Two Fridays in April (6 page)

The tips of her fingers are numb. Her wet hair clings unpleasantly to her head. Her trousers are stuck to her thighs. The last thing she feels like doing is going through this drab little house trying to find good things to say about it.

‘Here.’ He’s back, passing her a blue towel, thin and hard. ‘All I could find, I’m afraid, but at least it’s dry.’

She takes it from him without a word, presses it to her face,
gives her hair a brisk rub. Without a comb she must look a show, but he’s hardly in a position to complain.

‘So,’ he says, ‘how do you want us to do this?’

She hands him back the towel and clicks open her briefcase. She pulls out her tape measure and notebook. ‘I can handle it,’ she says crisply. ‘I’ll ask if I need any information.’

He nods, lips pressed together; she gets the impression he’s trying not to smile. Has she said something amusing? Does he think it’s funny that she’s wet and cold because of him?

‘Fine,’ he says. ‘I’ll keep out of your way, then.’

Left alone, she opens her notebook, clamping her teeth together to stop them chattering. A miracle if she doesn’t end up with pneumonia after this. She thinks longingly of a cup of tea – anything hot to wrap her hands around – but it looks like she’ll have to do without it. He probably doesn’t possess a kettle.

She begins to measure the hallway. This will be the fastest valuation in history.

It takes her just under an hour.

Very quickly she realises that the bungalow is in fact quite saleable, despite her negative first impression. Apart from a smallish dark stain at the bottom of one bedroom wall – which experience tells her probably isn’t anything major – the place seems structurally sound. It’s also quite well laid out, with two good-sized bedrooms, a bathroom between them that will have to be described as compact, a surprisingly light-filled kitchen that stretches the width of the house – undoubtedly one of its
main selling points – and a small sitting room with a fireplace that she imagines would be cosy if anyone bothered to light a fire.

The décor is appalling – he has no clue – but that’s easily fixed. The ancient wallpaper could be steamed off and replaced with paint, the flowery curtains binned, with their net partners, the old wooden floors sanded and varnished – they could be beautiful – and the furniture that looks like it’s been there since the Flood consigned to a skip. And all of that would help to banish the cigarette smell that seems to have seeped into every pore of the place.

The house is pretty much empty of ornamentation. No table lamps anywhere, no vases, no knick-knacks, the sitting-room mantelpiece bare apart from a stilled dusty carriage clock. Little on the walls too – a few framed photos in the kitchen featuring various combinations of the same four people: the owner himself, a young woman with dark bobbed hair, a little brown-haired boy, two or three years old, and a frail-looking elderly man.

There’s a picture of the Sacred Heart in the sitting room, complete with red lamp beneath – amazingly, still lit – and a Constable print in the larger of the two bedrooms, above a double bed whose mattress is covered only with a salmon-pink candlewick spread. No pillows, no sheets.

Clearly, he doesn’t live here any more, and neither does anyone else. The wardrobes in both rooms are empty, not a single item of clothing to be found, nothing in the rather battered chest of drawers in the main bedroom. A folded grey towel, just as hard as the one she was given, rests alone in the
small hotpress. No toothbrush in the bathroom, no razor, not even a sliver of soap.

She decides there’s been a break-up. He’s separated or divorced from the woman in the photos, and she moved out with their little boy. She broke his heart, and he can’t bear to stay in the home they shared so he’s moved out too, into temporary accommodation – a poky bedsit, probably – and he’s selling up now and planning to find another house with no bad associations.

She has no evidence to prove any of this, of course, but it’s a common enough scenario. If the walls could talk, she’s pretty sure they’d corroborate her theory. She feels her annoyance dissipating as she considers his situation; for all she knows, he might have come from a fraught meeting with his ex. Trying to sort out custody of their little son, maybe.

‘It’s quiet around here,’ she observes, packing her things away. ‘I was never down this road before.’

‘It’s a peaceful spot,’ he agrees. ‘Not many people know it exists.’

He sat all the time with a newspaper in the chilly little sitting room and didn’t attempt to get involved as she moved through the house. Thankfully he didn’t produce a cigarette while she was there, although she suspects the smell will linger anyway in her clothes and hair when she leaves.

Her throat feels unpleasantly dry, as if she’s been inhaling smoke all through her visit. Not even a glass of water was she offered, let alone a cup of tea. Then again, she doesn’t remember noticing a glass, or any other crockery, in the kitchen.

‘We’ll be in touch,’ she tells him. ‘We’ll get a sign erected on Monday.’

‘That would be good.’

He walks to the door with her. The rain has stopped but the ground is puddled, the air still cool. He looks up the road. ‘I take it you have a car somewhere.’

‘Larkin Crescent.’ She can’t wait to get in and put the heat on full blast.

‘Right so.’ He puts out a hand, and she shakes it again, marvelling at its warmth after an hour in that house. ‘Thanks for coming,’ he says, ‘and sorry again about the late start.’

He’s not too bad. She’ll forgive him the late start.

Outside the gate she checks her watch: nearly half five. The cemetery isn’t that far but it’s Friday and rush hour, no time to be lost.

She makes her way rapidly back along the cul-de-sac and turns left into Larkin Crescent. There’s nobody about, no sign of activity.

She scans the street, doesn’t see her red car. Didn’t she park it just there, outside the blue gate? She looks left and right: the car is nowhere to be seen.

She feels a prickle of anxiety. It must be around the corner. She must have left it further away than she’d thought. She walks quickly to the bend, still sees no sign of the car. God, where is it?

She retraces her steps, more running than walking now, heart pitter-pattering, skin tight with apprehension. Don’t let it be gone, please don’t let it be gone. She goes to the opposite end of the crescent, scans the next road: nothing.

It’s gone.

Her car is gone.

Her car has been stolen.

She returns, heart sinking, to where she left it. Definitely she parked here: she remembers the blue gate. She checks the road – no sign of broken glass. She pushes open the gate, marches up the path, jabs at the doorbell. She listens to it echoing within, hands clenched into fists. When nothing happens she rings it a second time, presses her ear to the door, finally hears approaching footsteps.

There’s a fumbling, a rattle of metal on metal. The door is opened a few inches, as far as the security chain will allow.

‘Yes?’ The slice of face that peers out is female, and elderly. The voice is high, with a sharp edge to it. ‘What do you want?’

‘I’m sorry to bother you,’ Daphne says in a rush. ‘It’s just that – my car, I parked it outside—’

‘Have you ID?’

She stops, thrown. ‘What? No, you don’t—’

‘I need ID, or I’m calling the guards.’

‘What? My car’s been
stolen
. I had it parked right outside your house for about—’

‘You had no
right
to park there,’ the woman says crossly. ‘That parking space is for me and my—’

‘Oh, forget it,’ Daphne says, turning away, swiping at the tears that have sprung up. Trust her to park outside the house of possibly the least helpful person on the road – and why did it have to be stolen today, of all days?

The street remains deserted. The rain begins again, a sudden heavy fall. She ignores it, takes a deep breath and tries to think. What can she do? Who can help her?

Not her father, busy with driving lessons all afternoon.
George? No, she can’t bother him – he’ll be getting ready for his school thing. Mo: she’s good in an emergency, she’ll know what to do. But Mo’s phone rings and rings, and remains unanswered.

She’ll have to phone the police, of course, report the theft – but first she must get to the cemetery, she
must
get there today, and already it’s gone twenty-five to six.

In the end she calls a taxi.

‘Larkin Crescent,’ she says, giving the number on the door of the house she just visited. ‘To St Patrick’s Cemetery. Please hurry.’

She hangs up, casting around for shelter and finding none. Can this day get any worse? The rain pelts down on her in earnest; her hair, her clothes, her shoes, everything is quickly soaked for the second time. She shouldn’t have phoned a taxi, she should just have started walking. Maybe she could—

‘Daphne?’

She starts. Tom Wallace’s silver car has pulled up beside her. She never heard him coming.

‘My car,’ she says, the words tumbling out, her voice shaking ridiculously, ‘it’s been stolen. I need to get to St Patrick’s Cemetery before it closes at six.’

He doesn’t miss a beat. ‘Hop in,’ he says, reaching across to open the passenger door.

She gets in, pulls the door closed. Least he can do – this mess could well be down to him and his late arrival. His car is chilly, but the heat is already on – he switches the fan to full blast. ‘Soon be warm,’ he says. His wipers flick rapidly to and fro, sweeping water away. He moves off. ‘Have you called the guards?’

‘No – I’ll do it after the cemetery.’

He glances at her. She wills him to keep quiet.

‘Daphne, the sooner you—’

‘
No
,’ she snaps. ‘I can’t, I just can’t think about that right now. I’ll do it after. I
must
get to the cemetery.’

She can hear how irrational she sounds, but a phone call is completely beyond her right now. She wouldn’t be able to concentrate, couldn’t communicate with any degree of clarity. If he keeps going on about it she’s in serious danger of exploding.

Thankfully he seems to sense how tightly wound she is. ‘OK,’ he says calmly, and they travel in silence after that.

She sits hunched forward, briefcase clasped to her chest, eyes fixed on the road ahead, seat belt straining around her. Water dribbles from her hair onto her face – she swipes it away, biting her cheek, forbidding the tears that are dangerously close. Her clothes cling to her, heavy as lead. The seat will be ruined after her – might as well have flung a bucket of water over it – but the condition of his car is the least of her concerns right now.

The traffic, once they reach the main road, is dismayingly heavy. They inch along, stopping and starting. Daphne closes her eyes briefly, yearning for Finn, longing for this horrible day to be over.

After an endless crawl the cemetery finally comes into view – she can see it half a block ahead as they sit waiting for a red light to change. She unbuckles her seat belt, unable to wait any longer. She’s afraid to check the time.

‘This is fine,’ she says, reaching for the door handle. ‘Thank you for the lift.’

‘Daphne, I know someone—’

‘
No
,’ she says vehemently. ‘You’ve done enough.’ There: let him take that any way he wants.

She scrambles out and pushes the door closed before he has a chance to say more. She makes her way rapidly through the rain without a backward glance. At the intersection she darts across the street, dodging traffic. She runs the half-block, arrives at the cemetery gates.

They’re closed. By her watch it’s three minutes to six.

The tea is blindingly hot, and very sweet. ‘I’m sorry,’ she repeats, reaching for another tissue, and again the policewoman tells her she has nothing to be sorry about.

‘Drink the tea,’ she tells Daphne, turning for the door. ‘Take your time, no rush. I’ll just put the form through, get the word out.’

Her name is Louise. She’s younger than Daphne, somewhere in her middle-twenties. She smells of soap, or maybe shampoo, something clean and uncomplicated. Her nails are perfect shiny ovals, and she wears an identical thin silver ring on each of her index fingers. Her boyishly cut hair has the colour and sheen of new conkers. She looks vaguely familiar.