The impatient knock at the door suggested that he had already mislaid his keys. ‘You never told me we were on the third floor,’ he complained before she had even managed to open the door wide.
‘There’s a lift. Why didn’t you take it?’
‘It smells of wee.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, I just bleached it.’
‘Aha, then it did smell of wee.’
‘Of course not, I just knew you would make a fuss.’
‘I really didn’t realize we’d be all the way up here.’ Bryant sniffed and peered about himself in vague disapproval. ‘There are lots of bicycles chained to the railings downstairs, and there’s an Indian man in a string vest watering some kind of vegetable patch. He offered me a turnip.’ He unwound his moulting green scarf and took a tentative step inside. ‘Hm. Nice paintwork. Did you do that?’
‘No, the council sent someone round.’
‘What, they paid for it?’
‘Yes, they pay for maintenance and upkeep.’
‘That’s a good wheeze. I don’t know why we didn’t think of this years ago. And you say the rent’s very low?’
‘You’re classed as an essential worker, Mr Bryant, although I can’t imagine why.’
‘Where’s my study?’
Alma pushed open the study door with a little pride, although pride was technically regarded as a sin by her church. ‘Here we are,’ she said, stepping out of his way.
Bryant walked around his desk, shifting books and ornaments by an inch here, an inch there. ‘Where’s my Tibetan skull?’
‘Exactly where it always is,’ said Alma. ‘In your office at work.’
‘And my Mexican Day of the Dead puppets?’
‘You gave them to Mr May’s sister’s children the last time you went down to see them. She confiscated them from her boys after one of them cut himself on a crucifix and came up in boils.’
‘Just testing. My books are out of order.’
‘Well, that will give you something to do when you’re home, won’t it?’
‘And where’s my marijuana plant?’
‘This is a council block. You can’t keep it here any more, the police have dogs.’
‘I am the police, you silly woman.’
‘I sent it to your office. Honestly, I thought you’d be pleased. It took half a dozen of us to move all your stuff in and lay it out correctly. There’s a nice southerly light.’
Bryant sniffed. ‘I suppose it’ll have to do.’
‘It’ll have to do,’ Alma repeated. She was a large, cheerful woman predisposed to a kind smile, but right now the smile was fading to a scowl. ‘It’ll have to do? You ungrateful, miserable old man! You didn’t help me in any way. I had to attend the court hearings and deal with the compulsory purchase order of our old place, then search for accommodation and apply for the flat and deal with the council, a job I wouldn’t wish on a dog, then move everything by myself and reinstall it here without a single thing broken, missing or out of place, and all you had to do was walk out of your old home and into this one with nothing more than the clothes on your back. I still have relatives in Antigua; I could have left you and gone home to live somewhere happy and sunny, but I stayed here. If I wasn’t a good Christian I’d smack you around the head until your ears rang.’
‘All right, you’ve made your point,’ Bryant mumbled. ‘It’s very nice. What’s for tea?’
‘There’s ginger cake and banana bread laid out in the kitchen, and a spiced chicken salad later.’ She stood with her hands on her hips and resisted the temptation to give him a whack on the ear as he passed.
Longbright was staying late at the unit, transferring John May’s interview notes. Downloading all the images she could find of Sabira Kasavian, including those in her social-networking profiles, she reassembled them by date and location. She has a hell of a clothing allowance, thought Longbright. Skinny women can wear anything. There were hardly two photographs where she was in the same outfit.
Longbright dreamed of a clothing allowance, although that would have been a slippery slope. She would have soon lavished it on impractical corsetry and 1950s sheath gowns.
The next thing she noticed was how closely Sabira stayed by her husband’s side. In the few photographs that showed her seated with other people at government dinners, she appeared to be mutely listening. Her attitude was demure, as if she had been advised not to speak by her husband.
Around the end of the last week of May there was a noticeable change in the pictures. Sabira was rarely photographed without a drink in her hand, and appeared introspective, sullen, even startled. In the few Facebook shots she had put up from public events she looked flushed and nervous. Perhaps her drinking just got out of control, thought Longbright. It happens.