Full Dark House(89)

May returned to the front room. Phyllis was seated with her hands pressed on her thighs, staring blankly at the floor. ‘When you came in,’ he asked, ‘did you have to unlock the front door from the outside?’

‘Yes. The latch is faulty, so you have to double-lock it as you leave or it comes open by itself.’

‘What about the back door? Have you touched it?’

‘No. I took one look at the kitchen and backed off. Then I called the police and was put through to your department.’

‘When was this?’

‘About two hours ago.’

‘Hang on.’ May called his constable in from the front garden: ‘Crowhurst, come in here for a second.’

‘Sir?’

‘How did this get put through to us?’

‘The station rang Miss Petrovic’s work number, sir. As soon as they realized it was the theatre, the call was transferred to the unit.’

I bet it was, thought May. They couldn’t get rid of it fast enough. He looked at the chaotic front room, at Phyllis, who seemed close to tears. ‘Would you care to show me the other rooms?’

‘Of course.’

Two small bedrooms, bathroom and toilet. An attempt had been made to brighten them up, the bedrooms painted a hopeful yellow, the bathroom pink, but the flat needed more than a lick of cheap paint to make it comfortable.

‘Which one is Miss Petrovic’s bedroom? No, just show me, don’t touch anything.’

An unmade bed, socks and a sweater lay on the floor. A crumpled bath towel at the foot of the eiderdown. Stacks of books, undisturbed. If there had been violence, it hadn’t reached here. He made a slow tour, checking the window frames and door handles. The flat reminded him of his own room.

‘You think she’s been abducted?’ asked Phyllis, following behind him. ‘Something terrible’s happened to her, I’m sure of it.’ She wiped her nose on the back of her hand. ‘I should have been here.’

‘We’ll have to see what turns up from the kitchen,’ May replied. ‘We’re going to have to take some items away with us.’

When he caught Forthright looking at him, he saw the same question in her eyes. If she’s been abducted, her look said, how did he get her out of the house without opening any of the doors or windows?

The pattern, such as it was, had been broken, yet felt strangely consistent. There was the same kind of arrogant theatricality; the evidence of the abduction reminded May of the blocking rehearsals he had witnessed. It’s deception practised in public view, he thought as he left the house. The interpretation of gestures, wasn’t that what acting was all about?

But who was providing the direction?





40

GROUND ZERO

The interpretation of gestures, May recalled as he unfolded the architectural plan from his pocket. It all happened so long ago, the other end of a lifetime. We’ve learned a lot since then. Then he remembered there was no more ‘we’. He was alone now. He would never adjust to the awful singularity. There was no one else. His wife and daughter were dead. His son lived in a commune in southern France and refused to speak to him. April, his granddaughter, had suffered a nervous breakdown and could not bear to leave her house. Only Bryant had given him hope.

‘John, are you all right?’

‘Oh, I suppose so.’

‘Then show me,’ said Stanhope Beaufort, holding out a pudgy hand. The architect was uncomfortably perched on a glass stool at a glass bar with a glass counter, surrounded by glass walls, a glass floor and a glass ceiling. Hundreds of tiny silver bulbs reflected from hundreds of square mirrors. It was so bright that nobody could see a thing.

John May handed over the building plan he and Longbright had rescued from the debris of the burned-down unit and waited for his analysis. He had tracked Beaufort, one of Bryant’s old contacts, to the new Hoxton bar, and was hoping that he could explain the meaning of the page. The roar of street traffic entered the bar and bounced off the vitrine walls, vibrating everything and making it difficult to hear. Dust sifted in and settled on the shining surfaces like radiation fallout.

‘I’m sorry to hear about your poor partner.’ Beaufort tipped the paper into shadow so that he could read it. ‘Old Arthur was a bit of a one-off.’

‘He was at that,’ agreed May.

‘What do you think of this place, by the way?’ Beaufort asked, as a waiter blundered into an indiscernible column with a tray of drinks.

‘It’s very—glass,’ said May diplomatically.

‘Glass is the new steel,’ Beaufort explained. ‘They all want it, it’s so seventies. I’ve lost count of the number of accidents we’ve had here so far. The staircase is glass, too. One of the waitresses went arse over tit down it this morning. Cracked a step and knocked out her front tooth. She’s been locked in the bog all day, crying her eyes out. You can see her if you want. The toilets are transparent. The owner complained that it’s like a hall of mirrors, and I said, “That’s because it is a hall of fucking mirrors, it’s what you asked for.” Wanker.’