The Second Life of Sally Mottram. David NobbsЧитать онлайн книгу.
you wouldn’t keep running Potherthwaite down, Jill. It isn’t Venice, but it’s home. And you only run it down to rile me.’
Arnold was writing a history of Potherthwaite. It was called ‘A Complete History of Potherthwaite’. It was very long already, because he was unable to leave anything out, now that he had described it as complete, but also because he was terrified of finishing it, which was in truth why he had described it as complete.
‘They’ll be stressed. They may not have anything to cook with. I’m going to invite them for supper.’
‘Jill. This is recklessness personified.’
‘Yes. Let’s live a little.’
Arnold left the bathroom quietly, shut the door carefully, left her to it. He had almost said ‘I don’t want to live a little, I’m seventy-three’, but luckily he had thought better of it.
So twenty minutes later, having titivated herself to her satisfaction, and looking, she knew, rather stunning for a seventy-two-year-old, Jill called on the neighbours.
There were eight identical buildings in the cul-de-sac, four on each side of the road. Each building was divided into two identical residences, dignified and solemn in dark, stern stone, listed buildings on which no bright paint could be used. The new neighbours’ house was joined to the Busses’ on the southern side.
In the slowly fading light of a day that had never been fully light, Jill strode up the wilderness that was the neglected front garden of number 9.
She rang the doorbell, and wondered what Arnold would say if they were Muslims. She heard a key and then another key – what were these people frightened of? – and suddenly the front door was open.
The woman who was standing there was shorter than Jill, older than Jill, less attractive than Jill, but could have looked a great deal better than she did if she had made the best of herself. True, she had just endured a tiring journey, but Jill knew that this woman had long ago given up making the best of herself, and this irritated her.
They introduced themselves. The woman’s name was Olive Patterson. Jill didn’t waste time on small talk.
‘I wondered … I expect you’ve had a long journey, you must be tired … I wondered … because I don’t expect you’ll have unpacked your cooking utensils and things, Arnold and I … that’s my husband … we wondered … would you like to pop round for a bit of supper tonight?’
Confusion painted a faint red glow on to Olive Patterson’s pallid cheeks.
‘Oh, that’s so kind of you,’ said Olive. ‘So kind. No, it is, that is so kind, really, really kind, but really we’re … we’re fine, we’re all right … and I mean we had a sandwich in the car, at a service station … well, we had it in the car because you don’t want to both leave the car at the same time, with so much stuff in it, do you? I mean, who can you trust these days? You can’t, can you? So, no, we’re all right, but thank you, thank you again, we so appreciate … Harry … that’s my husband … will really appreciate your offer … but we don’t want to be a nuisance, and we really will be all right, honestly, but, as I say, that is so kind, thank you, but … as I say, another time.’
So Jill went back home, feeling strangely disappointed, but when Olive told Harry what she had said (though not at such great length) he exploded. He told her that in his opinion it was rude to refuse such a friendly offer, it was the first good thing that had happened all day, and he was going round to say they’d changed their minds. Olive pleaded with him – it would make her look silly. He told her that she was silly, and off he went.
A minute or two later, he met Jill’s eyes for the first time, and they held each other’s eyes a second or two longer than might have been expected at the door of a listed building in a cul-de-sac in Potherthwaite at the darkening death of a gloomy late winter’s day. He told her that if the offer was still on they would be delighted. She told him that the offer was indeed still on, and he was indeed delighted.
Bang on half past seven – Olive hated to be late – Jill led the Pattersons into the lounge, which was a large, high-ceilinged room with a chandelier, furnished with a curious mix of Arnold’s reticence and Jill’s ebullience. Jill had dressed down, Olive had dressed up, but Jill still looked the smarter. Arnold looked formal and old-fashioned in jacket and tie and a pale blue shirt with silver cufflinks. Harry was in full ‘they’ll know we haven’t had time to unpack’ mode. How different the two men were: Arnold tall and slim and grizzled, with salt-and-pepper hair and a very obedient little salt-and-pepper moustache; Harry short, not fat but bursting at the seams of his casual clothes, and as bald as a balloon.
Harry glanced round the room, taking in the reticent chairs and the ebullient vases, and said, ‘Nice gaff. Nice room. Just trying to guess, who bought what?’
‘Harry!’ said Olive.
‘I embarrass her,’ said Harry complacently. ‘Sorry, doll.’
‘This is so kind of you,’ said Olive, forced into speech.
‘What are neighbours for?’ said Arnold gravely.
Jill was puzzled by a rather odd look that had passed between Olive and Arnold, almost an exchange of sign language. It was time to leap into action.
‘Now, what would we all like to drink?’ she asked.
‘A small sherry, please,’ said Olive shyly, half blushing at her boldness in asking for alcohol at all. I don’t want to be beholden, said her blush.
‘A gin and tonic, please,’ said Harry with a huge grin. Large one please if poss, said his grin.
‘Usual, Arnold?’
‘Of course,’ said Arnold complacently.
‘Right. I’ll just go and get them,’ said Jill, looking meaningfully at Arnold, for whom the look clearly had no meaning.
‘Let me help,’ said Harry hastily.
‘That’s very kind,’ said Jill, looking not at him but at Arnold.
When Jill and Harry had left the room, there was a moment’s silence. Olive broke it.
‘I thought, “Is it? It can’t be.” But it is, isn’t it?’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Arnold. ‘Oh yes, Olive. It is indeed.’
The policeman had explained to Sally that because there was no suicide note they had to make certain inquiries. It was purely routine. Had she any idea why Barry had killed himself?
She had shaken her head.
Strangely, she had felt nothing. ‘Cry if you want to,’ a female officer had said. ‘Feel free.’ But she hadn’t been able to.
‘I’m afraid nobody can go upstairs,’ Inspector Pellet had explained. ‘It’s designated a crime scene. Purely routine.’
He had made gestures to the female officer to get Sally out of the way. He hadn’t wanted her to be in the house while they examined the rope, tested for fingerprints, searched for minute traces of thread dropped from clothes, or earth brought in on shoes. It wouldn’t be a thorough search, of course – there was really no doubt that he’d killed himself – but things had to be done by the book these days.
The female officer, PC Cartwright, had put her arm round Sally, to lead her towards the door of her own home. Inspector Pellet had turned and said, ‘Thank you, Mrs Mottram. We don’t need to bother you again tonight, and we have no reason to think that this is anything but …’ He had hesitated. He hadn’t wanted