Authors: Graham Hurley

Nocturne (51 page)

I spotted the water in the kitchen in early December. My nine
months were nearly up and the last thing I needed was a problem
around the house. The water seemed to be coming through the ceiling
and seeping down the back wall where the previous owner, the
luckless Mr Witcher, had fixed his cupboards. The plaster above and
below the cupboards was wet to the touch and when I looked up I
could see a dark stain where the ceiling met the wall.

My first thought was that Gilbert
’
s plumbing must have sprung a
leak. I hadn
’
t heard or seen Gilbert for days and when I struggled
upstairs and knocked at his door, I couldn
’
t get any reply. Back in the
kitchen, I took a towel to the walls and mopped up the moisture. I
’
d
keep an eye on it, I told myself. And if it
kept on happening, I
’
d contact
the water board.

Brendan came round again that night. He was as cold and cautious
as ever and because I found that easy to cope with, I didn
’
t altogether
mind him coming in. He
’
d bought himself a new
attaché
case, a big,
boxy thing in black leather, and he produced a thick wad of details
from half a dozen estate agents. Some of the properties were flats,
others were whole hous
es, and when - out of interest - I
asked who
’
d
be footing the bill, he said it wouldn
’
t be a problem. After all the
traumas at Doubleact, Sandra had evidently found an interested
buyer. Prospects for her estranged husband weren
’
t as bleak as he
’
d
once imagined.

Brendan had obviously been through
the properties already because
he
’
d ranked them in order of priority.
His favourite was an attractive
terrace house in a Barnsbury squa
re. A flight of steps led to an
imposing front door. The door looked newly-painted - a deep red -
a
nd the house had tall sash windows, and
tiny little dormers at the top.
On the back of the details was the price.
I laughed.

‘
£290,000?
Who
’
s got that kind of money?
’

‘
I
have.
’

‘
For
me?
’

‘
For both of you.
’

‘
You
’
re not serious.
’

‘
I
’
m perfectly serious.
’

I studied the details again, looking f
or the catch. Brendan helped me
out.

‘
I
’
ll live in the basement,
’
he said.
‘
There
’
s plenty of room.
’

We laboured once again up the foothills of the old, old argument.
Sharing a house together, no matter how platonic the arrangement,
was putting back the clock. That wasn
’
t going to happen. Not now.
Not ever. I
’
d made up my mind. For the immediate future, while I and
the baby sorted each other out, we
’
d be st
aying here. If we really had to
move, it would be on my terms and at my bidding.

Brendan gathered the stuff from the estate agents and left it in
a pile
by my chair.

‘
Fine,
’
he said.
‘
I
’
ll put some more details through the door.
’

He did. Most of the following day I was out with Nikki. We had
lunch at an Italian place in South Kensington and afterwards we
walked in Hyde Park. The weather was glorious - cold, sunny, sharp -
and she dropped me back in Napier Road an hour or so before dark.
Pushing at the front door, I could scarcely get it open. Inside, you
couldn
’
t move for yet more bits and pieces from various estate agents.
This was a gesture I recognised from the old Brendan: excessive,
out of proportion, totally over the top.

I was still leafing through this latest batch of details when I drifted
through to the kitchen to make some tea. Opening one of the
cupboards, I remembered the problem with the water. The walls were
wet again, glistening in the light. Water had pooled on the working
surfaces beneath the cupboards, and when I looked up at the ceiling I
was certain that the stain was spreading. There was also a smell,
slightly sour, that I took to be damp. It wasn
’
t a serious leak, nothing
actually dripping, but I knew I had to g
et something done before it got
much worse.

Gilbert, once again, was out. Coming
back
downstairs, it occurred
to me that he might be down in Dorset, visiting his brother. Tom had
told me that Gilbert was the last person he
’
d invite but I wondered
whether our little conversations hadn
’
t mended some of the family
’
s
fences. I decided to phone him and find out.

Tom, once again, was in a bleak mood. No, Gilbert wasn
’
t there.
Yes, to be honest he was terribly busy just now.

‘
I
’
m sorry,
’
I said at once.
‘
I shouldn
’
t have phoned.
’

‘
Not at all, my dear.
’
He paused, more conciliatory.
‘
You
’
ve caught
me at a bad time. Mama
’
s ill again. I don
’
t know whether I mentioned
it.
’

He hadn
’
t, but I remembered the note he
’
d left for Gilbert, the one
he
’
d posted in through the door.
‘
Mama
’
s
back
home
in
one
piece
,’
it
had read.

I inquired after Mama
’
s health. She had a heart condition, Tom
said, and when she got upset things could get tricky.

‘
She
’
s upset now?
’

‘
Very.
’

I wondered why but didn
’
t ask. Tom was talking about the
possibility of a bypass operation. Problem was, you could never tell
when the old ticker might pack in. They
’
d had a couple of scares
already. And Christmas wouldn
’
t help.

‘
How about you?
’
he said.
‘
Must be nearly due.
’

‘
Eight days,
’
I told him
.

‘
A week. Good Lord, is it really that close? Seems no time at all since
you were flying around, thin as a rake.
’
I stared at the phone. To my
knowledge, we
’
d never met. What on earth was he talking about?
‘
Figure of speech,
’
he chuckled, reading my thoughts.
‘
Time just
gallops by, especially when you
’
re my age.
’

I told him about my problems in the
kitchen. Did he happen to know
where Gilbert might have gone?

‘
Haven
’
t a clue, old thing. Is it bothering you? This water?
’

‘
Not really, but I ought to get something done.
’

‘
What about that job he had done on the roof? Wouldn
’
t be
anything to do with that, would it?
’

I hadn
’
t thought of Gilbert
’
s new skylig
ht. I closed my eyes, trying to
visualise the van. Hackney Construction. I
’
d put money on it. Tom
was warming to his theme.

‘
Bloody cowboys, they
’
re everywhere. Can
’
t find a decent trades-
man for love nor money. I bet that
’
s it. Rain penetration. Dear old
Gillie, show him a perfectly good roof, he
’
ll have it ruined in minutes.
And I
’
ll bet he paid the earth, too. Damn fool.
’

I found Hackney Construction in
Yellow
Pages
.
I phoned them the
next day. A harassed-sounding woman took the call and as we talked
I gathered that she must be the wife of one of the roofers. I could hear
kids in the background and what I took to be the grumble of a
washing machine. At her suggestion, I phoned again at lunchtime.
The men were still out on a job. Why didn
’
t I call round after six? She
gave me the address and said her husband would be back by then.

I spent the day, off and on, checking the kitchen. There was more
water seeping through the ceiling and down the wall. The smell, too,
was stronger, damp of a kind I
’
d never come across before. I looked
out of the window, thinking about the skylight again. It hadn
’
t
rained since the weekend.

The address the woman had given me was actually in Clapton. I
recognised the big guy who opened the door. He
’
d been the one
sawing lengths of timber in the hall. H
e invited me in, introducing me
to his wife with a grin I didn
’
t entirely
trust. I did my best to explain
about the water in the kitchen. Not quite a leak
, more a seepage.
Might it have come from the atti
c? A problem with the skylight,
maybe, or a pipe they might have damaged during the installation?
Neither suggestion cut much ice, though he did promise to give
Gilbert a ring when he had the chance and maybe drive over and take
a look. Meantime, he agreed it would be best to contact the water
board. He took the trouble to look up the emergency number in the
phone book, scribbling it down for me on the back of an old betting
slip.