A short while later James called her back. “Are you going to be there all day today?”
“I’m not going anywhere. Mirri’s driving up to see me.”
“Good. I have a plumber calling in to you. His name is Derek. Derek Clarke. He installed the wet room at Stillwater. He knows the system better than anybody. He should be with you in a couple of hours.”
“That’s great,” Beth said.
“All part of the service… God! Did I really just say that? I must find another job. I’m getting much too estate-agenty.”
“It’s reassuring,” Beth said.
“If you say so. Was there anything else?”
She thought for a moment. “No, that’s it.”
“Well if you think of anything, I’m just at the other end of the phone… Christ, another platitude! Help me, Beth. I’m turning into my boss.”
She laughed, and hung up the phone. She had revised her opinion of James Bartlett. He was much more her type of person than she’d initially thought. She caught herself before that line of thinking got her into trouble. She wheeled herself to her office, thrust all thoughts of sewers and handsome estate agents from her mind, and typed Chapter Four in the blank screen in front of her.
A little more than an hour later the doorbell rang. The blue Ford van parked outside the house bore the legend D W Clarke, Plumber in fading white script, followed by a local phone number. Beneath it someone had painted in a cell phone number in a fancy font. The paint was fresher and brighter than the main sign—obviously a much later addition.
The man standing at the door was her age, fairly short, and slightly overweight, and had a mop of curly red hair tied back from his freckled face in a loose ponytail. “Ms. Alvarini?” he said, molding his cherubic features into a smile. “Derek Clarke, plumber. Jimmy said you needed some assistance down here.”
“Hi,” Beth said. “I wasn’t expecting you so soon.”
“Don’t believe everything you hear about plumbers. Some of us work quicker than snails.”
“Well, it’s appreciated. Come in.” She wheeled back to make a space for him to enter. “Do you want to check out the bathroom now?”
He was wearing a denim bib and brace over a very white T-shirt. His arms were well muscled, covered by a soft down of ginger hair, and they were as freckled as his face.
“Yeah,” he said. “Let’s take a look at it, then, if I can fix it, I’ll fetch my tools from the van. Jimmy said something about tree roots.”
“Well, that’s my theory. But I have to admit I don’t really know what I’m talking about. Just trying to find a logical explanation I suppose.”
Clarke smiled. “And a pretty fair one. I’m impressed. Not many people are aware of the damage tree roots can do.”
“You mean I could be on to something?”
“Well, it’s not beyond the bounds of possibilities. Best I take a look.”
“You might want to take a look at this.” She crossed to the sideboard and scooped up a small bundle wrapped in toilet tissue. She handed him the package. “That was blocking the drain in the room.”
Derek Clarke opened the bundle suspiciously, and stared at the small pile of damp weeds. He sniffed it cautiously and recoiled sharply. “Jesus, that’s rank,” he said, with a chuckle. “It certainly smells like sewage. And it was blocking the drain you say?”
“Completely. The bathroom filled with water.”
“That’s not surprising…and quite gratifying. It means I’ve made a good job of the seals. Let’s take a look.”
She made to follow.
“I can manage on my own,” he said. “I might need the extra room to work. No offense.”
“I’ll make some tea.”
“That would be very welcome,” Clarke said, and headed into the bathroom.
He crouched down in the center of the room, and studied the drain. There didn’t seem to be anything wrong here. The grille covering the drain looked immaculate, the chrome gleaming, untarnished by lime scale. No sign of any weeds. But he knew from experience that looks could be deceptive. The pristine chrome could be camouflaging a multitude of problems. He bent forward, bringing his face to within inches of the grille and sniffed.
If there were a blockage in the pipes the stink would be unmistakable, but all he could smell was a rather soapy, lightly perfumed aroma. Nothing obvious there then, he thought, and took a penknife from his pocket, using it to lever up the edge of the grille high enough to get his fingernails under it, and lift it clear. From another pocket he produced a small LED flashlight, and switched it on, shining its very bright and very white beam down the drain. The light bounced back at him from the water trapped at the head of the U bend; the water was an effective barrier to stop noxious smells traveling back up the pipe from the sewers below.
The bathroom door opened and Beth called through. “Tea.”
“Just coming,” Clarke replied.
He dropped the grille back into place, and patted it down so it was level with the rest of the floor. Behind him the door slowly swung shut. As he pocketed his flashlight and penknife he sniffed the air and checked the tissue paper parcel Beth had given him. The noxious weeds were still wrapped, but the smell of them was floating in the air, invading his nostrils, making him cover his nose with his hand. “Rank,” he repeated to himself, and dropped the tissue-wrapped weed into the toilet bowl, and pressed the flush. The toilet tissue swirled in the flush water, unwrapping and falling away from the weed. Clarke stepped back as a vile stench wafted up from the bowl. “Jesus! That’s foul!”
He took another step backward, but the heel of his shoe caught on something, and he found himself toppling backward. He threw his arms out to recover his balance, reaching out for one of the handrails. Instead of touching reassuringly smooth stainless steel, his fingers closed around something wet, cold and slimy. With a yell of disgust he pulled his hand away, and let his backward momentum carry him to the floor.
He hit the tiles, and lay there for a moment feeling foolish. He glanced up at the rail, noting the smooth, gleaming metal, and then searched the floor to see what had tripped him.
The chrome grille of the drain he had fastidiously patted down to ensure it was level, was now raised half an inch from the floor. It was this that had caught his shoe and sent him toppling. “Well, I’ll be…” He stared at it incredulously for a moment before reaching out and patting it back into place.
“Anything?” Beth said, as Clarke emerged from the bathroom.
He shook his head and glanced back at the bathroom at the same time. “Nothing obvious, but I’ll check the main sewer outside, just to be sure,” he said.
“Have your tea before it gets cold.” She slid the steaming mug along the counter toward him.
“Good idea,” he said. “Thanks.” Again he looked back to the bathroom.
“Is something wrong?” she asked.
“The smell of that weed gets right into you. I can’t shift it.”
“It is pretty foul. Any idea how it got into the bathroom? Or more specifically, how it blocked the drain?”
“That’s why I want to check the main sewer. Then I’ll make my report to Jimmy. If it’s an external rather than an internal problem, then the job will need more than the limited tools I brought with me. I don’t know how close to the lake the pipe work extends.”
“The lake? Surely not. It must be at least half a mile away.”
“Possibly the lake is fed by an underground stream that runs closer to the house. I’m just speculating of course. But to my eyes the stuff you found blocking the drain looks like pondweed. And the lake is the closest source of that. It’s worth checking out.”
Derek Clarke sat at the kitchen table, dunking a digestive biscuit into his tea. Beth rolled up to the table to join him. “Have you and James been friends long?” she asked, snapping an edge from her biscuit, and popping it into her mouth.
“Since school. I didn’t move into the area until I was thirteen. Jimmy took me under his wing and we’ve been friends ever since.”
“He seems to make a habit of it,” Beth said. “Didn’t he do the same with Jessica Franklin when she started at the school?”
Clarke gave a rueful smile. “You’re right, he did. Bit off more than he could chew there though.”
“In what way?”
An evasive look appeared in Clarke’s eyes. He took a mouthful of tea. “I’d better crack on,” he said, and drained his cup.
“Was Jessica a problem?” Beth pressed him.
“I think that’s something you’d be better off asking Jimmy about. It’s not really my place to say.” He got to his feet and walked to the kitchen door.
“It’s okay,” Beth said. “The fact that Jessica was something of a problem child seems to be common knowledge around here. I was talking to the Lathams over at Peck’s Cottage the other day. Gwen Latham didn’t have a good word to say about Jessica.”
“No,” Clarke said. “Not many people did.” He opened the kitchen door.
“Well, James obviously found something appealing about her. He gave me the impression they were an item.”
A puzzled frown crossed Clarke’s face. “Jimmy said that?”
Beth nodded. “He gave me that impression. Apparently they used to go to the lake together.”
“Well, it’s news to me if they were,” he said. “I thought she was untouchable. Everyone did. I knew he looked out for her. I remember he stepped in when a group of girls were giving her a hard time—bullying her. But I don’t recall ever seeing them together, as in going out together, being a couple. Jessica Franklin wasn’t what you would call girlfriend material.”
“What would you call her?”
“Bloody weird,” Clarke said.
“In what way?”
Clarke shifted from foot to foot, obviously uncomfortable with the topic of conversation. “Now this is Jimmy’s territory. I’m not saying another word. I’ve got work to do.” He spun on his heel and headed out to the back garden. He stopped suddenly.
Beth watched his shoulders rise and fall. He was hesitating, unsure how to proceed. Finally he turned back to her. “It wasn’t just Jess. The whole bloody family had a screw loose if you ask me.”
“I thought she just lived with her father,” Beth said.
“And her mother, until she cleared off. If Jess was weird she wasn’t a patch on Dolores Franklin. She’d waft through the town on occasion dressed like something out of Lord of the Rings—all flowing hair, pale skin and floaty dresses. She looked…ethereal. Know what I mean?”
“I get the picture,” Beth said, but was vaguely surprised that Derek Clarke—salt of the earth artisan—would use such flowery language to describe the woman. She pulled herself up short, appalled that she had stereotyped Clarke so quickly, simply because of his occupation.
“But God help anyone who crossed her, or didn’t provide her with what she wanted. I was told that if anyone upset her she’d turn into this…this mad thing; ranting and raving, cursing and casting her spells.”
“Spells?”
“She thought she was a witch. Took it all very seriously.”
“Deranged?”
“Oh most definitely. Mad as a box of frogs. So it’s hardly surprising that Jess Franklin behaved as she did. Living with that nutter.” He gave a mock shiver and then said, “Are you going to let me work or what?”
“Don’t let me stop you,” Beth said, spun round and wheeled herself back into the house.