Heathen/Nemesis

Seventeen

Number Twenty-Three Lockwood Drive was a converted house off Moscow Road, part of the maze of Notting Hill.

It was white, or had been at one time. Now the painted brickwork was grey with the accumulated grime of the years. Even the flowers in the window box on the ground floor looked as though they’d been sprayed with dust. It was difficult to tell which were alive and which weren’t. A row of iron railings, rusted in places, protected the front of the house and a gate with one hinge missing guarded the short path to the front door. The neighbouring houses were in a similar state; many had FOR SALE signs displayed.

Lights burned in windows and shadowy figures could be seen moving behind curtains. There were few people on the streets and those that were hardly glanced at the two women sitting in the Fiesta parked opposite Number Twenty-Three.

Donna Ward gazed at the house, studying every aspect of it: the colour of the front door, the curtains that hung at the windows. She saw a dark stain at the meeting of the roof and front wall and realized that water had obviously been dripping from a hole in the guttering. Somewhere close by she heard a dog bark.

Street lamps burned with a dull yellow light, casting deep shadows. Inside the car it was silent.

The drive into the heart of London had taken less than an hour. Traffic had been unexpectedly light and Julie had guided them skilfully to their destination. Now she sat in the driver’s seat, one hand pressed to her forehead, her impatience growing.

‘How long are we going to sit here?’ she wanted to know.

Donna ignored the question, her eyes still fixed on the dirty white house across the road.

‘It’s expensive around here,’ she said. ‘A bit grand for a secretary’s wages. Perhaps he was paying her rent, too.’

‘Let’s go. You’ve seen the place, that’s what you wanted.’

Donna reached for the door-handle and pushed it open.

‘What are you doing?’ Julie asked, bewildered.

‘Wait for me,’ Donna instructed her, swinging herself out of the car. She walked briskly across the street and headed for the house, lifting the gate on its hinge as she made her way up the short path and four steps.

Julie, watching from the car, shook her head.

Donna studied the panel beside the front door and saw a number of names attached to the intercom buttons. She ran her index finger down the list:

Weston.

Lawrence.

Regan.

She gritted her teeth when she saw the name, then pressed the main door buzzer and waited.

She heard movement behind the door. A moment later, it was opened and she found herself looking into the face of a man in his sixties, short, balding and with tufts of white hair sprouting from each nostril. It looked as if two snow-white caterpillars were trying to escape from his nose. He was wearing impeccably-pressed trousers, a blue shirt that looked freshly ironed and a spotted bow-tie. On his feet he wore scuffed carpet slippers.

He smiled warmly when he saw Donna.

‘Can I help you?’ he asked.

‘It’s about my sister,’ she lied, her tone sombre. ‘Suzanne Regan.’

The old man nodded, his smile fading.

‘I was very sorry to hear what happened. She was a lovely girl,’ he offered. ‘There’s a family resemblance.’

Donna controlled herself with difficulty.

‘My brother said he was going to call round for some of her things,’ she said, sounding remarkably convincing. ‘But I thought I’d better check whether he had or not.’

‘No one’s been round, Miss Regan,’ he said, glancing down at her left hand, catching sight of the wedding ring. ‘Or is it Mrs?’ He smiled again.

She shook her head.

‘My name is

(careful now)

Blake. Catherine Blake.’

‘Mercuriadis,’ he announced, holding out a hand. She shook it lightly; his hand felt soft and warm. ‘I know it’s a bit of a mouthful. Would you like to come in?’

Bingo.

Donna accepted the invitation and closed the door behind her, looking briefly around the hall. There was a small antique chest to her left with flowers propped in a vase on its scratched top. A pay-phone on the wall. To the right was the half-open door to the landlord’s own flat, presumably. At least she assumed he was the landlord. Ahead of her was a flight of stairs.

‘I’d just like to check my sister’s flat if that’s all right?’ Donna said, trying to hold the old man’s gaze.

‘I’ll get the key,’ he said, and disappeared into the room on the right. Donna could hear the sound of television coming from inside.

Jesus, this was too easy.

See how easy it is to lie.

He returned a moment later clutching the key and ushered her towards the stairs.

‘Did you see much of my sister?’ she wanted to know as they climbed the stairs slowly, the old man wheezing every few steps.

‘No, she kept herself to herself. Very quiet. A lovely girl.’

‘Did she have many visitors? I was always joking with her about getting a boyfriend.’ Donna laughed as convincingly as she could.

‘There was a young man,’ Mercuriadis said. ‘I saw him with her two or three times.’ He lowered his voice into a conspiratorial whisper. ‘I think he spent the night more than once.’ He smiled.

Donna tried to smile but it came out as a grimace.

‘What did he look like?’ she asked.

‘I can’t really remember. Age plays tricks with memory, you know. My wife always used to say that, God rest her soul.’

Had Chris been here? Had he slept here with her?

They reached the first landing and Donna hesitated.

‘It’s up another flight, I’m afraid,’ he told her. ‘It’s a good job my tenants are younger than I am. It never used to bother me, all this climbing. My wife and I bought this house forty years ago. After she died I decided to let the rooms. I don’t like being in a house this size on my own. There aren’t so many tenants now, though. I’ve had to put the rents up and some moved out. The recession, you know.’ He nodded as if to reinforce his statement.

‘Look, I can check out the room myself,’ Donna told him. ‘There’s no need for you to struggle up the stairs. I’ll return the key to you on my way out.’

‘All right, then. That’s very thoughtful of you,’ he said, looking at her.

Was it her imagination or did she see a look of suspicion in his eyes?

Come on, don’t get paranoid.

‘I’m surprised I don’t remember seeing you before,’ he said, still holding onto the key. ‘I don’t usually forget a pretty face.’

Donna smiled with impressive sincerity.

‘Thank you. I live on the South Coast. I didn’t get to see Suzanne as often as I’d like.’

Lying was easier than she’d thought.

He nodded again and handed her the key.

‘I’ll leave you to it, then,’ he said. ‘But I would just like to offer my condolences once again. I know what you must be going through.’

Do you? Do you really?

She smiled thinly, took the key from him and set off up the second flight of stairs, emerging on the next landing. She looked down to see the landlord making his way back down the stairs. She waited until she heard the door to his room close before turning around.

Only then, faced by four locked doors and with the key in her hand, did she realize that she hadn’t got a clue which of the doors would lead her into Suzanne Regan’s flat.