The Killer Next Door(31)

Collette turns up the Sunnyvale cul-de-sac, skirts the metal bollard that blocks off its maw, there to stop stray cars from seeking out a parking space but allow the ambulances in when the need comes. The home straddles the end of the road, forty feet up past the garden fences, its concrete turning circle jollied up by resin pots of dying geraniums. A line of hanging baskets – busy Lizzies, salmon-coloured, jarring with dark purple petunias – droops in the sun trap of the yellow brick frontage. It’s clear that someone’s tried their best to cheer the place up, alleviate its functional air, but no amount of watering can combat this heat. The little border of grass on the far side of the pavement is dusty and frizzy, like neglected old-lady hair.

Collette stands for a moment and looks up at the white plastic lettering that runs along the parapet of the lean-to porch. SUNNYVALE, it reads. She’s found her mother’s final home.

Inside, it smells as she had expected: floral disinfectant, floor polish, the graveyard scent of chrysanthemums in a vase on the reception desk, food cooked till it no longer needs chewing and the faint, unmistakeable odour of unchanged nappies. A woman sits behind the desk, in polyester scrubs. She’s turned a fan straight on to her face and leans back, eyes closed, cooling herself in its blast, until she hears the door open. She looks up and assumes the robotic smile that seems to have become part of the healthcare canon. ‘Can I help you?’

‘Yes.’ Collette advances across the small lobby, glimpses a huddled figure, dressing-gown tied tightly round a shapeless torso, making its way slowly up the corridor to her right with the help of a walking frame. ‘I’m Elizabeth Dunne. I called this morning.’

The woman shifts through a list on a clipboard, importantly. ‘And you’ve come to see…?’

‘Janine Baker.’

She runs her pen down a list, ticks something off. ‘Ah, yes, Janine. I saw she was due a visitor.’

Since when did they stop giving old people the dignity of a surname? ‘That’s right,’ says Collette.

The woman presses a bell on the desk beside her. It sounds out, Big Ben chimes with a shrill electronic top note, somewhere not far away within the building. ‘Someone’ll be along in a minute,’ she says.

‘Thanks,’ says Collette. Looks about her for somewhere to sit and, not finding anything in the Spartan lobby, stands awkwardly before the desk like a supplicant.

‘We’ve not seen you before, I think,’ says the woman, and there’s an edge of judgement to her voice. Your mother’s been here for three months, now, says the tone. Where have you been?

‘No,’ says Collette, and feels the blush creep further up her cheeks. Cheeky mare. You don’t know anything about it. ‘I’ve been away.’

‘Away?’ Lucky for some, says the single word. Wouldn’t it be nice for all of us, if we could be away when responsibility called?

‘Abroad,’ she says. Adds, defensively: ‘Working. I couldn’t get away before.’

‘No, dear,’ says the woman. ‘Well, it can be a terrible inconvenience.’

Oh, fuck you, thinks Collette. Who do you think you are? Do you really think that the ones who end up here, the ones with no one to take them in, are totally innocent of their situation? Don’t you think we’d have at least tried to have them with us, if they’d been nicer when we were young? And it’s not like I haven’t been drip-drip-dripping my cash into her bank account, to pay for your services and keep her out of council care.

She doesn’t voice it. It can’t be a greatly rewarding job, this. Making the families feel guilty must be one of the few pleasures she gets.

‘Well, I’m back now,’ she says. ‘For as long as it takes.’

‘Good for you,’ says the woman, patronisingly.

I just hope it’s not too long, thinks Collette. God help me, I shouldn’t be wishing her life away, but it’s only a matter of time before they find out I’m in London, even if they don’t know why. They seem to have contacts everywhere.

‘Actually,’ says the receptionist, ‘while I’ve got you, we probably need to update your contact details, if you’re not in Spain any more. Have you got a phone number? In case of – you know – emergencies?’

She’s not memorised it yet; has to look on the menu to reel it off. The woman types, hits the tab key. Looks up. ‘And where are you living?’

She’s about to say the address when her natural suspicions stop her. There’s no need for them to know. It’s not like she’ll be switching the phone off. She tells the woman the address of her mother’s flat, because it’s the first thing that springs to her mind.