Pleasure and a Calling (17 page)

‘Right. Fine. Excellent. Tell her I’ll be there.’

I was smiling. I felt that something had suddenly dislodged and that the world and its possibility was in full flow again. I locked up the flat. I was gripped by an urge to walk. What the hell had happened?

I walked for over an hour, along the river, up on to the ring road and back into town. Abigail’s cycle was parked in a bike stand outside the library and as I passed I could see her, seated amid a group of children, a book open in her lap. It was like a sign. Things were changing, and I would be close to her soon. Wishful thinking, you might say. But who says I couldn’t make a wish happen? Hadn’t I spent my whole life doing that?

I arrived ten minutes early and parked under the horse chestnut up the street from their house. Outside was Mrs Sharp’s pale-blue car and behind it a liveried hatchback from Worde & Hulme – one of our rivals. An early bird. Perhaps others had been called too, but that wasn’t among my worries. Who else would be willing to cut their commission to zero (or indeed buy the damn house themselves, as I had done in the past) in the emergency of shunting
unwanted guests out of town? Heming’s didn’t get where it is today without being very competitive.

It was a mild Friday evening. I rolled the window down. Almost instantly, the quiet of the street was disturbed by voices – a man’s shouting and a woman’s raised in protest. I couldn’t make out what was being said, but the door to the house slammed unmistakably and the figure of the agent – clipboard in his hand – emerged more abruptly than I might have expected, and almost backwards. I recognized him, a senior from W&H. Our paths had crossed once or twice at industry functions. He coughed, straightened his tie and looked up and down the street while he regained his composure. I half expected the neighbours to wonder what the racket was all about but there was nothing but the twittering of birds.

The agent got in his car and pulled away. But then he stopped alongside my car and leaned out, smiling. ‘I wouldn’t bother, if I were you,’ he said, jerking his thumb towards the house. ‘One or two domestic differences. It seems the lady of the house is selling out from under the feet of the husband. Unfortunately he arrived home unexpectedly. He’s not a happy bunny.’ He looked back again at the house. ‘I imagine things are hotting up as we speak.’

I offered a world-weary grin to match his own. ‘You may be right.’

‘Take it easy,’ he said.

I waited for him to drive off, then got out of my car and approached the house, wondering whether something might yet be retrieved from the situation. But even from the gate I could hear them rowing. I thought about ringing the bell, but figured that opening the door to another estate agent would be unlikely to improve Sharp’s mood.

On the other hand, Mrs Sharp was expecting me. And I needed to stay in the loop. I looked in my record for their landline number and called it. No one picked up. When the answering service kicked in, I left a message for Mrs Sharp saying I’d been held up but that perhaps I might call round in the morning between ten and eleven if that was convenient. Somehow I didn’t think it would be convenient but I guessed that Mrs Sharp would at least call the office to reschedule.

I went back home. After an hour I checked the office voice-mail. No one had left a message. I waited till midnight then called again. Nothing. In hindsight, you might argue, this would have been a good time to forget the Sharps. But I could no more do that than a bear can forget her young or a migrant bird its compulsive journey over land and ocean. I am driven by nature, unable sometimes to distinguish wants from needs.

N
EXT MORNING
I
WENT
straight to the office. I had it in mind to speak to Wendy about the Sharps but thought better of it and she didn’t ask. I was thinking about Mrs Sharp. But was I worried about her at this stage? Perhaps a little. I was worried about how things were developing.

I grabbed my briefcase and walked to Boselle Avenue. The pale-blue car was still there but Sharp’s 4×4 was not. I hesitated, then walked up to the front door and rang the bell. I waited and tried again. The house was quiet. I can’t explain why the key was in my pocket. I hoped to find Mrs Sharp in, and yet I had prepared for the house being empty. I had no idea, of course, where either of them was – perhaps they had patched things up and gone off to the supermarket. Wherever they were, in the light of Mrs Sharp’s determination to sell the house and her husband’s determination to stop her, I couldn’t assume that no one would be around. That being the risk, going into the house would be foolish. But here I was with the key now in my hand.

I slid it into the Yale lock, twisted half a turn, then carefully pushed the door open. I allowed it to close behind me and pushed
the lock button down. As I stepped forward, something crunched underfoot, and as my eyes became accustomed to the dim light I saw that the parquet flooring in the hall was littered with fragments of glass and crockery. The handle of a vase lay on the bottom stair. I edged my way to the kitchen, where I could see an upturned chair through the half-open door. The blinds were down and the light was on. Here was more broken glass. There was blood smeared along the tiled floor. I crouched to touch it. It was dry. There was more blood on the work surface, and a trail of drops leading to the utility room. The odd thing was that even now I didn’t suppose the worst. A badly gashed hand, perhaps, I thought – from the broken glass. The door was ajar. I pushed it open. An ironing board stood with a fallen pile of folded laundry nearby, one of the towels dark with blood. One of the taps was drizzling into a white butler sink stained red. I was aware now of the cooler air coming from the garage, the door to which was also slightly ajar. I opened it and switched on the light.

Foolish, I know, but everything I looked at in the garage screamed murder – the teeth of the hanging tree-saw, the golf club, the gleam of a spade leaning against the wall. Had there even
been
a spade last time? I took a step closer and peered at the earth clinging to the blade.

If Sharp had …
If
he had …

Obviously this was madness, but obviously I needed to look in the garden. Who wouldn’t? I remembered there was a tall metal gate at the far side of the garage but it was bound to be locked. A more likely access to the garden would be via the French windows. I retraced my steps back to the hall. Here, on the table in the hall, next to the phone, were two rings – her rings: one with a diamond, the other a gold wedding band, both tacky with blood.

I admit I was trembling. I had to stay calm, keep focused. The house was empty; the door was locked. There was opportunity. I went to the French windows in the sitting room and looked in vain for a key. I peered out through one of the panes. The garden was as overgrown as ever. It was impossible to see beyond the belt of wilting lupins to its furthest reaches where the ground was higher. I had to see the garden. But not via the side gate. Even if it had been left unlocked, it was in open view of the street. Whatever had happened here, not being spotted now was a priority. I needed a vantage point. I crept back into the hall and up the stairs to the landing. Here was Sharp’s study. I made sure I couldn’t be seen, then looked out. There was perhaps something … I took out my opera glasses and trained them on the rear of the garden. I could clearly see freshly turned earth, though it was obscured by branches and leaves. It could have been the end of a vegetable patch, though the Sharps had no obvious horticultural leanings, and why had no attempt been made to clear the surrounding knotweed and brambles? I stared at it for some moments.

Was it? Could it be?

I needed to get out, but first I wanted to check the Sharps’ bedroom. The door was wide open. The curtains were still drawn and the light switched on, spreading a glow on the snowy duvet of a kingsize bed, neatly made and hovering like ectoplasm in the room. Drawers had been flung open and emptied of their contents. A wardrobe door gaped on its hinges. My first thought was that Sharp had packed his bags and fled. But thinking about it … perhaps he had packed his wife’s clothes and made it look as if she was the one who had left – walked out on him after their row. Then he would concoct a story of a secret wealthy lover, a tycoon she had met through her job in the City who had
whisked her away to his love nest in a foreign city or on a tropical island.

What was I supposed to do? I could – I ought to – tip off the police; anonymously, yes, from the payphone in the train station. They would assume I was an opportunist burglar, up the line from one of the run-down suburbs of north London, who had stumbled upon bloody evidence of wrongdoing. The police would find Judith Sharp in her shallow grave without her wedding and engagement rings and apprehend Sharp at Heathrow or at one of the European ferry terminals. Doing nothing, or even hesitation, I thought, would give Sharp the time he needed to stage a more legitimate death for his wife – a fireball engulfing her wrecked car off a remote stretch of road, or at the foot of high cliffs out in Suffolk – before assuming ownership of the house as her legal spouse. Yes, they’d had a row, he would tell police – that much would be verifiable by the agent from Worde & Hulme he had thrown out. He had told Judith he wanted a divorce, and she had driven off into the night and not returned. Yes, of course, she seemed distraught. Was she capable of taking her own life? I imagined Sharp shaking his head ruefully – catching the eye of the sympathetic young policewoman, perhaps casting a habitual glance at the curve of her legs – confirming that in fact his wife had recently been suffering from depression.

And now I wondered how Abigail slotted into this. Perhaps it was a recurring facet of Sharp’s life. Not that he necessarily killed his partners, but that he used each – invariably more financially secure than he was – as a stepping stone to the next. This one had gone wrong.

I heard a vehicle outside. I darted lightly to the window and drew back the curtain just enough to see the drive. There was no sign of anyone. I left the room and went quietly down the stairs,
turned the latch and opened the door. All was clear. I let the door close behind me and heard the lock click. I was at the gate, almost back on the street, when I remembered my briefcase. It was still upstairs on Sharp’s desk. Even now I didn’t panic. I didn’t even hesitate. I simply went back and let myself in again. This time, I didn’t proceed with caution, but vaulted up the stairs. At the top I froze. Right in front of me – in Sharp’s study – stood Sharp himself, facing the window. He was inspecting the contents of my case. I could not move. He should have turned at the sound of my pounding up the stairs, but he just stood there hunched over the case, his angular body filling out the small room. He was wearing running clothes – a tracksuit and trainers – and in that instant I became aware of the tinny sound of music. He was wearing white earphones.

I can’t be sure what happened exactly. Perhaps he caught sight of my reflection in the lamp, or maybe the music stopped just as the top stair creaked under my weight. All I know is that even as he wheeled round I was upon him with all my strength and ferocity, shattering the silence of the house in a sudden, almost comic, uproar. My advantage was quickly lost. He was taller and stronger and had me in an absurd headlock but I propelled him backwards, setting in motion an awkward ballet of push and release as we crashed into the desk, sending papers and books and stationery flying. I tasted blood, and had there been room he would have had me on the floor, but he forced the back of my head against the bookshelves with a crash. I saw stars and tried to force him back, but he whirled me against the desk again. It was now that I saw the glint of something familiar, and my hand, remembering the cool, leaden glass of the green paperweight, reached out and grasped it. But I’d no sooner taken its weight than he twisted my wrist and it was gone, falling with a
thud and rolling heavily across the laminated floor. I half kneed him in the groin but he was ready for me again, and punched me twice in the stomach. I felt the air go out of me but held on to him with both arms, as boxers do when they are tiring or playing for time or feel they’re being beaten. Did Sharp lose his footing then? He staggered backwards, taking me with him on to the landing, and then he slipped – his legs tugged abruptly from under him. I threw all my weight against him now, and he flew back, striking his head with the sweetest shudder against the banister post. I felt his grip loosen as he tumbled away.