Chapter Thirty-three

‘Fancy a drink?’ said Ross.

‘Sure,’ I said.

‘I’ll catch you later, then,’ he said.

Ross had arrived on the job a few days before. He was good-looking, with just the right confident carelessness about his hair and clothes. I couldn’t work out what he was doing with work like this. Probably just earning some cash before taking off. The day he arrived I tried to make conversation with him. He looked at me curiously and I babbled some nonsense. I felt myself go red and hated myself for it – hated him as well. For the days after that we worked in separate parts of the house and ignored each other. I was on the wiring, the plumbing, the plastering. He was painting and doing the finishing touches. He had lost interest in me.

The most important rule, said Petra Davies, author of Success in Friendship: A User’s Manual, is to care about other people. Petra Davies was wrong. She was as wrong as it is possible to be. The secret, as I was discovering, is not to care. I’d found this in the days at work after the murder. Everything seemed unimportant now, a charade, with nobody in on the joke except me. My head was buzzing with thoughts about Peggy dead and Peggy alive, about the police, about the guys in the house, and I worked without thought or interest. But I noticed from little murmurs and nods of approval that I was working faster and more effectively than before. I plastered one of the walls in what was going to be the master bedroom. I was so preoccupied with my thoughts that I hardly knew where I was or what I was doing. But when I finished, I stepped back and was startled by what I had done. It was a beautiful piece of work, smooth and level across the whole wall.

I wasn’t interested in Ross now. It seemed a thousand years ago that I’d cared what he thought of me. One time I helped him with a cornice that needed fixing, but apart from that we hardly exchanged a word. So when he asked me out for a drink, it seemed like a joke. He’d actually sought me out.

We weren’t able to do anything more than rinse our hands but that was all right, and it was even better when we arrived in the garden of the pub where Ross was meeting his girlfriend, Laura. She and her little friend, Melanie, worked in a gallery and the contrast between us, the neatly pressed and coiffured young women and the dusty, dirty men, seemed hugely comic. Laura, in particular, who sounded as if she had just arrived from a horse show, was loudly amused at the idea of having a boyfriend who was a grimy builder and stroked his hair in mock dismay. ‘I’m really surprised they let you two in here,’ she said. ‘Isn’t there some sign up forbidding builders and gypsies?’

‘I’ll get the drinks,’ I said.

I went inside and returned with a cool, damp bottle of wine and a clump of glasses. They talked about people and places I didn’t know. There was a pause and Laura looked me up and down appraisingly, like something in her stable. ‘So how did you meet this one?’ she said.

‘He’s the expert,’ said Ross. ‘He’s the man.’

I didn’t simper. I didn’t blush and say, oh, well, not really. I was looking closely at Laura, so closely that I could see the fur on her cheek, the strands of hair that had escaped and blown across her forehead.

‘Really?’ she said. ‘Have you got work set up after this job?’

‘Not yet,’ I said.

‘Good,’ she said. ‘I’ll bear you in mind.’

‘Careful,’ said Ross, and he and Laura laughed. He looked at his watch and then at her.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Ross and I have to… you know…’

‘Sure,’ I said. ‘I’ll see you, then.’

As I started to get up, I looked at Laura’s friend for the first time. She had hardly spoken. She was clearly in her friend’s shadow. She had dark brown hair that she hadn’t done much with. That and her dark eyes made her skin seem pale. As I looked at her and she noticed me looking at her, the blood rushed to her cheeks. I wasn’t attracted to her in any way and suddenly I was intrigued by that. Nothing mattered, nothing was at stake.

‘Mel,’ I said.

‘It’s Melanie, really.’

‘Would you like to go and get something to eat?’ I said.

She murmured something, blushed and murmured something else, then said, ‘Sure, yes, all right.’ She stood up and I saw for the first time what she was wearing: a short-sleeved pale green top with a white frilly collar, a long white skirt and sandals, all very light, summery and girlish.

‘I’ve got to go home and shower and change,’ I said. ‘But you can come along and meet the people I live with.’

On the tube I told her about the people in the house, exaggerating things about them, so that I made her laugh. I told her that things were a bit delicate because we were all about to be thrown out. I told her about the murder and the involvement of the police and saw her eyes widen.

‘Did you know her?’ she said.

‘It’s funny, isn’t it?’ I said. ‘Murder victims are like famous people. People like to know them. Or to know someone who knows them.’

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean that.’

Petra Davies would have told me to reassure Melanie, to say, ‘Of course, you didn’t.’ I said nothing; I just looked at her. Suddenly I wondered if I’d made a mistake. Did I really want to spend an entire evening with this woman, then another and another until after about four we could have awkward, unsatisfactory sex?

As I opened the door at Maitland Road, I met the whole group in the hallway, with carrier-bags and bottles. They all looked at Melanie. I felt for a moment like someone bringing his first girlfriend back to meet the parents. ‘This is Mel,’ I said.

There was a rush of greetings that almost overwhelmed her.

‘Come for a picnic,’ said Astrid.

Melanie looked alarmed. ‘We were going out to eat,’ she said.

That did it. ‘Great idea,’ I said. ‘It’s an initiation rite, but I’ll protect you. Let me have a shower first.’

We were a strange group, marching over to the park. It made me think of excursions from school, walking in a crocodile, shepherded along the street. They were all there, except Owen. And Pippa was with a guy in a suit, who seemed even more ill at ease than Melanie.

As we settled down on the grass, Owen arrived, hovering around with his camera, taking pictures. I poured a plastic cup of wine for Melanie and one for myself.

‘I haven’t been to a picnic for years,’ she murmured. She moved close, her shoulder against me.

‘Ants,’ I said, ‘and nowhere to sit properly. You can’t hold your food and drink at the same time.’

‘I like it,’ she said.

I filled her plate for her. I dipped a slice of carrot into a tub of hummus and fed it to her. I caught Astrid’s eye on me. I could see what she was thinking. Oh, how sweet, little Davy’s found a girlfriend. Still, at least I was showing them I wasn’t some weird loner. I was stroking Melanie’s hair when I sensed someone beside me. Astrid. I looked at Melanie. ‘Will you excuse us?’ I said.

‘Oh, all right,’ she said, and edged away to sit on her own, pretending to sip at her wine.

Astrid moved close to me and spoke in what was little more than a whisper. I thought of Melanie looking at us. She probably thought we were ex-lovers. Astrid was in a bit of a state because she’d been questioned again by the police. At first I thought she might have suspicions but I discovered she had a dim memory that someone else had been on the step when she had her accident. I forced myself to think clearly. Would it be better to tell her straight away or allow him to be a mysterious suspect dimly in the background? I was angry with myself for not thinking about this in advance. I decided to be transparently evasive on Dario’s behalf. It would muddy things up a bit but I wasn’t sure it was the best plan.

‘Maybe there was someone,’ I said. ‘But if there was, Dario’s the one you should ask.’