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Ellie Quicke, a fiftyish widow with a comfortable figure, did not consider herself to be a brave woman. She’d never learned to drive, her efforts to fend off a bullying daughter had met with only partial success, and she got the shakes if she had to speak out in a public meeting. On the other hand, she had managed to bring various wrongdoers to justice without having to spend time in hospital. Until, that is, she undertook an errand for Mrs Dawes . . .
* * *
They were both drunk, but Lee was on his feet while the other man had crashed out on his bed.
To Lee’s mind, his landlord was a waste of space. He lived like a slob, his only amusements being his dirty magazines and the occasional pint. Yet he’d plenty of money and his own house.
It wasn’t fair. Lee slaved at the supermarket for a pittance, barely managing to pay maintenance for his wife and the kids he never saw and who he wasn’t sure were his, anyway. And what did he have to look forward to? A miserable old-age pension.
Lee pulled the pillow out from under his landlord’s head and placed it over his face. The man on the bed woke up and began to fight for his life.
The victor then had to dispose of the body.
* * *
Ellie Quicke had begun to think and act for herself after years of being under the thumb of her husband and daughter, yet there were still times when she could be reduced to slavery, and her old friend Mrs Dawes knew exactly how to do it.
Mrs Dawes, head of the flower arranging team, had demanded Ellie’s help that Friday morning to prepare for a wedding at church the following day. It seemed that Mrs Dawes’ usual assistants were not available . . . or had found a good excuse not to be there.
Ellie was not to be trusted to insert flowers into the displays. No, she was there to act as plumber’s mate, to hand over secateurs and wire and tape on demand. She was required to stand aside, holding her breath, while Mrs Dawes — majestic in a capacious artist’s smock — placed lilies one by one into an arrangement on a pedestal beside the altar.
‘Not quite right yet,’ said Mrs Dawes. She was rarely satisfied with her own — or other people’s — work. ‘But we must get on, I suppose. Ellie, you may fix the containers to alternate pew ends. I’ve filled them with damp oasis already. Use plenty of tape so they don’t fall off in the middle of the service.’
Ellie sat on an impulse to say, Yes, miss! She was not best pleased that Mrs Dawes had commandeered her time that morning as she’d been planning to work in her garden, getting it ready for winter. On the other hand, they’d been friends and neighbours for years, Mrs Dawes really was queen of the flower arrangers, she had been let down by some of her usual helpers, and they were both anxious to see that the church looked good for the wedding.
Mrs Dawes had a magnificent bust — she was also an alto in the choir — and simply raised her voice a couple of notches to converse with Ellie as the latter made her way along the pews.
‘You know Englefield Road, don’t you, Ellie? Up the hill and over a bit from where I live? A woman there is selling her house and going into sheltered accommodation. We got talking about plants a couple of days ago, and she told me she was getting a man in to clear the garden for her. It’s a dump, that garden, except for one or two good shrubs. I admired her Portuguese laurel and she said I could take as much as I liked. I couldn’t carry much at the time, and I could really do with some more. You know the shrub I mean? Evergreen, with glossy leaves. A wonderful basis for flower arrangements.’
Ellie also sang in the choir, but her voice was not as powerful as Mrs Dawes’.
She called out, ‘What’s her name? Do I know her?’
‘I really couldn’t say.’ Mrs Dawes’ jet-black earrings swung as she lifted sprays of white chrysanthemums from a bucket to add to her arrangement. ‘She said I could take some of her variegated Canary Island ivy, too, which is useful because apart from what I need for today, I want to give cuttings to the members of my flower arranging class next week.’
Ellie could see where this conversation was going. She was going to be asked to collect the greenery for Mrs Dawes. Since Ellie didn’t drive, it would mean asking one of her friends to help her collect the stuff, or pay for a cab.
Ellie felt this was one demand too many, so tried to head it off. ‘You know my daughter Diana is setting up as an independent estate agent? She’s looking for clients. Is your friend going to her?’
Mrs Dawes’ back registered disapproval. ‘I really don’t know her well enough to say.’
Ellie kept her head down and taped another container on.
Mrs Dawes was not to be deflected. ‘When you go up there, all you have to do is remind her she said I could take what I wanted. Don’t forget your secateurs, and take one of those big folding bags from the vestry to put the stuff in. If you go now, you can bring it back straightaway and I can use it for the pedestal in the porch.’
Ellie straightened up. ‘No, I can’t possibly. I’m sorry, Mrs Dawes, but Diana’s got an open day today to launch her estate agency and I promised to take in some nibbles for that. Then this afternoon I have to go over to Felicity and Roy’s, to make sure everything’s all right and put some flowers in the sitting room, because they’re due back this evening from their honeymoon . . . not that they’ve been able to take much time off, with all the work he’s got on.’
Mrs Dawes’ tone softened. ‘It’s good to see them both so happy, although I really can’t approve of their waiting so long before they took a proper break.’
‘I know. But at least he did take her to Paris,’ said Ellie, smiling. ‘I’ll see what I can do about the greenery for you after the weekend, right?’
‘Or,’ said Mrs Dawes, persistent as a migraine, ‘you could go now. I usually keep some extra greenery in a bucket outside, but someone’s tipped it over and the stuff’s useless. Normally it wouldn’t matter, but I’ve only got enough to do this one pedestal, and I need more to do another in the porch.’
Ellie put the last container on the end pew with care, realizing that she’d been dumped in it. Mrs Dawes had known all along she didn’t have enough greenery to finish the job. One last try: ‘If I go, how would you manage? There’s still so much to do.’
‘Two of my ladies will be arriving to help me in fifteen minutes. They don’t drive either, but I can trust them to do the pew ends. I’ll be perfectly all right, dear, if you just toddle up and get me what I need. You can always take a cab back, can’t you?’
Ellie considered stabbing Mrs Dawes in the back with the scissors she’d been using to cut tape. Could she penetrate those mounds of solid flesh accurately enough to reach Mrs Dawes’ heart? It would be like stabbing a haystack with a needle.
She heard herself say, ‘All right, but I’ll have to go straightaway.’
Mrs Dawes gestured widely. ‘Leave me, dear, leave me. I can probably manage better all by myself. Don’t forget to take your secateurs and the bag to put the foliage in.’
Ellie almost ran out of the church. She considered banging the heavy door behind her, but didn’t — just. A few leaves were still drifting down from the trees on The Green around the church, and beyond that was the alley which gave access to her own back garden. For two pins she’d march across The Green, go through the garden gate and up the sloping garden to the back door of her own dear little house. She could do with a cup of coffee, too. The wind was chill.
She pulled up the zip of her blue jacket, hoping she’d left some gloves in the pockets. Yes, she had. Well, the sooner she did it, the better. She had low-heeled shoes on, and there was about an hour and a half before she was due at Diana’s with her nibbles.
Diana and an acquaintance called Denis had set up the 2Ds estate agency in the Avenue, in competition with an old-established firm. Maybe it would work out. Most of the housing projects that Diana touched hadn’t, but Denis seemed to have his head screwed on the right way.
Ellie plodded up the hill, the road twisting and turning. It wasn’t far as the crow flew, but it took a while by road. Nice little houses, all looked after pretty well in the main and most of them with loft conversions. The primary school on the other side of The Green had an excellent reputation, and they were near a good shopping centre, too.
She reached the turn-off to Englefield Road. It was a long road; Ellie began to get cross. How much farther was it going to be? Why hadn’t Mrs Dawes given her the number of the house? That would have been helpful.
She came across a house for sale, but the garden was neat and tidy, no ivy or laurel to be seen. So it wasn’t that one. Englefield Road went on and on, and there were no more houses for sale to be seen.
Ellie walked along, checking gardens for signs of the precious laurel. And yes, right at the end of the road there were two houses for sale, one on either side of the road. Both were being advertised by the old-established local estate agent, and not the 2Ds. One had a skip in front, with a tarpaulin tied over it.
One house looked slightly more decrepit than the other, but both had unkempt gardens; neither looked as if they’d had the attentions of a gardener recently. Was that Canary Island ivy growing up the side of one house? It looked as if it were going to bring the drainpipe down. The gate was off its hinges. Of course. Concrete slabs served as paving stones to the front door. The slabs were cracked. Naturally.
Ellie rang the doorbell. At least, she pressed the button and listened for a chime. Nothing. She knocked on the door. Still nothing. There was a hint of chilly rain in the air. Ellie wished she’d brought a scarf.
‘She’s out, luv.’ A voice from next door’s porch. An ancient man was prodding his way down the path with the aid of a walking stick. ‘Gone to the day centre.’
‘Oh. Do you happen to know if . . . ?’
He went on his way, ignoring her. He was probably deaf.
It probably wasn’t this garden Mrs Dawes meant, anyway. Now Ellie had had a closer look at it, it was ordinary ivy climbing the side wall, not the variegated sort. And that bush was privet run amok, not Portuguese laurel.
Ellie checked her watch. Diana would kill her if she were late for the opening day at the agency. She crossed the road, and had a closer look at the overgrown garden on the other side. No one was working there at the moment; it looked as if someone had started on it and given up. She didn’t blame them. What a mess!
She spotted a tangle of variegated ivy tumbling off a fence which had once divided this property from its neighbour. The fence posts had rotted, and some of the fence panels had broken away and lay on the ground. Between it and the house there was a partially cleared border dominated by an evergreen bush. Glossy leaves? Portuguese laurel? Yes.
Next door’s garden was no better cared for: an abandoned baby buggy lay on its side amid a tangle of weeds, fast-food wrappers and the odd drinks can lay strewn around. This end of the road was definitely going downhill.
Ellie hesitated. Was this the right house, after all? She rang the doorbell and knocked straightaway. Why wait for a bell that wasn’t going to ring? She simply couldn’t afford to waste time.
Ah. Someone was coming to the door. At last.
A young-to-middle-aged man opened the door. Curly hair, but not much of it. A painter or decorator by the look of his stained overalls. ‘Yes, luv?’
Ellie hated being called ‘luv’ but told herself he didn’t mean any harm. ‘Is the lady of the house around? She promised a friend of mine some greenery from the garden.’
‘Gone to visit her nevvy, probbly. Not here, anyways.’
‘Oh. Well . . . I’d better not take . . . no.’
‘Shouldn’t think the old luv would mind, seeing as she’s going.’
‘Yes, but do you know when she’ll be back? It is rather urgent, you see.’
‘Dunno. Thought she might be here today, but she wasn’t.’
Ellie looked at her watch. Time was getting on: Mrs Dawes wasn’t going to be able to finish without the greenery, and Diana would be tapping her foot, looking out for her refreshments. ‘Well, I wonder . . . it’s for the church, you see. She said we could take what we wanted.’
He took a cigarette out from the pocket of his overalls, and lit up. ‘Why not? Help yourself. But don’t say I said so, right?’
He shut the door, which was just as well as Ellie’s nose had begun to register that he hadn’t bathed recently. Or perhaps it was some peculiar new-fangled resin-bonding agent or grouting that he’d been using? An unpleasant smell.
Only, the smell didn’t seem to go away now that he had shut the door.
Ellie nerved herself to step into the undergrowth to reach the laurel. ‘Oh, the holly and the ivy . . .’ The choir would be practising that soon in readiness for Christmas. They were supposed to be doing some rather complicated new carols by modern composers this year. All rather a strain.
It looked as if someone had taken a hatchet to the laurel bush. A couple of branches, partially severed from the main stem, had come to rest over a collapsed section of fence. Those would be the easiest to separate from the bush.
She tried to get closer. Perhaps if she tackled it from the other garden? Bits of broken fence were sticking out all over the place, so with care not to snag her tights, Ellie got into next door’s garden, only to find she couldn’t reach the laurel from there, either. Bother! And she was running out of time.
Holding on to a fence post that was still more or less upright, she clambered back to the other side. As she did so, her foot slipped off the fence panel and she stepped into something that squidged underfoot.
Yuk. She couldn’t quite see what it was, under all that chopped greenery and bits of fence. Something wrapped in plastic, and seeping out on to the ground. The smell . . .
A dead cat, perhaps? Or . . .
She put her secateurs back into her pocket and tugged at a particularly thick stem of ivy. This dislodged a couple of broken laths of fencing, to reveal a torn black plastic bag which in turn showed . . .
She didn’t scream. No. She wasn’t sick, either. But she did try to breathe through her mouth. She closed her eyes, and counted to ten. And then another ten.
What was she to do? Faint? Ridiculous! What good would that do? She lifted her right foot and placed it behind her. Then her left. She made her way back to the porch and hammered on the door. She felt sick.
She was going to be late for the launch. As if that mattered now. The decorator had his tranny on inside the house. Loud. He probably couldn’t hear her.
She tried not to look down at her shoe. They’d been nice shoes, had cost quite a bit, but she didn’t think she’d ever wear them again.
The man was not going to come to the door again. She sat on the doorstep, with her right leg sticking out, well away from her clothing. She found her mobile phone and dialled 999.
A bored voice. ‘Which service do you want?’
‘Police. I’ve just found a dead body. I think it’s been there some time, because—’
‘Name, please?’
‘It’s rather discoloured. And she’s . . . at least, I think it’s a she . . . and not a he . . .’
‘Can you give me your name, please?’
‘Oh.’ Ellie tried to pull her wits together, but it seemed they’d gone wool-gathering. ‘Ellie Quicke. Mrs. Widow. But she’s very, very dead. I don’t think a doctor will be needed, if you see what I mean.’
‘What address?’
Ellie screwed her head round. Was there a number on the door of the house?
‘I can’t see from here. Maybe it’s on the gate.’
‘Your own address, please.’
‘I’m not at home.’
‘Your address, please.’
Ellie took a deep breath, told herself she was not, definitely not, going to be sick. She said, ‘I’m so sorry, but I think I’m going to have to move away. It’s the smell, you see.’
She put the phone down on the step, and stood up. It was better, standing up.
She took a few deep breaths, telling herself firmly that she’d never been sick in public before, and she wasn’t going to start now. She walked down the path to the pavement and studied the gatepost, which didn’t have a number on it.
She could hear the phone quacking at her.
She went back up to the house, picked up the phone, gave her own address and directions as to how the police should find her and the body. She said no, of course she wasn’t going to leave, and yes, she’d stay exactly where she was until the police came.
At least, she’d wait in the road because of the smell, if they didn’t mind.
The voice on the phone said they didn’t and that an officer would be there as quick as they could.
She got down to the path and sat on the low wall at the end of the garden. The wall looked as if it were going to collapse at any minute, but her legs weren’t up to supporting her. She’d seen dead bodies before: her husband — but that was in hospital and he’d been nicely tidied up by then; the cleaner who’d died in Aunt Drusilla’s bedroom — but that corpse had been quite fresh and honestly there’d been nothing really disturbing about it. But this . . .
She rather hoped some kind neighbour would stop by and ask if she were all right, and would she like a cup of tea. But no one did.
Come to think of it, she hadn’t seen anyone walk by, all the time she’d been in the road. A couple of cars had passed, perhaps. A very quiet road.
Mrs Dawes was not going to get her foliage in time to complete her decorations. And she was going to be late getting to the 2Ds open day.
* * *
It would have been better, of course, if he’d been able to bury the body properly before the old biddy ordered him off her property. But they couldn’t trace it back to him, so who cared? He had to laugh. No head, no hands . . . no identity.
Luckily, he’d not been on chatty terms with the neighbours. Only one had asked — weeks after the event — and that was Mr Nosy Parker, who’d been about to go off on holiday with his elderly sister. A coach tour round Austria, would you believe. So he wasn’t going to be around for a while.
It was easy enough to account for a solitary man’s disappearance.
‘Him? He had a drop too much the other night. Said he’d never done any of the things he wanted to do. Like going round the world. Said if he didn’t do it now, he never would. Backpacking in the Far East . . . Australia? I told him he was daft. Made him worse. Packed a rucksack and was off. Said he’d get a bus to the airport. Sent me a card from there, cheeky devil. Singapore next, I shouldn’t wonder. I said I’d look after the house for him while he’s gone, and so I will.’
Yes, that covered all the points. He was quite safe.
Apart from paying the bills. He hadn’t realized how much it cost to keep the house going. He’d have to have a think about that.