The fishermen were due to return Thursday afternoon. Paul’s sister had suggested I come to their mother’s house sometime after two, but I decided not to wait and take Ryan with me. That might be a bit awkward. Mrs. Erikson had not been happy when Paul and I split up. I suspected she liked me more than she liked her son.
“You don’t have to come,” I said to Jayne as I studied the contents of my closet wondering what to wear. I had not brought suitable mourning clothes on this vacation.
She sat on the bed and watched me. “I’d like to. Truly. I didn’t know him, obviously, but I do know you. You weren’t together anymore, but this is still going to be difficult for you. Although you’ll pretend it isn’t. Besides, it’s not as though there’s anything else to do in one of the greatest cities in the world, is there? Donald’s skipping off to play with his new friends, and I do not want to spend an afternoon listening to whatever Sherlock Holmes people talk about when they get together.”
“Sherlock Holmes. They talk about Sherlock Holmes. If they take a break from talking about Holmes, they talk about Arthur Conan Doyle. This should do.” I selected a pair of dark jeans to wear with a white shirt and a navy blue cotton jacket.
“Should I worry about dressing properly?”
“I don’t think it’s necessary. You’re coming as my friend, not as a mourner.”
“Meet you downstairs in fifteen minutes.”
I’d been to this house many times before, when I was with Paul. It was in Hounslow, to the west of the city on the way to Heathrow Airport, on a street of matching red brick duplexes with red roofs and chimneys and postage stamp–sized front gardens. Cars lined the street, and many of the houses had converted those front gardens into parking areas. Most of the houses were clean and well maintained: fresh paint on the doors and window frames, hedges nearly trimmed, flowers in window boxes or tubs on the front step.
The day was chilly, but the sun had come out after an overnight rain. The front door stood open, a group of sixtysomething men chatted and smoked in the small garden. One of them cracked a joke, and his friends roared with laughter. Someone slapped him on the back. I could see women gathered by the front window; the sound of voices and laughter came from inside. This was a somber occasion, but whenever people got together, eventually they laugh. And that is a good thing.
“You okay, Gemma?” Jayne said to me. “Being here must be bringing back a lot of memories, and some of them not very good ones.”
“The memories are good. It was Paul I fell out with, not his family.” I breathed in the cool air, tinged with smoke, car exhaust, and industrial fumes. “Paul and I did have some good times, and I’m here to remember those, not the less pleasant memories that came later.”
Jayne opened the small gate, and we walked through. The men nodded politely to us, not showing a lot of interest. “Go on in, love,” one of them called to me. “No need to knock. No one will hear anyway, not once that bunch get to yammering.”
His companions laughed heartily. I assumed “that bunch” meant their wives.
Jayne and I walked into the house.
Several women turned to face us and gave us polite smiles. Most of the people here were Paul’s mother’s age, not Paul’s and mine. Fair enough, as it was the middle of the day and this was the street on which he’d grown up. Paul’s parents divorced when he and his sister were very young, and the children and their mother stayed in the house.
“Help you, love?” a smiling woman with overly dyed blonde hair and far too much red lipstick asked. The overpowering scent of cigarette smoke, both fresh and stale, wafted around her.
“I’m Gemma and this is Jayne. We’re friends of Mrs. Erikson.”
“Friends! Is that what you call it now?” Before I knew what was happening, I was enveloped in a warm, crushing hug. Powerful hands slapped my back. Wet lips rained kisses onto my cheeks.
Paul’s mother finally released me and stood back, gripping my arms in her hands. “Let me look at you. My, but you look marvelous. Doesn’t she look marvelous, girls? This is Gemma, the one Paul let get away.”
A circle of women, and a couple of men, had gathered round. They stared openly at me. I gave them a weak smile, feeling quite uncomfortable at the attention.
Jayne thrust out her hand. “I’m Jayne. Jayne Wilson. Gemma’s friend and business partner. You must be Mrs. Erikson. I’m sorry for your loss.”
“None of that Mrs. Erikson nonsense, love. I’m Alice.” Paul’s mother wrapped Jayne in almost as affectionate an embrace as she had me. “Any friend of Gemma’s is a friend of mine. Come all the way from America, have you? Everyone, this is Jayne. All the way from America.”
English people are stereotypically unemotional. All that stiff upper lip stuff. Paul’s mother did not suit the image, and she never had. My parents had loved Pippa and me deeply and unreservedly, but such feelings were never something expressed openly in our house. I’d found Paul’s mother overwhelming. I’d never quite decided if I liked it or not.
“Now, come in and meet everyone.” Alice dragged me into the small, overdecorated sitting room.
Behind me, I heard someone say to Jayne, “Our Gerry, my sister’s boy, moved to Denver. Gerald Morgen, do you know him?”
“I don’t recall,” Jayne said. “I’ve been to Denver, though. Once.”
“America’s a big place, Joanie. They don’t all know each other,” another woman said. “Where exactly do you live, love?”
Everyone resumed their conversations, and Alice and I were alone in a sea of people. She looked older than when I’d last seen her, but as that had been seven years ago, it was to be expected. She’d put on some weight, but not too much, and had her hair cut very short, which suited her now it was almost completely gray. Her warm blue eyes studied my face. “I’m glad you’ve come, my dear.”
“I’m glad I have too. I’m sorry I’ve not been in touch.”
“Not to worry, love. You had reason to want nothing more to do with my Paul.” She sniffled and wiped at her eyes with a well-used tissue.
“Anything that happened between him and me had nothing to do with you.”
She forced out a smile. “Can you believe how many have come? I haven’t said a word to some of these people in years. But folk pop round when they’re needed, don’t they?” She gave me a wink and jerked her head toward the couch where an enormous woman occupied pride of place, a plate piled high with food balanced on her lap. She lowered her voice. “Then again, I haven’t said a word to some of them in years because I don’t want to.”
“Alice, I can’t find any more of those crackers,” someone called.
“Top shelf on the right, behind the jars. Never mind, I’ll do it. You make yourself comfortable, Gemma. Plenty of food laid out the kitchen, tea in the pot, and drinks in the refrigerator. People have been kind.”
She slipped away. All this fuss, I knew, was only covering her pain. Everyone would leave. The dishes would be done, the floor swept, the leftovers packed away. Leaving her alone in her grief.
“Hey, Gemma. Thanks for coming.” Paul’s sister, Kate, stood in front of me.
“I wanted to. For your mother’s sake, if nothing else.” I glanced around the crowded room. Jayne had been cornered, people peppering her with questions about where she lived and how she liked London. Jayne was comfortable with strangers, comfortable making small talk, so I knew I didn’t need to worry about her. Someone pressed a glass of beer into her hand, and she said thank you.
“Have you heard anything more from the police?” I asked Kate, keeping my voice down.
“Nothing new. They can’t say when they’ll be releasing the body. If they hang on to it, it’ll be hard on Mum. My dad stopped by last night. They sat together for a long time, not saying much, and then they went for a walk. It was nice to see them together. He’s taken time off work, and he’s mainly the one dealing with the police and trying to wrap up the business of Paul’s shop. What have you been up to over these years, Gemma?”
I told her, and then I asked about her life. Two children now, twins, a girl and a boy. They were home in Bristol with their father but would be coming to London soon. They adored their nana, and Alice was looking forward to seeing them. “Excuse me. I should circulate, see if Mum needs anything.” Kate turned to go and then swung back to me. “You might want to keep an eye on your friend over there.” I looked to see Jayne chatting with a younger man. Her back was against the wall and her smile stiff. “That’s Ian from next door. Slimy as ever. He and Paul were thick as thieves all the time they were growing up. Anything Ian said, Paul did. If Paul thought it was okay to cheat on you with a shop clerk, you can be sure he got the idea from Ian. Not your problem. I’ll rescue your friend.”
Kate crossed the room. “Hi, welcome. I’m Kate, Paul’s sister. You’re Gemma’s friend, right? I want to hear all about the tearoom Gemma tells me you own. Must be so fascinating. Let’s go into the kitchen and chat.” She tucked Jayne’s arm into hers.
Ian threw Kate a dirty look, cocked his head at Jayne and winked, shrugged, and headed for the door to join the men outside. Jayne’s smile at Kate said thank you.
“Never you mind my Ian,” a woman said to me. “Always had an eye for a pretty girl. Never did know when his attentions were not welcome.”
She was in her midsixties, almost as round as she was short, with plump pink cheeks, sparkling blue eyes, and a mass of gray curls. Mrs. Claus, come to life in the South of England. She held a glass of beer, half finished. “I’m Betsy, Ian’s mum. From next door. Used to be from next door, that is. I’ve lived on this street since my wedding day, more than forty years now. Raised four children here. Ian was my late one. Came as a surprise to Freddy and me, I can tell you.” She laughed heartly. “Still can’t quite believe I’ve moved away. The new people haven’t made any changes yet, although it’s only been a week.”
“Pleased to meet you,” I said. “I’m Gemma.”
“Oh, yes, I know. Used to see you with Paul sometimes when he brought you around to visit his mum. Poor Paul. That’s life, isn’t it? Change. Always change. My own Freddy died last year. His heart, bless him. Always had problems with his heart. Even when he was a young lad. The smoking never helped, but would he listen, no. I said—”
“Sorry, but I think my friend’s calling me.”
“No, she’s not. She’s talking to Kate. Lovely girl, Kate. Your friend’s a very pretty girl. I see she’s wearing an engagement ring. Too bad. My Ian’s free.”
“How nice. I’m also in a relationship,” I added before she could get any ideas of fixing us up.
“Paul and my Ian were ever so close when they were lads. Inseparable, really. They didn’t have much to do with each other once they grew up and moved into their own flats, went their own ways in life, but the last few months they started seeing each other again. Isn’t that nice?”
“Very nice. If you’ll excuse me, I need to speak to Alice.”
“Paul dropped in at mine not much more than a week ago. Him and Ian. Last time I saw him. You never know, do you? If I’d known it would be the last time I’d see the boy, I would have made more time for him. Invited him to stay for a meal. But I was getting the last of my things packed up for the movers coming the next day, and so I told him where to get the box and left them to it.”
I’d decided I wasn’t going to get the chance to politely excuse myself from this barrage of chatter, so I might as well simply walk away. I’d half turned and had one foot in the air. Instead, I froze, lowered the foot, and turned back to give Betsy an encouraging smile. “A box?”
“Yes. Books, I think. He asked Ian to keep it for him. Ian’s temporarily between accommodation, having just broken up with his latest girlfriend. I don’t know why Paul didn’t leave this box at his mum’s or even his own place.”
Because, I thought, Paul didn’t have a place any longer, and he might have, for some reason, not wanted to keep this box in the shop. His own mother would be likely to ask what was in it. Whereas I suspected Betsy didn’t stop talking long enough to give anyone a chance to explain anything.
“When did he give you this box?”
“A few months back.”
“It contained books?”
“I can’t say for sure, love. I didn’t look, did I? He put it down in the cellar, and my old knees have trouble on the stairs these days. Which is why I decided, after my Freddy died, it was time to move to a bungalow. I found a lovely community not far. You must come and visit one day.”
“I’ll be sure and do that. Paul came to your house last week, and he left with a box he’d been storing there for some months?”
“Isn’t that what I said? I told Ian Paul would have to come for his box or I’d throw it out. I was moving, and I don’t have room in my new place for a lot of unnecessary things belonging to other people.”
“I’d love to meet your son,” I said.
Her eyes lit up. “Let me introduce you.”
“That won’t be necessary. I know who he is.”
I found Ian in the patch of front yard, drinking beer with the men. “Hi. I’m Gemma. I’ve been chatting with your mum.”
“My condolences,” he said, taking a long drink. “Yeah, I know who you are. You used to be with Paul, right?”
“That’s right. But not for some years. Your mother’s been telling me about a box Paul kept in her cellar.”
Ian shrugged. The other men shifted and moved off. It appeared as though I’d been tracking Paul through London by following a trail of boxes. He seemed to make a habit of asking other people to hold on to his stuff. “That box might be of some significance,” I said. “You know the police are treating his death as suspicious?”
“Yeah, I know that. Me mum told me.”
Ian could tell me nothing about this box. He and Paul had largely lost touch until they ran into each other in a pub about six months ago. They’d gone out drinking a few times after that, and then one night Paul asked if Ian could take care of a box of his things. Ian had broken up with his girlfriend and been kicked out of her flat, so he was temporarily sleeping on a friend’s couch. He said Paul could take the box to his mother’s. When his mother sold the house and began packing up, Ian told Paul he had to come for the box. Ian claimed to have never looked in it, and Paul had not told him what it contained.
“Sentimental rubbish, I figured,” Ian said.
“What was the box made of?”
“What’s any box made of? Cardboard, I guess.”
“How heavy was it?”
“Don’t know. I never touched it.”
“Did he strain to lift it? Did he need a cart of some sort to move it?”
Ian shrugged again. “Not heavy. One bloke could pick it up and carry it easily enough.”
Paul’s office had been full of cardboard boxes. Some empty, some full. Some half-full. If he’d asked his friend to store this particular box, did that mean it was of some significance to him? Something he didn’t want anyone else, such as a busy shop clerk, to accidentally come across?
Which led to the question as to where this box was now. “Thank you,” I said to Ian.
“What’s your rush? Have a beer.”
“Another time,” I said.
Under Pippa’s strongly worded suggestion, as well as the belief that I was wasting my time trying to find out what happened, I’d decided last night to stop poking into Paul’s death.
Unasked, unwanted, and unexpected, a fresh path had opened up in front of me.
What could I do but follow?