel like going home to an empty flat, so he decided to wander down Northumberland Avenue to the river.

He slowly made his way along the embankment, past Westminster, Lambeth and Vauxhall Bridges. Then took the Nine Elms Lane over to Battersea.  Looked at his watch: twenty to seven.  God, he had no idea he had been walking so far and so long. 

Suddenly realizing he was hungry he called into a kebab take-away. Quickly finishing his meal, he decided to make his way home. He knew it would be a long journey: the 345 bus to Clapham, then an Overground the rest of the way.

He slowly climbed the stairs to his flat, fumbled in his pocket for his door key, then let himself in.  Threw his keys on to the kitchen worktop, a quick bathroom visit, and then flopped onto the sofa.

He lay on the sofa for a while staring up at the ceiling, or what he could see of the ceiling as it was dark, the curtains were open, and it was only lit up by the light from the street lamps outside.

After a while, he sat up and rubbed his face with his hands.   He still couldn’t believe what had happened over the last day or so.  It was surprise enough for Lisa to call him, for her to want to meet him; but for her to be gone like this was incomprehensible.

Still staring, but now at a blank TV screen, he thought about what he should do next.  They were divorced after all, no children to consider; no relationship legal or otherwise. Should he contact her parents, her sister? They would know by now, of course as the policewoman had told him, but was it up to him to call them?  The inquest?  The - he swallowed as he realised this - funeral?  He wanted to go, but....

He leaned back on the sofa, looking up at the ceiling. So many questions, so much to take in.   He closed his eyes.

*****

It was the sound of the next morning’s dustbin collection what woke Tom up. Stirring as he still lay on the sofa, he blinked, rubbed his eyes, and looked around.  It was daylight, the clock on the television said 07:35.

‘God,’ he mumbled. Sat up and ran both hands through his hair.  Realised he was still wearing his coat from last night, he stood up and took it off.  Cursing that his sofa was now damp from last night’s rain as well as his coat, he threw the coat on the floor and walked over to the large bay windows.

He looked down at the street. The yellow dustcart was further down the street, leaving empty bins in its wake.

‘Shit,’ he exclaimed, as he realised he had not left his bin out. ‘That’s another two weeks.’

Looking in the other direction, he saw the couple two doors down leave for work hand in hand.  He heard the door upstairs slam, heard footsteps running down the stairs, heard the building front door slam, then saw the weird punk’s boyfriend walk down the road.

Watched a double decker bus - route 98 - pass by, then a 297 in the other direction.

Looked at his watch.  It was just before eight. Time to get up.   In the bathroom, he undressed and stepped into the shower.  The hot water hit him: the flats in this street were on the grotty side, for sure, but ever since the landlord had paid out for new plumbing the shower was the best.  He ran his hands over his hair, dragging it back over his head. Eyes closed, he reached for the shampoo.  As he massaged it into his scalp he recollected the times before and during their marriage when he and Lisa would shower together.  In the early years of their marriage, that is.

That thought brought back to him the reality of what had happened. He finished in the shower, shaved, and dressed.

Over his breakfast of coffee and toasted stale bread he tried to find a contact number for Lisa’s sister Jane, or her parents.  Neither was stored in his mobile’s address book, nor in his landline’s memory. He scratched the back of his head while he tried to recall the numbers, or where he might have them.

He rummaged through the papers he kept in a kitchen drawer. Yes, there it was, he thought he had kept it.  It was a business card Lisa’s sister Jane gave him.    There was a contact number on it.  A mobile number.  He picked up his own mobile and dialled. There was one dial tone, then a bleep. The screen on his phone showed a red exclamation mark, and the message
Number Not in Use
. Tom ended the call and put the phone down. The numbers would be in Lisa’s phone; maybe if he called Sergeant Green she would give him the numbers.  Or maybe not; she would probably cite confidentiality.  In any case, he was not too keen on talking to the sergeant again, unless he had to.

He decided to wait, to see if either of them contacted him.

He finished his toasted stale bread, and took his coffee over to the table, where he had left his thesis materials the other afternoon.  He still had two more days off from work booked, and then it was the weekend. He opened the folder and looked at the papers inside.

An hour later, he was still looking at the same sheet of paper.  It was no good: he couldn’t concentrate on the thesis; there was too much going on in his mind.  He thought about Lisa and what the police sergeant had said about the three possible explanations about what happened.  Even though they had long parted, he had known her intimately for years: there was no way she would have jumped in front of the train. No way.  As for someone pushing her, that was   like something out  of a movie or a TV show.  It just didn’t happen in real life.  He reflected for a moment: he remembered reading something in the
Metro
about somebody being stabbed in the street by a woman who had just been released from a psychiatric hospital, so it was
possible
, maybe, but pretty unlikely.   So maybe she did just fall, if the platform was crowded and she got too close to the edge. Or she tripped...

But why had she changed lines?

‘Oh Lisa, why?’ he said aloud.

Feeling himself welling up, he decided he needed to do something. Not the thesis.  Not today. He looked around the flat. Not particularly tidy.  Books, newspapers, his damp coat all lying around. Three days’ washing up in the kitchen sink.

‘Right, must do something,’ he said aloud, getting off the sofa. Like a man with a mission, he spent the next hour frantically tidying, vacuuming and cleaning his flat. Not his favourite way to spend the morning, but it passed the time.

Once that was done, he decided to go out.  Had no idea where: just out. Somewhere.   He called in at his local pub, The Grapes, which was dingy inside, but the food was adequate. At least better than toasted stale bread.  After two beers and a sandwich, he decided against getting a tube or bus somewhere, but he would walk. Walk.  Just to clear his head and think through how to deal with Lisa’s death.

He walked nowhere in particular, just round and round the streets.  Some places he passed twice. He stopped at a Starbucks for a Latte. By then it was just after five, it was almost dark, and beginning to rain again.  Time to go home.  He called in at his local supermarket   and arrived back at his building around six-thirty, laden with two plastic bags full of groceries.

He let himself in the building front door, and started to climb the stairs to his floor.  Just as he reached the halfway point, where the stairs did the 180 degree point, he froze. He could hear a woman in conversation, but it was Lisa!  But it couldn’t be, could it?  He shook his head: his ears must be deceiving him, but the voice sounded just like hers did the day before yesterday.

He turned the 180 degrees and as he climbed the last part of the stairs he could see a figure in a black coat walking around his landing. It was a female and she was on the phone. But he couldn’t mistake the voice: it was Lisa.

The woman noticed him arrive and turned round. ‘Call you back later,’ she said into the phone.  Then gave Tom a faint smile. ‘Hello, Tom,’ she said. ‘Long time, no see.’

Tom stopped at the top of the stairs.

‘Hello, Jane,’ he said.

Chapter Eight

Tom froze at the sight of his former sister-in-law.

Jane inclined her head to Tom’s door. ‘Are you going to let me in?’ she asked.  ‘Or do you want to talk out here?’

‘Sorry,’ he laughed, and stepped over to his door. He was carrying a plastic supermarket bag in each hand. He clumsily passed one bag over to his left hand while he fumbled in his pocket for his door keys. The bags were too full and heavy for one hand, and he was in danger of dropping both bags.  The more he fumbled, the more flustered he became.

‘Here, let me,’ said Jane, taking the key from him, and unlocking the door.

‘Thanks,’ he said, indicating for Jane to go in first.

Tom followed Jane in and went straight to the kitchen and put his shopping down on the counter top. He took off his wet coat and hung it up. Jane wandered around the hallway, looking around at the inside of the flat.

‘Very nice,’ she said, not convincingly. ‘Very - cosy.’

‘Cosy isn’t the word I’d use,’ replied Tom, as he led Jane into the living room. ‘Small and compact, I’d call it.’

‘But it’s home,’ she said.

‘Yes, it’s home,’ said Tom. ‘A bit smaller than...’

Jane nodded thoughtfully. ‘Yes. The last time I saw you it was at your house. Yours and Lisa’s house, I mean.  Sorry, I didn’t mean...’

‘It’s okay,’ Tom said softly.

‘Come here,’ Jane said, holding her arms out.  Tom walked over and they hugged. Hugged tightly and for a long time.

‘Oh Tom, I’m going to miss her,’ Jane cried. ‘So much.’

‘Me too,’ Tom replied. He let her go and led her over to the sofa.

‘Come and sit down.  Give me your coat.  Do you want something to drink?  Coffee? Tea?  Something stronger?’

‘Tea would be fine,’ Jane said quietly.

‘Coming up,’ Tom said, and went into the kitchen. While he was waiting for the kettle to boil he heard Jane blow her nose a couple of times. Then he heard the text message received bleep of a mobile phone. As he brought out two cups of tea Jane appeared to be texting a reply.  She looked up at him, sent the message, and put the phone back in her bag.  Her eyes were red.

‘Thanks,’ she mouthed as she took the tea.

Tom sat down on a chair the other side of his coffee table. ‘I was planning on calling you,’ he said, ‘but I couldn’t find a number. At least I had one.  On an old business card you had given me.  I tried it, but it must have been an old number.’

She shook her head. ‘No, that’s a wrong number.  Obviously.  I changed jobs a while back.’

‘I guessed so,’ he said, staring into his tea.

‘I didn’t have a number for you, either,’ Jane said.  ‘The police still have Lisa’s mobile.  I thought I ought to get in touch with you. I asked the police if they could access her address book to get some numbers, but they said they couldn’t.  Data Protection Act or something.’

‘Bullshit.’

‘Well, that’s what they said.  I had a spare key to her place fortunately. Couldn’t find any number for you anywhere, but she had a letter from your bank about the mortgage when you sold the house, and that had this address on it as well as hers.’

‘Oh, I see.  I wondered...’

‘So I came round here. Praying that you hadn’t moved.’

‘No. Still here.  Probably here forever.’

Jane smiled.

Neither of them said a word for a few moments until Tom said, ‘How is your mother? How has she taken the news?’

‘She doesn’t know.’

‘Doesn’t know?’

‘A lot’s happened since you and Lisa split. Our father died late last year.’

‘Yes, I knew that.  I’m sorry.’

Jane sniffed and continued, ‘Our mother was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s at the beginning of last year.’

‘Oh no, Jane...’

‘Yeah, the hits keep on coming, don’t they? She had to go into a home in the summer and I think it was the strain of all that that finished Dad off.  He had had a heart attack before.’

‘Is she still in a home?’

‘Yes, always will be.  Until...’

‘I assume she doesn’t know what’s going on at all?’

‘She doesn’t recognise me now.  Lisa and I went to visit her  a couple of weeks back, but nothing registered. So now there’s just me left.’

‘Jane, I don’t know what to say.’

She blew her nose again. ‘Not much to say really, Tom.  At least I’ve got Sully.  He’s been really supportive.’

‘Sully?  Don’t remember him.’

‘No, don’t suppose you do. We got together about the same time you and Lisa split.’

Tom thought a moment. ‘Dark hair, fairly tall?’

‘That’s the one. Wondered if you’d met him.’

‘Vaguely remember him. So - you two are an item.’

Jane nodded. ‘Yeah. Been together a while now. Moved into our place together last year.  Just before Dad died in fact.’

‘Up in Newcastle?’

‘Good God, no. Just outside Croydon.’

‘Croydon?’

‘Sounds exotic, doesn’t it? Sully - Sullivan Beecham, by the way - works for a bank.  A manager.’ 

‘And what do you do?’ Tom drank the rest of his now cold tea.

‘I work in a shop near where we are. Not much, but I enjoy it.’

‘And where you live, house, flat, what?

‘Small house.  New build, they call it. Nothing fantastic.  Two up, two down.’

Tom nodded.  ‘Cool.’

‘We’ll need a second bedroom next spring, you see.’

‘You’ll need..? You mean you’re..?’

She nodded, smiling. ‘Yes, in May.’

‘Well, that’s fantastic,’ Tom said as he leaned over to kiss her cheek.  ‘Congratulations!”

‘Thanks,’ Jane replied. ‘It’s a pity there’s no-one left to...’

A few moments where nobody spoke.

‘What happened, Jane?’ Tom asked. ‘The police said she must have tripped, or fell. Or she jumped.  Or somebody pushed her.’

‘There’s no way on this earth she would have jumped. She wasn’t the type.  You hadn’t seen her for a while, Tom, but I saw her regularly.  She would be the last person to kill herself.’

‘Was she seeing..?’

‘Was she seeing anyone? Not really.  Since you two broke up I think she went on a couple of dates, but nothing came of them. No, she said she was perfectly happy discovering herself and enjoying her independence.’

‘But when we were together she -’

Jane held her hand up. ‘I’m not judging anyone, Tom.  That’s just what she said.  She had got herself a new job.  Something in market research in Docklands.  No, she would never have jumped.  Never.  As for the idea that she was pushed: well, who’d want to do that to her?  The only person she fell out with was you, and I can’t see you pushing her in front of a train.’

‘No,’ said Tom, slightly unnerved. He hadn’t thought through the implications of Lisa being murdered: would he be thought of as a suspect?

‘No,’ Jane said, wiping her nose again. ‘It was just an accident.  A tragic accident.’

‘What about the funeral?’ asked Tom.

‘There’ll have to be an inquest,’ said Jane.  ‘Then her body gets released for the funeral.  From what that policewoman -’

‘Sergeant Green?’

‘That’s her. From what she said, we’re looking at around two weeks’ time.’

‘I’d like to go.’

‘I’d like you to be there.’

‘And the arrangements?  Do you need me to do anything?’

‘No, it’s all right, thanks.  Sully and I are taking care of things.’

‘I assume your mother won’t be there.’

‘No point.  She doesn’t know what’s going on.  No point dragging her down from Newcastle.’

‘No.’ As Tom spoke he tried to suppress a yawn.

‘I’m keeping you up,’ Jane said, as she picked up her bag.

‘No, it’s all right - sorry...’

‘It’s getting late, and I’ve got a longish journey home.’

‘How did you get here?’

‘Drove. My car’s the mini out there.’

‘With the Union Jack?’

She nodded.

‘I noticed that.’

‘I’ll just text Sully and let him know I’m leaving.  Can I use your bathroom first?’

‘Sure, just through there.’

Moments later, she came out of the bathroom, texting.

‘Thanks for coming,’ Tom said, passing Jane her coat.

‘I’d better take your number,’ she said.

‘Of  course.’ He gave her the number.  She saved it, and then pressed a few more keys.

‘I’ve just sent you mine,’ she said, as a bleep came from his coat pocket.

‘Nice place, really,’ she said looking round as she left the flat. ‘Not what I was expecting, to be honest.’

‘How do you mean?’ he asked, holding the door open for her.

She laughed. ‘I expected it to be really slobby.  But you keep it really clean and tidy.  Nice.’

Tom said nothing, but shrugged. He walked down the stairs with her, and out to the mini, which was parked three buildings down.

‘Still there,’ he said.

‘Nice to see you again, Tom,’ she said, reaching up and kissing him on the cheek.

‘And you,’ he replied. ‘Pity it’s not...’

‘I know,’ Jane said, climbing into her car. She started the engine, and pulled into the traffic. Tom waited by the roadside until he saw her tail lights turn the first corner. Then he ambled back to his building.

He slapped himself on the forehead: he had forgotten to ask if Jane knew why Lisa was on the Piccadilly Line. He considered giving her an hour or two to get home then calling or texting.  Then thought again.  Maybe it would keep until he saw her again.

Maybe.

As he walked up to the first floor he could hear the couple above having an argument.  Lots of shouting,  some doors banging, something smashing. Tom shook his head as he let himself back in. Locked and bolted the door. Took his and Jane’s tea mugs into the kitchen and left them in the sink. He was in bed in ten minutes.

Lying in bed, he ran both hands through his hair, then lay resting his head on his hands.
What next?
He thought.
The inquest and the funeral?

As Tom Raymond drifted off to sleep, a solitary tear trickled down his face.