Part 21 (1/2)
”But what when she comes?” Sherwood said. ”She'll take it away, open it up; oh my my!”
”She won't collect it, dumbo, because she's left, hasn't she, she'll never come back.”
”What when we move?”
”That'll be weeks. Months.”
”But then Mum might throw it away.”
”Look, I can't solve everything at one go, give us a chance. We'll cross that bridge when we come to it.”
”It sounds feasible,” Kari said cautiously.
”Could try it, man,” Sherwood said.
Alistair pointed to his chest. ”n.o.bel Prize for Being a Clever b.u.g.g.e.r.”
”Get the news this morning?” Miss Anaemia asked.
Hardly likely. Mr. K. looked up, fearful, his jaw sagging a little. Nothing came from his radio except strange blips and crackles, and police messages; even when he tuned into ”Big Band Special” they were there again when he next switched on.
”There's this man,” Miss Anaemia continued, seating herself by the kitchen range. ”There's this man knocked off his wife. He's gone driving round the countryside, pretending to be somewhere else-”
”An alias, is an expression,” said Mr. K.
”Then he's gone off to the Lake District and dumped her body in a deep lake, and ten years pa.s.s, and he thinks he's got away with it. Then-guess what?”
”But I can't guess,” Mr. K. said. ”Secret murder come to light?”
”There are the police, looking for some other body completely, and what do they find? This chap's wife, all preserved, just as good as when she went in. And if he'd rowed his boat out twenty feet further, she'd have gone into the deepest part of the lake and they'd never have found her at all.”
”For the want of a nail a shoe was lost,” Mr. K. observed.
”I don't know about that, but now he's in gaol. Horrible, innit? What do you think, Mrs. Wilmot?”
But Mrs. Wilmot had slipped off, melted away, as if into the wall.
Two days later, when Sylvia entered the house, she almost tripped over the large cardboard box in the hall. ”d.a.m.n, what's this?” she said, scrabbling on the floor for the letters she had dropped. ”Karen, are you there? What's this?”
Karen came out of the kitchen, eating a chocolate biscuit. ”Dunno,” she said. ”A man brought it.”
”What man?”
”Dunno.” She shrugged. ”Postman?”
”Put the light on, will you?”
”Bulb's gone again.”
”d.a.m.n this house.” Sylvia bent down and peered at the box. ”I can't see any postage on it. It's addressed to Lizzie. Fancy that.”
”Maybe it was a friend of hers,” Karen said, carefully. ”This man who brought it.”
”Well, I don't know what she wants to have her post sent here for. I'd be very annoyed if I thought she'd been giving this address to people. Anyway, if she thinks I'm trailing round after her, she's mistaken. She can just come and collect it. I'll phone her up.”
”Oh, I wouldn't bother,” Karen said. ”It's probably nothing.”
”It's a big box. I wonder what it is?” Sylvia took it in both hands. ”Not heavy.” She shook it. ”Rattles a bit.”
”Probably something from mail order,” Karen suggested.
”Probably. Must be some cowboy outfit. Don't even run to printed labels.”
”Well, you know how it is,” Karen said. ”You send for something and it turns up weeks later when you've forgotten about it, right?”
”Or unsolicited goods,” Sylvia said. ”She's not obliged to return them. I'll tell her her Rights.”
”I wouldn't bother.”
”Of course I must. I've got her number somewhere.”
Karen quailed. They had not thought of this. It had been a case of out of sight, out of mind; they never expected to see Lizzie again, and they had not thought of Sylvia being able to trace her. A diversion was needed. ”What's the post?” Karen said craftily.
”It's from the solicitor. Come in the kitchen where I can see.” Kari followed her. Sylvia turned. Her face shone. ”We've got it,” she said. ”We can move. Vacant possession.”
”When?”
”It can't be soon enough for me. Your father's taking out a bridging loan. It'll probably bankrupt us, but I can't wait.” She sat down abruptly on a kitchen chair, suddenly deflated, the smile wiped from her face. ”Only what about Suzanne? I don't want to go off and leave her like this. She's my daughter, I love her. And the baby, I haven't seen Gemma since the hospital. It's cruel of Suzanne to break off contact like this, not even to ring up and let us know she's all right.”
”Never mind, Mum. You've got me.”
”Yes,” Sylvia said without enthusiasm. She opened her bag and took out her address book. There was a loose sheet of paper inside.
”I've got Lizzie's number here,” she said. ”I can ask if she's heard from Suzanne. It comes to something, when you have to go to a scrubber like that for news of your only grandchild. Number 56, Napier Street. That's funny. I should have noticed before. I thought she lived at Eugene Terrace, at an Indian shop.”
”Perhaps they evicted her.”
”I wouldn't be surprised. Karen, do you have to eat your way through every packet of biscuits that comes into this house? Is it any wonder you've got spots?”
It would soon be Easter. The telephone rang often in Mr. Kowalski's hall. Sometimes he ignored it, sometimes he shook his fist at it and threatened to rip it out of the wall; what was it but a tool for criminals and a source of disease? Sometimes he lifted the receiver, and bellowed down it in one or other of his many languages.
Muriel intercepted the postman. There was another letter for Miss Blank. She opened it. Mrs. Sidney cast aspersions on my writing, she thought; but I can read perfectly well.
Dear Lizzie, When I phoned up the number you gave me I got this man with an accent. I could not get any sense out of him so I am writing. I am at my friend Edwina's and this is the address, but do not give it to my mother. Can you baby-sit Gemma next Wednesday? Ring me up and tell me if you can. She is no trouble, she sleeps a lot. We are all going up to Manchester to see about the squat, because it looks as if it might be on again. Sean has reconnected the electricity, and we have met this geophysicist who does a lot of plumbing, it is known as the black economy. I don't want to take Gemma with me because of the cold, you know what April is, the cruellest month, so please I hope you can. I will be back for teatime and I can pay you.
Love, Suzanne.