EIGHTEEN

Leaving the house, half walking, half running, and all the while listening for the sound of screeching brakes, Jane reached the main road only to find the traffic was at a standstill. Nothing to do with Eddie. A large truck was doing a U-turn and in the process holding up a bus that had pulled out, blocking the road.

Eddie had no money, not that lack of cash would prevent her from pocketing something that took her fancy. First stop, the sweet shop, where she asked if anyone had spotted an elderly woman, wearing a grey dress with a red belt.

‘She’s not well.’ But now was not the time for euphemisms. ‘Her memory. She may have lost her bearings.’

No luck, so on to the mini-market, the greengrocer’s, the shop that repaired computers, the Portuguese café, the cycle shop. Did Eddie know her way back to The Spruces? If she turned up there, the matron would think Jane incapable of keeping tabs on her for half a day. She had no coat, but the rain that had poured down in the night had been replaced by a cool, clear day and, in any case, Eddie had never felt the cold. In that respect, she had been like the teenage boys, many of whom arrived at school coatless, even in midwinter.

A light breeze shook the branches of the chestnut trees in the park. Could she have gone there? Unlikely. Shops would have a greater appeal. Food shops. Eddie was not above helping herself. The fast food place. Yes, that was the best bet.

Nothing, just an exhausted lad, who probably had a Ph.D. in astrophysics, taking the orders while simultaneously checking chips frying in boiling fat. Five past two. She would have to call the police. Fear that Eddie had fallen under a bus had been replaced by fury that she had taken advantage of Simmy’s visit to disappear. She knew what she was doing. Cunning was one of the attributes of dementia. Not true, but Eddie had always had a devious streak, saying one thing and doing another, like the time she had told her she had a low opinion of Tricia Tidewell, and her foolish remarks, and later Jane had discovered the two of them in the Portuguese café. A few years ago, when Liam was still a baby, and Eddie was still her old self.

Walking, half running towards The Spruces, Jane stopped, changed her mind. Eddie had never walked there from Faraday Road and if she was not at the shops she was more likely to have returned to the house. Yes, that must be it. She had set off for the shops then lost her nerve, and instinct had carried her back home.

Retracing her steps, Jane looked all about her for a glimpse of the grey dress with its red belt. She could ask passers-by but they were unlikely to have noticed an elderly woman hurrying along. They had better things to think about and, besides, most of them had their heads down, studying their phones. Round the corner she spotted Gus talking to the wretched woman from number twenty-two. No use asking them, they were far too absorbed in whatever they were discussing. She thought she heard Gus laugh. He was enjoying himself with his new friend, had no interest in Eddie. Had probably forgotten she was coming home for two days.

Back home the house was deathly quiet. Nothing to indicate Eddie had returned then gone out again, no cupboard doors thrown open or beds stripped or taps running. How long had Jane been searching? Fifteen minutes, twenty? Later, it would be important to remember. No, not just important: a matter of life and death.

Out in the garden, she was joined by Rousseau who rolled in the catmint then climbed the magnolia and sat on a branch, preparing to jump down on the other side of the fence.

‘No, Rousseau.’ Dave was not fond of cats, although the Burmese one from number thirty-one was a frequent visitor. Jane had seen it from her window. Needless to say, Rousseau took no notice of her, pausing a few seconds to lick his paw then leaping down and disappearing out of sight.

Out in the street again, but still no sign of Eddie, although she saw that the door to Dave and Gus’ house had been left open. The builders working an extra shift, or possibly Mrs Garcia. She had better check. Stepping inside, she called Simmy’s name. Then Dave’s. The door to their flat was closed and when she knocked nobody answered. Simmy must have gone to look for Arthur. Jane started up the stairs then changed her mind and decided to try and retrieve Rousseau.

The garden door at the end of the passage had a key in it but was not locked. She stepped onto the patio and was met by a forest of dandelions, some still in flower, others turned into fluffy seed heads. When Simmy was younger, she had shown her how to blow the seeds off the stalks. Five blows and they were gone meant it was five o’clock although some of them always seemed to remain. Not a sign of Rousseau, who must have continued on to the next garden, but out of the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of a dark shape on the patio – and reached out to steady herself against the wall.

He was lying face down, with his head turned to one side. Blue jeans and a red T-shirt. White trainers, bright blue socks. No blood. But it could be hidden from sight. No movement and, when she spoke his name, no response. But he could be unconscious.

‘Noel, it’s me, Jane. Noel? Can you hear me? What happened? Can you speak? Noel?’

What was she doing? An ambulance. Her phone. It was in her pocket. Because of Eddie. With trembling fingers, she dialled 999 and a flat voice asked if she wanted police, fire or ambulance, and in order to tell them she had to draw in a big gasp of air.

‘Ambulance.’ She stammered out the address. ‘A neighbour. He’s fallen. From high up, I think. A loft conversion, the balcony. Breathing? I’ll check.’ Crouching, close to his head, she repeated her words. ‘It’s me, Noel. Jane. Noel, it’s Jane.’ It was hopeless. He could have been lying there for ages. If it had just happened she would have heard him shout. ‘I think he’s breathing. I’m not sure.’

‘An ambulance is on its way.’

‘Thank you.’ She searched for a pulse. Was sure she felt one. Then not sure she could find it again. ‘It’s all right, Noel. You fell, but an ambulance is coming. You’re going to be all right.’

Where was Eddie? If someone found her, shop-lifting or doing something inappropriate, they would call the police. Did she have her name and address on her? Unlikely. She had no bank card or diary, or any other means of identification. She should have hung a label round her neck but how was she to know she would slip through the front door. It was Simmy’s fault. No, it was her own. Don’t think about all that. Concentrate on Noel. He was as still as a ... as still as ... how had he fallen? Leaning over to check something. Standing on the balcony, one of those wretched balconies. Why couldn’t he have been more careful? He was never careful. She touched his neck, searching for a pulse. Nothing. But she might not be pressing the right place. Was Gus at home or still chatting with the woman from number twenty-two? He couldn’t be back or he would have heard Noel shout. Surely he would have shouted, except there might not have been time. And even if Gus looked through his window, he would be unable to see the body. The body. No, he was still alive. He must be.

‘The ambulance will be here soon.’ But would it? She had heard stories about people waiting up to forty minutes. And it was the weekend. No, surely that made no difference, they worked in shifts, it was the same as a weekday.

Somewhere close by, a bee was buzzing about, and far off she could hear music, a pop song with its ubiquitous drumbeat. One of his arms was under his body and the other was flung out and she saw black paint on his fingers, or it could be varnish. Why couldn’t he have left it to the builders? Why had he been so reckless? Would the ambulance men call the police? Was that what happened when there was an accident? Would they tell Corinne or would she have to break the news? It’s about Noel, Corinne, I’m so sorry but...

‘Noel, can you hear me? It’s Jane.’

A small sound, a whisper. He was alive. ‘It’s all right, Noel. No, don’t try to talk.’ Should she go and look for Gus? No, better to stay. She felt cold, shaky. Should she try CPR? No, if he could speak it was not necessary. Had he spoken or had she imagined it? No, the single word had been unmistakable.

Footsteps heralded the arrival of two paramedics, a man and a woman, dressed in green overalls, the woman taller than the man. Both young.

‘We were in the area.’ The woman’s voice was calm, matter of fact. ‘Are you a relative?’

‘No, a friend, a neighbour. I live next door.’

The woman was kneeling by Noel. ‘Did you see him fall?’

‘No. No, I didn’t. I came round to look for my cat and ... Noel. He’s called Noel. He has a business. Loft conversions. This one’s still under construction. He must have been checking the balcony.’

‘Noel? Can you hear me, Noel?’ The paramedic had started pumping his chest.

Jane brushed earth off a metal chair and sat down. Through a small gap in the fence, she could see the bright colours of her Californian poppies. Their real name was eschscholzia and she had told Eddie how her mother had taught her to spell the word, and ever after Eddie had stumped round the garden repeating the letters. Es-ch-sch-olz-ia.

The paramedic had stopped pumping and was shaking her head. Jane could smell fungi, and something else. Lavender? Rosemary? All her senses were magnified, smells, sounds. The pop music had been replaced by Nessun Dorma, sung by one of those fat Italian opera singers.

‘I’m sorry.’ The male paramedic was standing next to her. ‘Is there someone we can phone? Someone who could stay with you?’

‘No thank you.’

‘The police will have to be informed.’

‘Yes.’ And when she saw them, what would she say? That Noel had spoken to her, a single word that might simply have been breath escaping from his lungs. Better not to mention it. Not for now. She could be wrong. Could have misheard.

The crossword clue, that had been keeping her awake at night, came back to her. Of course. How could she have been so dense? Conceal round old amplifier for crime. Conceal. Hide. Old was o and amplifier was microphone. Mic. “Hide” round “o-mic”. Homicide. When she returned home, she could fill it in and the crossword would be complete.