My interview with Detective Inspector Bayles had left me mildly rattled. I wouldn’t put it stronger than that. My conscience was clear and I knew that further investigation would very quickly get me off the hook. I did feel bloody stupid, though, for having chucked out the food containers. Never touch anything at a crime scene – God, how many times have I heard that in police series? Except, of course, at the time I didn’t know I was at a crime scene.
So, yes, I felt stupid. Guilty? Not a bit.
But my curiosity had been piqued and – since I didn’t have any other SpaceWoman appointments booked for that day – I went straight round to 14 Seacrest Avenue for what Roy and Michelle Waites thought of as a clearance job and I was thinking of increasingly as an investigation. I had assembled myself a hasty cheese sandwich which I ate in the car.
As I approached the house, the possibility occurred to me that it might be sealed off with police tape. But no. Maybe because they were only regarding it as a possible scene of crime, they hadn’t gone to those lengths. I felt quite reassured by that.
My key still let me in through the kitchen door. I was just planning my clearance campaign when the mobile rang.
Oh dear. Fleur. And Fleur in full martyr mode.
‘I suppose I have to blame myself, don’t I, Ellen? They always say blame the parents for their children’s shortcomings, particularly when it comes to plain old-fashioned things like bad manners.’
‘What have I done to offend you now?’ I asked drily.
‘I was always taught – and I hope I had taught you too, though clearly I failed there – that it was common politeness to answer invitations.’
I got it. ‘I’m sorry. I was going to ring you. Something came up.’
‘Oh yes. There’s always “something”, isn’t there? Something more important than your mother, anyway. So here am I sitting in the Bar and Grill at Goodwood and they’re asking me if I want a table for one or two, and I can’t tell them because my daughter hasn’t had the basic good manners to reply to my invitation.’
I was tempted to tell her that the ‘something’ that had turned up hadn’t been trivial. It had been an interview with the police. But no, that would raise more questions than it avoided.
I was about to apologize again but Fleur got in ahead of me. ‘So, what shall I tell them? Is it a table for one or for two? Is my daughter going to deign to join me for lunch?’
‘Fleur, you know full well that I’m very rarely free for lunch on a weekday. I do have a business to run.’
‘Oh, surely you can get another cleaner to step in every now and then?’
I ought to be immune by now to that little tug of annoyance that the ‘cleaner’ jibe always gave me. But at least I’m canny enough never to rise to it.
‘Fleur, I can’t. And I’m just starting on a new job now, so I’m going to have to ring off. Maybe we could get together some time over the weekend …?’
‘I don’t know what I’ll be doing at the weekend. I don’t know what Kenneth’ll be doing at the weekend.’
He’ll be playing golf, like he does every other bloody weekend. But I didn’t say it.
‘I really do need to talk to you soon, Ellen. I’m very worried about what’s happening with Jools. It’s weeks now since I heard from her. And, although you don’t seem to show much interest in what happens to your daughter, I do very much care what happens to my granddaughter.’
Once I’d finally finished the phone call, I decided I’d make a start emptying the cupboards in Cedric’s kitchen. But, annoyingly, Fleur’s words had got to me. And I started worrying about what might have happened to Jools.
When it happens, a suicide can be quite low key, making the small, sad splash of a stone slipped into a pond. But, from the way the ripples from the impact spread over time, it might as well have been a bloody great boulder.
Nearly ten years on, I’m still feeling the shock of Oliver’s death. I’m sure it exacerbated the problems Ben has had with his mental health. But it’s a subject that rarely comes up with Jools.
Hardly surprising, because I don’t have that many conversations with my daughter. We did touch on it when Jools and I had an uncharacteristic moment of rapprochement in her Herne Hill flat. I had ended up spending the night there a year or so back, while I was following enquiries into the death of the war reporter Ingrid Richards. And just for a moment, Jools talked about her father’s death.
That was unusual, though. A momentary chink in the carapace she has built over herself, and quickly sealed up again. The one thing that I recalled her saying was that not talking about Oliver was her way of coping with his death.
Her way of coping with other aspects of her life seems very efficient. She organized the flat purchase herself. I helped her out with the deposit, which she is paying back regularly, according to the schedule we agreed. And Jools seems to be managing her career very well. She’s in the world of fashion, though precisely what she does there is a little obscure to me.
It’s fashion journalism, so far as I can gather. But no printed magazines involved, it’s all online. And it’s very much the cheap disposable end of the market. Whether my daughter chose that area deliberately to antagonize me, I don’t know. To be fair to her, I think it’s unlikely. But she cannot have been unaware of my aims to reuse or recycle anything that can be reused or recycled.
I made one slightly unnerving discovery when I stayed in Herne Hill. After Jools had left in the morning (just leaving a goodbye note for me), I had a look … No, I’d better be honest about it, I snooped in her spare room.
I found no bed in there. It couldn’t be used for guests. Instead, it was full of racks on which were hung a huge variety of brand-new garments. Exotic and disposable, the kind that were designed only to be worn a few times and chucked out. The kind, all too many of which end up in landfill.
I never asked Jools for an explanation, partly because that would have entailed my owning up to the snooping.
But it did strike a warning note. Through my work, I’ve encountered many different kinds of hoarding behaviour. And, though I’m not suggesting Jools belonged in that category, it did suggest to me that my daughter’s character might not be as straightforward as she wanted it to appear. Surely nobody could be that unaffected by losing a father in the circumstances that she did?
I was mulling over these thoughts, while mechanically removing long-out-of-date cereal packets from Cedric’s kitchen cupboards, when my mobile rang. It was Ben.
‘Hi, Ma,’ he greeted me with his customary irony.
‘Hi. All well?’ Sorry, it’s knee-jerk. Ninety-nine per cent of the times Ben rings me, there is no problem. It’s the one per cent that are always with me, though.
‘Fine, fine, fine. Pippa sends her love.’ I’m afraid my first, unworthy thought was: Trying the charm offensive, is she?
‘I just wondered,’ Ben went on, ‘if you knew where Dodge might be?’
‘Where’re you calling from?’
‘The workshop? I’ve got my own keys. No sign of him. The Commer’s not here either.’
‘Had you fixed to meet up today?’
‘Yes. We’ve got a rush job on.’
‘Is that making the new desks for the playschool that got flooded?’
‘Excellent, Ma. You are well informed.’
‘Dodge told me when I last saw him.’
‘Which was …?’
‘Yesterday. He was measuring up some shelves for a client I’ve got over Midhurst way. And he told me then there was time pressure for the playschool job.’
‘Mm. Yes. I suppose it was yesterday when I last spoke to him. He was very insistent I should be here today.’
‘He’s probably gone off to source some materials he needs for the desks,’ I suggested.
‘Yes.’ Ben didn’t sound convinced. I wasn’t either, come to that.
‘I’d better get on,’ he said. ‘And thank you, Ma.’
‘For what?’
‘Not mentioning the bloody TOCA Award thing.’
‘Ah.’ I didn’t want to sound critical, but … ‘Does that imply you’re hearing a lot about it from Pippa?’
‘And how! I mean, it’s lovely having a girlfriend who’s so supportive and backing me all the way and is there for me and … but with something like this I just want to forget about it.’
‘Not tempt providence?’
‘You have it in one, Ma. But Pippa just won’t keep quiet about it. Her imagination’s running riot. Has no doubt I’m going to win, and then the TOCA Award will lead to other things. I think, in her mind’s eye, she’s already planning the dress she’ll wear when she joins me on the red carpet at the Oscars.’
‘She’s proud of you, Ben.’
‘I guess.’
‘I’m very proud of you, too.’
‘Yes, but you don’t go on about it all the time.’
‘I try not to,’ I said, trying to suppress the gleeful feeling that I’d somehow got one over on Pippa. I’d certainly never before heard my son express anything that could be construed as criticism of her.
God, what an unpleasant woman I am! I hope I’m not going to become more jealous and embittered as I get older. Why am I so anti-Pippa? Would I be equally antagonistic to any woman who got her claws into my precious son? No, I really took to Tracey, Ben’s former girlfriend, on the brief occasion I met her.
Hm. I suppose I’m not the first mother not to have approved her son’s choice of partner. There must be some basis of fact behind all those mother-in-law jokes. It does make me feel horribly mean-spirited, though.
My son and I ended the conversation. I didn’t tempt providence by wishing him luck for the TOCA verdict in ten days’ time. I knew Ben appreciated that.
It took me a while to get back to my clearing of Cedric’s possessions. I had someone new to worry about.
When Detective Inspector Bayles had suggested getting in touch with the men who’d worked at 14 Seacrest Avenue, I’d had a flicker of anxiety. No problem with Dean the central heating engineer. But Dodge …
Dodge and the police just don’t fit in the same sentence. I don’t know the precise details but it was something to do with the major breakdown which converted Gervaise the City slicker into Dodge the silent recycler. I think drugs were involved at some level and maybe it’s a criminal record that makes him so wary round the Boys in Blue. He certainly doesn’t want to have anything to do with them.
And my basic fear was that a telephone call from Detective Inspector Bayles asking to meet might have made Dodge do a runner.
There wasn’t that much more to do in the kitchen. I put the contents of the drawers in boxes. Nothing of value. Ordinary cutlery has virtually no resale potential. That’s why you see so much of it at car boot sales. Hallmarked silver would be worth selling, but there was none of that at 14 Seacrest Avenue. However, I knew local charities which would be very grateful for basic kitchenware in the hostels they ran. Michelle Waites had told me to ‘chuck the rubbish’. If I could chuck it where it might help someone, all to the good.
Finishing off the basic tidying of the kitchen was a job I’d done so many times I was on automatic pilot. Which was a pity because it didn’t distract me from the worries churning in my mind. Worries about Dodge. Worries about Jools. And the permanent background worry about Ben.
Things got better, however, when I moved into the sitting room. I had been in there a few times, but most of my meetings with Cedric had been in the kitchen. Initially to discuss the various tasks that needed to be done around the house and, latterly, for cups of tea and chats.
I had noticed that there were a good few books on the sitting-room shelves but hadn’t had the opportunity to look at them closely. Now that I did, I found treasures much more efficient at distracting my mind than kitchenware.
One thing I have observed from my dealings with hoarders is that most of them have some area of tidiness in their lives. They may seem unaware that their clutter has rendered their rooms impassable but there’ll be a small oasis of order in the chaos. I had one client who, though her bedroom floor was a foot high with discarded garments, kept the contents of her knicker and bra drawers in perfectly folded neatness. Or another, the route to whose attic was an obstacle course of domestic detritus but whose model railway layout up there was a picture of cleanliness, where the trains ran on time.
And, though, compared to some of my more deranged clients, Cedric Waites was well up the tidy end of the hoarding spectrum, the precision with which his books were arranged suggested that this was where his true obsession lay. It also perhaps gave an answer to the question which had niggled away at me since he’d first come into my life. How, alone in a house with no working radio or television, did Cedric fill his days?
He didn’t have books on the scale that Mim Galbraith did, but the ones he had were in a much better state of preservation. On one sitting-room wall were two sets of purpose-built shelves with, between them, a glass-fronted bookcase. A cursory examination made it clear that therein were his real treasures.
I like books but I make no claims to know much about them, certainly not to be an expert collector. All I ask for is something that’s in a readable font, with a jacket that isn’t too ugly and – most important of all – a story that really grabs me. Almost all I read is fiction, except for work-related stuff, studies of hoarding case histories, advances in cognitive behavioural therapy techniques, that kind of thing. And, like most people, I regret I don’t devote as much time to reading as I would like to. When you’re tired, the television’s always the easier and lazier option.
I wouldn’t say, like Mim, that books had been the continuity of my life but, in some cases, I can remember exactly where I bought or read something. There are also books I go back to when I’m stressed or exhausted. If I’m really emotionally depleted, Dodie Smith’s I Capture the Castle can usually get me back on an even keel.
Cedric, though, was clearly more serious about his books. In my previous brief visits to his sitting room, I hadn’t noticed, but the shelves and the bookcase had undergone a much more assiduous cleaning regime than the rest of the house. Five days after their owner’s demise, there still wasn’t a speck of dust on them, When I opened the glass doors of the bookcase, the state of its contents suggested that each book had been recently removed and lovingly dusted down.
There was a pattern to Cedric’s collection. Mostly fiction of the first half of the twentieth century. Names like G.K. Chesterton, Anthony Hope, Graham Greene, George Orwell, Evelyn Waugh. And, looking at them, I saw they were all, if not actually first editions, valuable ones. Inside each, along with the bookseller’s description, the purchase paperwork had been punctiliously kept. Most had been bought through a bookseller called Augustus Mintzen. And I was amazed by the prices.
This clearly raised a new dilemma. Michelle Waites’s casual ‘Just get the best price you can for everything’ didn’t anticipate there being anything of much value in the house. Cedric’s book collection changed the dynamics. I didn’t want to put myself at risk of being accused of selling off his precious volumes cheaply. In SpaceWoman I have to be extra cautious about where I dispose of stuff, particularly after a death. Bereavement can bring out the best in some people; it can make others nakedly acquisitive.
Someone like me can get caught in the crossfire of all kinds of accusations: that I’ve thrown away stuff people wanted to keep, that I’ve kept stuff that they wanted to get rid of. And, since television antiques programmes have made everyone think they’re an expert in valuation, I’m often criticized for not getting nearly enough cash for items I’ve been asked to sell. I’ve even on occasion been taken to task for stealing the possessions of the deceased.
All of these experiences have made me very circumspect about jobs like the clearance of 14 Seacrest Avenue.
‘Hello?’ He sounded cautious on the phone.
‘It’s Ellen Curtis.’
‘Who?’ Clearly my name hadn’t registered on our recent encounter.
‘Ellen from SpaceWoman. You and your wife asked me to clear out your father’s house.’
‘Oh yes. How can I help you? Sorry, it’ll have to be quick. I have to give a lecture in ten minutes.’
‘A lecture? In what?’
‘Comparative Religion. Michelle and I are both academics.’
‘Ah.’
‘Her specialty’s Women’s Studies.’
Why did that not surprise me? ‘Look, I’m just wondering what you want me to do about your father’s collection of books.’
‘I didn’t know he had a collection of books.’
‘Yes. A lot of twentieth-century fiction. Some first editions. Hadn’t he always had an interest in that area?’
‘Well, I suppose he was always rooting around second-hand bookshops when we went away somewhere. Or at least he was always wanting to. My mother discouraged him. She reckoned collecting books was a waste of time. And she didn’t like dusty old books cluttering up the house.’
‘But surely you saw the glass-fronted bookcase in the sitting room?’
‘Oh yes. But I never really looked at what was in it.’
That seemed remarkably incurious to me. But all I said was, ‘Maybe it was a hobby he concentrated on more after your mother died?’
‘Maybe,’ Roy said dubiously.
‘Anyway, I’ve no experience in valuing that kind of stuff, so I thought I’d check with you.’
‘Oh.’ He sounded nonplussed. ‘Maybe I’d better discuss it with Michelle.’
That didn’t surprise me either. I’d already got the impression that Roy Waites was one of those men who rejoices in letting his wife run everything. Some feel threatened by female omnicompetence, some get a positive charge from it.
‘Well, Roy, could you get back to me when you’ve talked to her?’
‘Yes, of course. Or probably she’ll call you. I’ve got quite a workload on at the moment.’
The last sentence didn’t fool me. If he had no workload at all, it would still be Michelle who’d call me back. There was a decision involved.
‘Incidentally,’ I said, ‘have you got a date for Cedric’s funeral yet?’
I could have predicted the answer. ‘Michelle’s on the case,’ Roy replied. ‘Likely to be towards the end of next week.’
‘Well, do let me know. I’d like to be there.’
‘Why? You didn’t know him that well, did you?’
‘I’d like to be there,’ I repeated firmly. ‘I got very fond of your father during the last months of his life.’
‘Very well,’ said Roy, with the intonation of a shrug. ‘We’ll let you know when it is.’
‘Thank you. And, with regard to the books, I thought what I’d do in the interim is to get back to the guy who sold them to Cedric – he seems to have used the same dealer most of the time – and ask for some sort of ballpark valuation figures from him.’
‘I suppose you could.’ He didn’t sound too sure.
‘It’d be a start.’
‘Yes … I’ll get Michelle to ring you.’
‘Fine,’ I said, with some level of resignation.
‘Oh, incidentally,’ said Roy, with a bit more animation, ‘Michelle said you were lucky to have got the job.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Clearing out Dad’s things. Michelle had a call from another company, offering to take it on. And this other woman’s rates were considerably less than yours.’
I felt pretty incensed. Although it wasn’t my usual area of work, I had agreed to do the job because they’d asked me to. And I’d given them a discount on my usual charges. And now Michelle was whingeing about the agreement.
‘What was the name of this other company?’ I asked.
How did I know his answer was going to be ‘BrightHome’? The apparition of Rosemary Findlay seemed to be stalking me.
‘Well, enjoy your lecture,’ I said drily. ‘And I hope your students do too. I’ll wait to hear from Michelle.’
I don’t like men to be macho, but I do like them to have a vestige of a spine.
I had become intrigued by Cedric’s book collection. The level of commitment in the way they were cared for – and indeed the amount of money he’d spent on them – made it even stranger that his son knew nothing about the obsession. I knew Cedric and Roy weren’t close, but the situation still seemed curious.
I opened one of the books. Stamboul Train by Graham Greene. I took out the invoice. Bought after Flick’s death. Cedric had paid quite a lot of money for it. To Augustus Mintzen.
Whose bookstore was in Petworth. And whose number was on the invoice. I rang and fixed to see him the following day, the Thursday.
I got my laptop from the Yeti and started listing the book titles. Not the ones on the shelves. Only those Cedric had thought worthy of the bookcase. The valuable ones.
While I was doing that, my mobile rang. It was Detective Inspector Bayles. He wanted to come and talk to me about Gervaise Palmier. My first reaction was that I didn’t know anyone of that name.
‘Also known as Dodge.’
Yes, of course I knew he was really called Gervaise. I don’t think I’d ever known his surname.
‘We haven’t been able to contact him,’ said the inspector, ‘in any of his usual haunts. And I wondered if you, Ellen, might be able to help us locate him …?’
‘I haven’t seen him for a few days.’
‘Ah. The thing is, he’s someone we want to talk to as part of our investigation into the death of Cedric Waites.’