As She Left It (26 page)

She stood, pulling herself up like an old lady climbing out of a swimming pool, feeling gravity try to haul her back down again, and wincing as the sole of her foot moved, grinding the splinters in. Then she limped into the house and (advice or warning; it made sense anyway) she locked and bolted the back door and went through to check the deadbolt on the front one too.

And that was when she saw the gleam of something white on the carpet just inside. An envelope, lying in a patch of streetlight. It must have come through the letterbox since Opal had gotten home. She picked it up and carried it through to the kitchen where the light was on.

There was nothing written on the front, but why would there be? No one else lived here. She ran her thumb under the seal, opened it, and peered in. It was a photograph and her first thought was that Pep Kendal had forgiven her and brought over something of Fishbo’s to help her out after all. But then it was far too new to be Fishbo’s family back in New Orleans. This photo was colour. A little girl, pale skin but wild natural hair, sitting on a step in the sunshine, chubby hands clutching chubby knees, round face beaming. Opal looked at it for a minute, and the first thing she recognised was the step and then the wall and the patch of carpet.

It was here, No. 6 Mote Street. And the little girl was her. It was a picture of Opal. Why would someone deliver that with no note?

She turned the photograph over and let her breath go. There was a note after all, written on the back of the picture itself, in black felt-tip printing. Then she read what it said and dropped it, wiping her hand on her tee-shirt.

Curiosity killed the cat
.
This little kitten is still too young to die
.

THIRTY
-
THREE

O
F COURSE HER THOUGHTS
were going to fly to Franz Ferdi. Of course they were. His gleaming hammerhead whistling through the air, his sudden appearance at her side, his friendly “advice” that wasn’t friendly at all. But it couldn’t be him, because how could he have a picture of Mote Street from years ago when he had only just moved here? So Opal put him out of her mind.

But he crept right back in again. Hadn’t she wondered why he had moved to a new place when he obviously hated it, crying alone in his house that way? What if he
hadn’t
moved to a new place? What if he had moved back to a place he’d been before?

She put him out her mind again, more firmly this time. If he had lived here when Opal was a baby, all the other neighbors would remember him. Not that you needed to live in a place to take a photo there. But why would you take a photograph of a random kid in a random street where you were a stranger?

As soon as she had asked herself the question, she saw the answer plain and clear. And what would she rather believe? That Craig Southgate was buried under concrete in the earth floor of her outhouse or that the man who snatched him was back and living right next door? It couldn’t be both. Unless Franz Ferdi knew Nicola all those years ago and used her yard. And that would explain why he was back again, in a way. Come back to the house with the shared wall where he could take his time, chip all the concrete out, dig up the body, and finally take it away.

Crazy, she told herself. Insane. (As opposed to all the sane thoughts she’d been having, all the uncrazy ways little boys could just disappear? Right.)

But then why would Zula have provided the cement, and why would Mrs. Pickess have bought the brandy? And anyway, Sandy and Nic were still married when Opal had been that little girl with the chubby knees. How could Nicola know Franz when Opal’s dad was still here?

And speaking of Vonnie Pickess, Opal had tipped her hand only hours ago, hinting that way about a bottle of brandy. And that photo was taken from right across the street, right outside Mrs. Pickess’s front door.

But it was Pep Kendal who had seen Opal actually snooping, going through Fishbo’s things, letting her “curiosity” get the better of her. The note made more sense if it was him who sent it.

But if she was thinking of people who knew she was snooping, there was Denny too. He’d more or less told her to stop stirring the pot, hadn’t he? Could he have done it? Opal could no more imagine him writing that threat than she could imagine him getting out of his chair, raking through whatever box or album Margaret’s old snaps were in, leaving the house, and lumbering over to push the envelope through her door. If he had told Margaret, though … Opal shook her head. Margaret could physically do it, but she’d never write such a thing, threatening someone she still thought of as a child, still loved like a child, when one grandchild was gone and the other one was kept away.

But what if Opal’s message to Karen had hit home? If she’d called her parents maybe, or written to them, and hurt them all over again? If Opal’s interference had made it worse somehow, could Margaret have been pushed to write the note
then
?

No way. Margaret and Denny just weren’t the kind of people who do something so furtive as write a threat and quietly put it through a door. They hated secrets, for one thing—Margaret bursting out and telling everyone over and over again a secret she couldn’t keep inside, and Denny wanting so much to let it go and tell the police the whole story even if it came back on his head and ruined him. And for two (and Opal wasn’t proud of thinking this), it was too subtle for them. Margaret would just have come over and sat at Opal’s kitchen table, drinking tea and begging Opal to stop meddling. That was her way. She didn’t go at things sideways.

Then, thinking of sideways made Opal think of sideways looks, sidelong glances, casual asides meant to find things out without ever really asking. Which took her back to Zula Joshi. Made her think—and now her thoughts were racing—of the sideways plan Zula had hatched to get Opal back here; nothing as blatant as phoning her up and telling her about the tenancy that was Opal’s if she claimed it. No, just forwarding mail, paying bills, not even saying who was doing it, just letting Opal make the discovery for herself, decide for herself that she was coming home.

But why would Zula suddenly push that photo through Opal’s door tonight? It was days since they had even spoken. To stop Opal connecting the warning with what she had said to Sunil about the DIY?

Did that make sense? If Opal couldn’t so much as connect the warning to what she was being warned about, how could the warning really warn her? She put her head down on the table and groaned. It was late and she was tired and she couldn’t make sense of anything.

She didn’t even know what she was being told to stop interfering in. Craig? Fishbo? Some bit of Franz Ferdi’s business that was nothing to do with little Craig at all? Some bit of Pep Kendal’s business that was nothing to do with Fishbo’s family?

The safest thing would be to stop meddling in all of it.

She should concentrate on the little bed girl. The mystery of Norah Fossett and her creepy brother, Martin. At least she knew the photo and the note had nothing to do with
that
golden thread. Then she raised her head.

Did she? Shelley wasn’t too keen on Opal hanging around Miss Fossett, and she knew Opal’s address. But would she go as far as threatening Opal? Sure, if it was Shelley who was boosting all Norah’s stuff and selling it off. Maybe there was no niece and nephew. Maybe Shelley had just persuaded Norah to say there was. The poor old soul was a bit hazy about whether or not she had a brother, wasn’t she? Maybe Shelley was acting all kind and neighborly and quietly paying off her mortgage thanks to Claypole’s auctions.

Opal was beginning to like this idea. Her thoughts tumbled forward, meeting no resistance, until her eyes lit on the photograph in front of her again. She shook her head and almost laughed. Right. Shelley had a picture of Opal from twenty-odd years ago. Sure thing.

Time for bed.

She dragged herself to her feet, checked the back door, checked the front door, fastened the front and back windows (trying not to think about what an oven the house would be by the morning), and went upstairs. She needed to butt out of Fishbo’s past, in case it was Pep who was threatening her. She needed for sure to butt out of looking for little Craig, in case it was Zula or Mrs. Pickess or the Reids (it couldn’t be!), and she needed to keep the extreme hell away from her new neighbor, whether or not threatening notes were in his repertoire along with smashing toys and buying kiddie-snacks that went straight in the wheelie-bin.

But at least she could go full steam ahead with Miss N Fossett, the little bed girl. Bad things bloody well shouldn’t happen to little girls and even if they did, someone had come along and found out, and now she knew.

She put the photograph of the wild-haired little girl with the beaming smile next to the note from the quiet little girl who couldn’t stop saying sorry. She fastened her window, thinking about Norah’s window and the thick black bars. She pulled a chest of drawers across in front of her door, thinking about Norah’s door with its little brass bolt, and then, imagining Norah safely tucked up with the prayer book on the table beside her, door latched and windows barred, she climbed into the high, safe ship of her own bed. And even after everything she had been through that long hot horrible day, she was asleep while the air in the sealed room was still cool and sweet around her.

THIRTY
-
FOUR

“
R
IGHT THEN, MY FLOWER,”
she said. Norah giggled. “I’ve seen the kitchen and I’m going to say two things. One: don’t make porridge—it’s obviously not your strong point. And two: would you like some toast and a cup of tea?”

“Toast and tea,” said Norah. “Yum-mee.”

“You are very low maintenance in your way, Norah Fossett,” said Opal. “If we ignore the oatmeal you’ve got welded to the cooker, anyway.”

Once she was installed in the chair in the morning room with her plate of jammy toast and Billy Smart’s fireworks exploding over the screen, Opal made her way upstairs. She had thought about taking a duster and a can of polish with her in case Shelley turned up. But who was she kidding? Shelley wouldn’t fall for a duster and polish; she’d be more likely to think Opal was trying to hide something than if Opal offered no excuse at all. Besides, it was Sunday lunchtime; Opal reckoned Shelley fitted Miss Fossett in around her family—she wouldn’t be doing spot checks and sneak raids on a Sunday.

On the landing, she stood and looked around, wondering if the other half of Norah’s bed would be in the attic or in one of the other rooms. Try the rooms first. She opened a door opposite the head of the stairs and looked in.

It was stuffed with furniture. Good dark mahogany, from what Billy and Tony had taught her. Two enormous tables with marble tops and arrangements of mirrors that looked like something from the front of a church instead of somebody’s bedroom. A chest of drawers with at least eight drawers in it, higher than Opal’s shoulders, and a mirror, full-length, standing on dumpy legs carved out of wood to look like bird’s feet clutching gold balls. There were even two bedside tables of the same dark mahogany, with glassed over tops to stop teacups leaving rings on the wood. What
wasn’t
there was a bed. There was just a space on the floor between the two nightstands and a brighter, darker oblong where the bed had protected the carpet from the sun.

“Bugger me,” said Opal.

She went back down to the morning room and stood behind Norah’s chair. That had worked better the last time than confronting her head on.

“Norah, love?” she said in a soft voice. Norah kept watching the horses, but she took her thumb out of her mouth—Opal noticed that it was stuck here and there with little morsels of chewed toast—and made a small sound. “Where’s the bed from the room with the big mirror?” She had to hope there wasn’t a big mirror in every room. “The mirror with the bird feet.”

“Ball and claw,” said Norah. “Mother’s room.”

“Really?” said Opal. “Okay. Well, where’s your mother’s bed, love?”

“They took it back,” said Norah. “When she died.”

Opal suppressed a sigh. Not
them
again. She was sick of
them
.

“Did they?” she said, keeping her voice very light. “Where did they take it back to?”

“To the hospital,” Norah said.

Opal rolled her eyes, looking down at Miss Fossett’s pink parting. Maybe she wasn’t going to get any sense out of her today. Then she blinked and thought again. Maybe Norah was talking the whole plain truth. “They” brought Norah’s dinners and did her personal care. And maybe the same “they”—roughly—really had come for the bed her mum had died in to take it back to the hospital again. She crossed her fingers.

“Not the hospital bed,” she said. “The one before she was ill. Where did you put it when the hospital bed came?”

“In the attic,” said Norah. “Men came. Look, she’s going to stand up on his back now.” On the screen, a woman with thighs like a gladiator had scrambled up to stand on the back of a black horse, one hand holding onto a long rein and the other hand high above her head. Miss Fossett raised her own hand getting just the same flourish into her fingers, bringing the thumb with its little lumps of chewed toast very close to Opal.

“Is it still up there?” said Opal. Miss Fossett put her arm down. She said nothing.

“Norah? Is your mum’s bed still in the attic?”

“Mm-hmm,” said Miss Fossett. She had put her thumb back in her mouth again.

“And where’s the hatch?”

“Hatch?”

“The way into the attic.”

“I’m not allowed up there.”

Opal laughed and ruffled her hair. Norah turned round and gave her a smile so surprised and so sweet that Opal could have hugged her.

“And it’s definitely still up there?” Opal said and got only a frown. Norah had forgotten what they were talking about again. “Your mother’s big bed? It’s in the attic?” Norah nodded and turned back round to face the television screen. She spoke so softly that, if Opal hadn’t been bending to kiss her, she might have missed it.