72

BEX

I’m standing outside the old lady’s house, waiting for the darkness. Through the open curtains that frame the front I can see a weak light that looks like it’s coming from the top floor. I wonder what she’s doing. I picture her sitting at her mahogany desk, working her way through that file of documents she’s compiled on me. I need to know what she’s unearthed so I can understand how to deal with the situation, how to deal with her.

The feel of Penelope’s key in my hand is comforting. I enjoy running my fingers up and down its indentations and ridges. My plan is balanced on a knife edge, I realise that. I’m not sure how much Penelope knows about me, how much she has shared with Jen. My assumption, based on Jen’s recent behaviour, is that she knows relatively little: only that a woman called Becky once knew Daniel Oliver, and that Steven Walker saw me talking to Laurence before the murder–suicide on Hampstead Heath.

I was pleased at how I managed not only to explain that but to spin it to my advantage. Jen had been primed in such a way I could hardly dare imagine. I’d laid the foundations of the scheme with the precision of an architect. I’d drawn Jen in by sending her those mysterious messages, suggesting that Daniel Oliver hadn’t really killed Vicky Da Silva. I knew that her curiosity would get the better of her and that she wouldn’t be able to resist investigating. I’d made the messages more threatening, so by the time of the attack on the Heath – and her discovery of that mask in Laurence’s house – she was as malleable as a piece of wet clay in my hands. All it would take would be a few final turns of the wheel and it would all be over. I smile as I think about what is going to happen to Laurence, before I turn my attention back to the job in hand.

Penelope.

I need to find out what she’s got on me, that’s a given. But what else? Although it would be tempting to snuff out the old lady’s life, I know enough about leaving traces of one’s DNA at the scene of a crime, information I’ve picked up from watching too many thrillers on TV, that it would be unwise to do that. Despite this, I could still have a little fun.

The light at the top of the house goes out and I wait for another twenty minutes before I make a move. I walk down the path and listen at the front door. Nothing. I take the key and ease it into the lock. I slowly turn it and hear the lock click. I hesitate for a moment, before I push the door open. I step inside – the house is dark, quiet – and quickly close the door. The smell of cooking – something rich and meaty – lingers in the air. I slip my trainers off so I can move through the house as quietly as a ghost. I take out my torch and use it to guide me through the blackness. I go into the kitchen, straight to the long, wooden table, but despite there being a few papers, there’s no sign of the file. I check a few drawers, but I only find what I’d expect: pots, pans, cutlery, and in the rest the detritus of living: Sellotape, old postcards, stamps, glue, playing cards, biros, string, discarded phone chargers. I move to the sitting room, scan the shelves, the side tables and sofas, but again nothing. I make my way back to the hallway and listen up the stairwell for any signs of life. It’s quiet apart from the distant scream of a fox outside. With a delicate step I begin to climb the marble stairs.

I decide to bypass the first floor and head straight for the top. If the file is to be found anywhere it’s most likely to be in her study or bedroom. When I reach the third storey I stop on the landing. Although I’m fit, I can hear myself breathing. Of course, I’ve had to address what I would do if Penelope were to step out of her bedroom. There are a few scenarios I’ve dreamed up, most of which involve pushing her down the stairs. She’s a frail old lady. The steps are hard. She would hit her head. The chances of death would be high. When the forensic team came to do their DNA analysis they might find traces of me, but of course this could be explained by the fact that I had paid a number of visits to the house when Jen lived there. The main thing was to avoid her scratching me as I knew I wouldn’t be able to explain my DNA under her fingernails. Hopefully, it wouldn’t come to that.

From the landing I move into her study. I use the torch to search her desk, its surface and drawers. There are papers relating to a future talk at a journalism college, a few books for review, along with notes from adoring commissioning editors, and a chequebook from Coutts. There are packets of staples, blank postcards, a ring punch, stacks of A4 paper, printer cartridges, and ink for a fountain pen. But there’s no sign of anything relating to me. Gently I ease open the filing cabinet that sits in the corner. I’ve searched this cabinet before and I’m convinced there’s nothing new in here. I scan the shelves and look under the printer. Her laptop is not here and neither is the bag that she carries it in. Fuck. The bitch must have taken everything to bed with her.

As silently and stealthily as I can, I inch my way forward to her bedroom. I wrap the torch inside the end of my sleeve so it only gives out the dimmest of lights. I stand outside the door, which I notice is slightly ajar. I steady myself before pushing the door forward a fraction. I’m relieved when it doesn’t squeak. I press my foot against the door to ease it open a little more.

Through the gap I can see a double bed, at the far end of which lies the outline of a dark shape. Penelope. I step into the room and, as I move closer, I can hear the sound of gentle breathing with only the faintest hint of a snore. I come to stand by the bedside table. I lift the edge of my sleeve higher so that the torch can illuminate what’s on the surface: a stack of hardback books, a pot of expensive-looking night cream, a copy of the New Yorker.

I move the light across the floor, but there’s nothing I can see that looks like a file or that would contain a file. With small, silent steps I shuffle my way around the bottom of the bed to the side that is nearest the window. In the dim light I see Penelope’s lined, unmade-up face, so different to the one she presents to the world. As I move the torch across the bed I see it. The file is there, on top of the duvet, enclosed by an arm.

I step forward and take another, closer look. Her hand is fixed like a claw around the file; presumably she must have fallen asleep reading. It would be easy to wrench it from her, dash down the stairs, and run out of the house. But in doing so I would wake her up and alert her. Even easing open the file to peer inside at its contents would be too much of a risk. I wait in the shadows, hoping that she will turn over and in doing so release her grip. But she does not move. I wonder for a moment whether she’s asleep at all. Does she know that I’m here, watching her? Is she playing some kind of game with me? As I observe her, part of me thinks about taking a pillow, pressing it over her face, and squeezing the life out of her. But again, I know too much from TV: such a death could not be dismissed as the result of natural causes, and it would be investigated. Even though it’s tempting – so tempting – I resist. Finally, with a heavy heart, I retreat. I slip out of the bedroom, casting one last look at the file on the bed. I will have to leave Penelope until later. She won’t escape unscathed from this, I promise myself.

But just before I leave the bedroom I notice a pair of shoes that she must have kicked off before she got into bed. I pick up one of them – a little black number with a nice heel – and as I start to descend the stairs I place it in the middle of the second step down.

If she were to trip and fall to her death, whose fault would that be?