‘He’s not there now.’
‘Your husband says you talk to strangers in churches.’
‘Certainly. Why not? I feel safe there. When I was a little girl, if I ever felt sad or frightened I would go to the mosque and the feeling would go away.’
‘So why do you go to churches?’
‘What, you think because I was once a practising Muslim I cannot enter a church? It is a sanctuary to me, nothing more. A mosque is where my thoughts can be heard, but a church will do almost as well.’ She laughed. ‘I’m glad my parents can’t hear me say that.’
‘But your husband also says you believe there is some kind of … satanic club—’
‘You have met Oskar’s colleagues. They all belong to clubs, Boodle’s, the Devonshire, White’s, but sometimes there are clubs inside of clubs and this – this’ – she stamped her palms together – ‘is where they plan their evil.’
‘But you don’t honestly mean they’re satanic?’
‘Well – perhaps this is the wrong word.’
‘Do you have many friends of your own age?’ asked May, changing tack. ‘Anyone in whom you can confide, have a good honest conversation?’
‘Only in Albania. No English. My husband does not approve of my Albanian friends because they are low class.’
‘You’re not wearing any jewellery,’ said Bryant, cutting in. ‘Do you normally?’
The question took Sabira by surprise. ‘Sometimes, for formal occasions only. But not like the other women. You hang baubles from a straggly tree to distract from the meanness of its branches.’
Bryant laughed but May could see they were not going to get any further. ‘I think that’s all we have to ask you today,’ he said, rising. ‘I hope we’ll meet again.’
‘I hope so too,’ said Sabira, smiling warmly. ‘My head is feeling much better now.’
‘Well, I thought she was delightful,’ said May as they headed back across the square. The sky had clouded over and a strand of grey shadow was massing above the church. ‘But highly strung. All the paranoid stuff, it’s just in her mind. She feels cut off from her friends, she hates the circles she’s forced to mix in, and when she picks a fight I imagine her husband refuses to take her side.’
‘I think it’s something more than that,’ murmured Bryant. ‘Come over here. Children don’t use this square. Hardly anyone cuts across it because the back gate is kept locked, and they certainly don’t deviate from the path if they do. Take a good look at the grass.’
He wandered over to a patch of green within the boundary of the church and poked at it with his walking stick. Then he looked back at the Kasavians’ second-floor apartment.
‘This is the area of the street she sees reflected in the mirror. That’s why she keeps it covered. Look.’ He directed his stick at a lamp-post on the path. ‘She sees a man standing under the lamplight at night, watching her.’
He bent and examined the flattened area. ‘It rained on Saturday night. Someone stood here on the wet grass.’ There were several cigarette butts tightly grouped in among the crushed blades. ‘I think he stood here and watched her. And she’s terrified of him.’
9
PERMISSIBLE MATERIAL
ALMA SORROWBRIDGE DRAGGED the last of the cardboard cartons inside the front door and kicked it shut with her slippered foot. When the removal men refused to pack up Bryant’s chemistry experiments and transport them, citing health-and-safety regulations, her church group had kindly undertaken the task.
Now everything from his reeking Petri dishes to his mummified squirrels and the stuffed bear inside which Kensington Police had once discovered the body of a gassed dwarf had been shifted into the new flat’s spare room, in an almost perfect replica of Bryant’s old study.
Alma picked up a book and checked its spine: Intestinal Funguses Volume 3. None of Mr Bryant’s books seemed to have been arranged alphabetically, but were grouped by themes and the vagaries of his mind. She set the tome between A User’s Guide to Norwegian Sewing Machines and The Complete Compendium of Lice and hoped it would eventually find its place. After setting his green leather armchair behind his stained old desk and arranging what he referred to as his ‘consulting chair’ before it, she satisfied herself that everything was in its rightful place, gave the shelves a final flick of her duster and sat down to await her lodger’s arrival. Bryant had been sleeping in his office, and had yet to see his new home.
The move to number 17, Albion House, Harrison Street, Bloomsbury, had been delayed because the council painters had decorated the wrong flat, but as she checked each of the rooms she saw much that was to her liking. The windows were large and let in plenty of light. The oven had already been put to good use and the kitchen was filled with the smell of freshly baked bread. Best of all, her bedroom was at the far end of the corridor away from Mr Bryant, so she wouldn’t be disturbed by his appalling snoring.