Smethwick’s canal basin hadn’t yet been prettified like that off Gas Street, in Birmingham’s city centre. All it had was moorings for half a dozen boats – or at least, only half a dozen boats were moored there. Across the spread of tarmac was a place for disposing of chemical waste, known to you and me as the contents of portable loos, a source of fresh water, and a lot of tarpaulin wrapped round what the contractor’s boards promised would be a newly refurbished pub – completion date the forthcoming April. Then, no doubt, the picnic tables – the sort with benches attached – on the grass at the far end of the moorings would be heaving with life. The lighting over the whole site was good streetlight quality with lower lights to mark the start of the grass. The narrow boat residents could come and go in safety. Most of the boats were firmly closed up, no sound or light escaping. Maybe they were shutting out the Smethwick noise, which rumbled on even at this hour.
I prowled up and down the row, dodging mooring ropes and turds that might have come from a small elephant. They or something else, perhaps that loo-emptying point, smelt rank. I fought a heave of nausea.
Maybe I should give up now and go home. But the smoke curling from the chimneys of two of them, the gleams of light reflected on the water … yes, they were attractive in a Wind in the Willows way, and like Mole, I fancied being part of it, for the duration of a meal, at least.
‘And what might you be wanting, pet?’ demanded a man’s voice with a Geordie accent. I nearly jumped into the cut. He’d padded down across the grass without my noticing.
Not knowing even the name of Carla’s boat, I felt myself at some disadvantage.
‘Well?’ He wasn’t drunk but he’d had enough to sound truculent.
‘I’m looking for Carla Pentowski,’ I said.
‘Way, mon, I’ve not seen her these few days. There you are: Laughing Jackass. That’s hers. Doesn’t look like there’s anyone at home, does it, now?’ Without my asking, he reached across the stern and jangled a brass bell. Further along the row of boats a dog barked, basso profundo. It sounded big enough to have produced the mammoth doggy-does. ‘Shut up, Sadie, pet, you daft bugger!’
No sound from this boat, however.
‘You’d best be off, flower. My Sadie, now, she’s a lovely dog and she’ll be wanting her wee and her crap. But she doesn’t like performing in front of strangers.’ He stood, arms akimbo.
No point in hanging around. If a gytrash – oh yes, I knew my Jane Eyre – wanted its Lebensraum, who was I to object?
I retreated to the car, ready to give up. The car headlights spotlit a dog as big as I’d feared. Whether it was they that prevented her relieving herself I couldn’t say. She was clearly more interested in something in the water near Carla’s boat, baying with all her huge being at it. Eventually my Geordie friend cuffed her back on to his boat – how on earth did she even turn round in it – and quiet was restored.
I had to, didn’t I? I had to cut the engine, leaving the lights on despite the protesting electronic whine when I opened the door. I had to walk back to the water. Whatever it was that the dog had barked at was the source of the smell. And – as my stomach emptied itself in the oily waters – I had a very good idea what it was.
It looked like hair. It looked like pallid skin. But I couldn’t see the face. Not without touching and turning – no, I couldn’t do it. Instead I checked my watch: the police might want details like that. Seven forty-five. I ran back to the car: it was just possible that Chris was still at Piddock Road. If he wasn’t, calling in to the station would in any case probably produce quicker results than dialling nine nine nine. Quicker? When the body had been there long enough to smell, and no one – Sadie apart – had taken any notice.
In fact Chris’s scarred Audi was nosing its way out of the car park as I pulled up by the barrier – I wasn’t prepared to mess with street parking now. Obviously he wouldn’t recognise my anonymous Fiesta, so I leapt out, waving frantically. The driver’s window opened.
‘Yes?’ And then he recognised me. ‘What on earth …?’
I bent to his level. ‘I think I’ve found a body. And – oh, Chris – it could be Carla.’ Before I’d finished I was stepping backwards to avoid the car door. ‘It may not be her. Just something else—’ I made it to the gutter.
‘Dead and stinking.’
‘Not stinking. Just that sweet smell.’
‘Where?’
A hapless patrol car driver hooted, as well he might, with Chris half in, half out of the car park and me occupying most of the road. Chris fixed him with a look, but we moved the cars anyway. Now both were on the road. The officer pulled in, parking badly when he found a space. ‘Sorry, Gaffer, I—’
‘Forget it, Gary. Good night.’ His tone was easier, more relaxed than I’d known it. ‘Care to show me?’ He got into his car but didn’t open the passenger door. The message was plain. If it was Carla in the cut, the police team wouldn’t want to have to bother ferrying me back to my car.
The scene at the basin was exactly as it had been when I’d first arrived. Illuminated now by two sets of headlights and Chris’s torch, powerful for its size, there were the narrow boats, backed up to the bank. I pressed a tissue to my face and led the way. Chris glanced at me before directing his torch where I pointed. Then, gesturing me back – not that I wanted to go forward – he strode to the edge, squatting down. Within seconds, he was back on his feet, turning away with a surprisingly graceful movement. Then the movement became a clumsy scurry. I held his forehead while he lost whatever Bridget had given him for afternoon tea.
He took the tissues I proffered. ‘Must be out of practice dealing with stiffs,’ he said, reaching for his radio. ‘Do you feel well enough to drive back to your place? As soon as there’s anything to tell you, you’ll know.’
I nodded. I’d only be in the way. ‘We weren’t particular friends,’ I said, to save him having to ask. ‘Teacher and student. But she seemed a nice woman. Understanding.’ I turned to go. ‘But there is something I think you should know.’
He looked at me sharply. ‘Will it wait till I’ve finished here?’
I nodded. ‘That’s her boat, by the way.’ I pointed to the brightly painted hull that kept jostling the red hairs. ‘Laughing Jackass. And there’s a man along there who says she hasn’t been around for a few days. Watch where you put your feet, by the way: he lets his dog use the whole area and doesn’t clean up. I thought that was the origin of the smell at first.’
‘Hoped, more like. Once smelt, never forgotten. Now, I’m going to bring in whichever cavalry it’s supposed to be and leave them to it. I’ll be with you by nine fifteen, with a bit of luck. Look, with your stomach you’ll have to eat, whether you want to or not. I’ll bring in some fish and chips, shall I?’
‘Not fish.’
‘Just chips. You can cook up some chicken. Keep your mind off things.’
Could I indeed? But he was already talking into his radio.
Just as I was beginning to dither and feel sorry for myself, the phone went. Mike! He’d got five minutes before play started in the Melbourne Test. I chatted animatedly about his prospects for the game – he’d scored fifty-odd in both innings in the match just over! – and how he thought the team would fare.
‘It’s no good,’ he said at last. ‘I can tell there’s something the matter.’
‘I didn’t want to tell you in case it disturbed your concentration. You know that woman you were looking up? I’ve just found her body. In the cut. By her boat.’
‘Just get on a plane and come out here,’ he said.
Over the top his reaction might be, but it was music to my ears. If only … ‘I’ll be needed at the inquest,’ I made my mouth say. ‘And there’s Ivo to worry about.’ Not to mention the money.
‘Give the little bugger to Chris. They should get on like a house on fire. Oh, I know you can’t just drop everything. But, if you can swap your ticket for an earlier flight, you will, won’t you? And if you can’t and you need to come, just tell me. Please.’
There’s this wonderful Nigel Slater recipe for chicken involving lemon, garlic, basil and white wine. The only vegetable you need is some green leaves – lettuce, rocket, whatever. Because you leave the skin on, there’s a lot of rich juice. It’s best mopped with bread. But since Chris had offered chips, I wasn’t about to argue. Comfort food, that was what we both needed, after all that nausea. Until it came I wouldn’t even try any wine. I’d stick to a remedy even Aggie would favour: tea.
And it was her voice I heard when I dabbed a belated finger on the answerphone.
‘Only there was this man sniffing round, and I thought I ought to tell you. Says he’s from this garage. Only – you know what? – I don’t reckon he is. No oil. Do you want a description?’ Her voice was hopeful.
I called back. ‘I’ll be round as soon as I can,’ I said. ‘I’m expecting Chris any moment.’
‘Ah, I noticed you were back together,’ she said.
‘No, we’re not.’
‘Well, what was his car doing there all the other night, that’s what I want to know? Don’t tell me it wasn’t his. I heard his voice when he was walking up the drive. And I heard him in the morning.’
‘He’d drunk too much to drive. So I made up my spare bed.’
‘Ah, that’s what they all say.’ Which one of us she was referring to, I had no way of telling. Since Chris was such a favourite of hers, I wouldn’t have placed bets either way.
Chris was later than he’d predicted but earlier than I’d expected. The chicken was almost ready. I sloshed some wine on to the pan juices and reduced it all fiercely while he tipped the chips on to the plates and helped us both to some of the rest of the wine. I relayed Aggie’s message deadpan. And word for word. There was no way I was having him stay over tonight. If I was – occasionally – worried that Mike might be tempted by Australian beauty, he certainly didn’t need the news that Chris and I were close again. He’d been very tolerant, but there was no doubt he preferred Chris’s room to his company. And the media would certainly relish a love-triangle story involving one of the few England batsmen who was having any success.
He shrugged. ‘Nosy old bat.’ Not the sort of comment I’d have expected of him.
‘If she noticed, other people might have done too. Chris, I love you dearly, but we’re much better as we are. And Mike’s got a lot on his plate. The England team aren’t exactly conquering heroes. We’re thousands of miles apart. And our relationship is – forgive me – even more important than your driving licence.’
‘I suppose I could always kip on Aggie’s floor.’
‘That’s not the point, is it? Unless you leave a large notice on that car of yours saying “SLEEPING AT AGGIE’S, NOT WITH SOPHIE.” And I don’t reckon too many people would buy that.’
‘OK.’ He sounded resigned, even irritated, rather than depressed. ‘Now, suppose we get outside that chicken while there’s still some gravy left.’
‘Then we must go round to Aggie’s. She keeps early hours.’
Aggie’s tea was thick brown no-nonsense stuff, inadequately diluted with sterilised milk. Chris’s way of dealing with it was to spoon in what no doubt constituted his week’s intake of sugar. Mine was to have a few delicate sips and forget to finish.
‘Any road up,’ Aggie began, ‘this man was ringing and ringing your bell, and then started sniffing round the side of your house. He’d been making enough noise for me to think it was my bell, hadn’t he? So I popped my head outside. That soon stopped his snooping. “Good afternoon,” he said, “I wonder if Ms Rivers lives here.” So I said yes, you did and I was expecting you back any minute, which I wasn’t, but he wasn’t to know, was he, and I knew you’d have left your alarm on. So I asked him what he wanted and he said he wanted to talk to you about your car. I thought he might be from your insurance or something, so I asked him for his card. And there he’d gone and forgotten them. So I asked him point-blank where he was from, and he said her garage.’
‘Could have been some sort of manager,’ Chris said.
‘Where I take mine, they all get their hands mucky,’ I said. ‘Any of them would have oil under their nails, even smelt of it.’
‘No oil. Now, my son – my youngest, God rest him – worked in a garage. And no matter how hard he tried to clean up, he always smelt of oil. Or that Swarfega stuff. Always. But the only thing this man smelt of was – no, I don’t know.’
Chris lifted a finger. As if I needed warning to keep quiet! My glare was lost on him: his eyes were locked on Aggie’s face. He smiled encouragingly at her.
‘It’s no good, me love. Maybe it’ll come. But when you get to my age, your memory starts to go, you know.’
‘It’s just that you remember different things,’ Chris said, patting her hand. ‘Now, how old would you reckon he was?’
‘Not old, not young. Not much older than you, young Chris, but carrying a bit more weight.’
‘What about hair?’
She peered. Perhaps, I realised with a pang, her eyes weren’t as good as they had been, either. ‘Hard to tell. It never seems to get light, these days. Maybe a bit more than you, me love.’
‘How tall was he?’
‘Middling. Oh, I reckon he might have come in that big car. A bit like yours. Actually, he had a nice smile, I’ll say that. Friendly. Spoke nicely, too. If you hadn’t dinned it into me never to let people in, I might have given him a cup of tea. Nice young men like that don’t often come my way.’ She cackled.
‘I’m glad someone takes some notice of me,’ Chris said. ‘Now, shall I check you’re all locked up for the night? And would it help if I gave you an arm up those stairs?’
‘Creep,’ I hissed, as he deadlocked her front door and dropped the key through the letter box.
‘I never had a gran,’ he said.
‘I did, and she was nothing like Aggie.’ I killed the burglar alarm. Yes, we’d only been gone a few minutes, but unlike Bowen I always used it. ‘OK. Let’s talk.’
I steered him to the living room and produced a bottle of Perrier. ‘I need to flush Aggie’s brew,’ I said.
‘My dad used to make it like that. Railwayman’s tea. When he was a kid he used to put bacon on to the stoking shovel and sizzle it. Wonderful stuff. But he preferred diesels, when it came down to it.’
What had brought on that little burst of reminiscence? He sat staring into the pseudo-coal gas fire.
‘What makes you think of him?’ I asked gently.
‘His hatred of those fires! Now, you tell me all about Pentowski’s life and I’ll tell you all about her death.’
I obliged: everything I knew, from her kindness and competence as a teacher to Mike’s strange inability to find her thesis – or indeed, any trace of her – in Melbourne.
‘But you say she was a good teacher?’ he summed up.
I nodded. ‘An unqualified success, you might say,’ discovering why the police went in for such black humour at times like this.
Chris gave an appropriate grimace. ‘And Luke will check out everything on Monday?’
‘No one must know we’re talking to him. Remember last time: my big mouth.’
‘His naiveté too. OK. Monday lunchtime. And you’ll get straight back to Peter Kirby with the info. Or maybe he should.’
‘The lower Luke’s profile the better, I should say. The only reason I agreed to have lunch with him was I thought nothing could be more natural than two refugees from William Murdock meeting up for a chinwag.’
He didn’t look convinced. Any more than I felt it.
‘OK. Your turn. What about Carla’s death?’
‘I’d say,’ he began, draining his Perrier, ‘that we have a death-by-misadventure verdict looking us in the eye. What you’ve said only encourages the belief. We have a woman apparently claiming qualifications she doesn’t have and upon which, presumably, her appointment depended. This mysterious fire. Was she living a lie and afraid that student – Jago, did you call him? Sounds like a character from those Mazo de la Roche books I used to bring my mum from the library! – might be about to uncover the lie? Let’s take that as a scenario. She takes refuge in the bottle, is too pissed to judge the distance between boat and shore, and plunges in. The high wind does the rest, crushing her between the hull and the bank. Quick, but not especially pleasant. And as she sinks, for good measure her skull gets crushed too. Poor woman.’
I’d never known Chris so full of creative intuition! I said, ‘Only one problem. She didn’t drink.’
‘Lots of evidence in the boat to suggest she did. And that Geordie bloke swears she liked her booze.’
‘She told me she didn’t touch the stuff. Ever. She was a reformed alcoholic.’
He shook his head. ‘Alcoholism means addiction to drink. Addiction means the temptations are enormous – especially when pressures start to build in your life.’
‘You won’t just assume all this, will you? You’ll keep an open mind?’
‘Of course. We always do.’ Something in his voice suggested that impressive though all this might be he was thinking about something else. ‘Do you know of anyone who might have wanted her dead?’
‘Not offhand, but—’
‘Any reason, then, for me to divert resources from my everyday police problems to some spurious investigation?’ Ah! Management-speak. I wish Aggie could have seen soft, cuddly Chris as hard as this!
‘You mean problems like parking and speeding—’
‘And drugs and domestic violence and that body in the cut.’
‘OK. Point taken.’ There was no point in arguing just for argument’s sake. ‘Did you stay back at the moorings long enough to talk to the police surgeon?’
He nodded.
‘How long did he – it is a he, is it? – reckon she’d been in the water?’
‘Two or three days. The PM should give a more definite timescale.’
‘Right. How come, then, she managed to leave a message on her office door saying she was going to be away doing some research? At least a day after she was dead?’
He frowned. ‘She was going on a bender and wanted to put people off the scent? Phoned in? Left a message someone didn’t prioritise?’
‘Possible. But I’d say Kulvinder was pretty on the ball; I’d be surprised if she forgot anything. Ever.’
His face took on the stubborn-little-boy expression that always made me want to smack him.
‘Would it do any harm to get a Scene of Crime person to look at the boat?’
‘My dear Sophie, they’ll check the scene as a matter of course. Not tonight, before you ask. Probably tomorrow, if Peter and I can agree the overtime. And don’t you go sniffing round there!’
‘I wouldn’t want to contaminate the scene,’ I snarled. ‘Would I?’ If I was anyone’s dear Sophie, I certainly wasn’t Chris’s.
‘Of course not,’ he said, leaning forward to refill our glasses. ‘Any ideas about this soi-disant mechanic of Aggie’s?’
‘I think she’s getting glaucoma or cataracts or something,’ I said, aware I wasn’t answering his question. ‘Have you noticed the way she looks in your direction, but not always quite at you?’
‘Time she was thinking of heading to her granddaughter’s, perhaps,’ he said. ‘You’d better talk to her about it.’
Funny how I got all the good jobs.
‘She’ll leave a big hole in your life, Sophie.’
‘And new neighbours to run in,’ I agreed.
We sipped in silence for a minute.
‘Well?’
‘She didn’t give us much to go on. I know several middle-aged men who might fit that description. We didn’t even get hair colour, did we? Or build?’
‘I wanted her to remember, not say something to please me.’ He drained his glass. ‘No ideas then?’
‘I do have quite a number of male acquaintances.’
‘Come off it. Male acquaintances wouldn’t be sniffing round. Men connected with—’ He gave up, gesturing vaguely. ‘Men you might have annoyed. Like whoever had dealings with your car.’
‘You mean someone’s got a contract out on me!’ I rolled my eyes and clasped my hands to my chest. ‘Joke, Chris!’
‘No joking matter. OK. It could be someone you’ve annoyed in the past. But what about someone in the present? At UWM, for instance?’
‘The only men there I’ve had any real dealings with are Jago and Tom Bowen, my tutor. They’re much of a height, but Jago’s stringy and Tom’s cuddly. Or not, as the case may be. Jago’s found solace in the arms of another student, by the way.’
‘You don’t think his amour propre would be sufficiently dented by your rejection to prompt him to damage your car?’
I pulled a face. ‘Not to paint-strip a whole row. And surely not to tamper with my brakes.’
‘Bowen?’
‘The only way I could have offended him is my request for a tutorial. No, he’s OK. In any case, he needs me in one piece to cook for him. Next Friday. And he knows I’d need wheels to do the job.’
‘Not everyone takes food as seriously as you do, Sophie.’ He shifted in the chair. ‘There’s always the remote chance it could have been one of the guys from your garage?’
‘Surely not. They’d phone, not come round in a big car. But, just to rule them out, I’ll ring them first thing tomorrow. Which it almost is.’ I got to my feet.
Less speedily, Chris got to his.
I didn’t quite push him out. But he got little more than a flap of the hand before I shut and locked the door. And pressed the downstairs zone of the alarm system. Just in case.