plans.’
‘Did he?’ I wish he’d tell me, she thought. ‘You two had a bit of a boozing session the other night.’
‘Yeah, we got a bit pissed. Sorry about that.’ He didn’t sound contrite. ‘I realize now that I don’t talk often enough to my neighbours. We all work so hard that we’ve no time left for social niceties when we get home. I mean, I give money in the street to professional charities I’ve never even heard of, and yet I’m too tired to bother with the people who live next door. That’s not right, is it? Paul told me how you two met. It sounded kind of romantic.’
‘Paul has a way of sexing up every story. You have to take him with a pinch of salt.’
They had spent twenty minutes together inside a ghost-train car that had broken down in Blackheath funfair. She had been sitting with her girlfriend Daniella, debating whether to leave the car and risk walking through the cuprous gloom, when Paul had loomed out from a graveyard tableau and made them both scream. The happiness of that memory had been undermined by the fact that Daniella had died a month later, hit by a delivery van while riding her bike home late one night. No one had ever traced the driver. You could fill every square of the city’s map grid with the stains of hidden tragedies.
‘What did you guys find to talk about for so long?’
‘Oh, you know, men in pubs can stretch any subject until closing time.’ Jake accepted the tea. Unusual to meet a gay man who’s overweight, she thought idly. Pleasant face, obviously comfortable dealing with people in his job.
‘It’s just that Paul mentioned something about hang-gliding.’
‘Oh, that. It was nothing. I told him that Aaron and I had been hang-gliding in France, and he suggested coming along with us some time.’
‘How long have you two been together?’
‘Eleven years, believe it or not.’
‘That’s longer than most of my friends.’
‘We have a deal. I told him if he ever leaves me I’ll kill him, which pretty much sorted the whole thing out.’
‘So,’ she tried to sound casual, ‘what was the part about making some money?’
‘Oh, nothing really, not even first-hand information, just something I’d been told.’ He suddenly looked like a small boy who had been caught stealing sweets. ‘I wouldn’t demean either of us by recounting another half-drunk conversation. But I did offer to lend him some money. He told me you were a bit strapped for cash right now.’
She bridled at the idea that her finances had been discussed with a virtual stranger. ‘We’ll be fine. It’s just that there’s a lot to do here. The electrics, the plumbing, the basement needs to be damp-proofed and replastered, the roof needs repairing. And I don’t know how long I can live with this seventies wallpaper.’ She indicated the mauve paisley print behind them.
‘I can see what you mean. It’s unfashionable without being fabulous.’
‘Do you have any problems with water?’
‘What kind of problems?’
‘Surges in the plumbing.’
‘No, but I’ve got rising damp. I think we’re still Victorians at heart. We spend so much time trying to keep the rain out, but it always finds a way of getting in.’ Jake drained his cup and rose to leave. ‘Look, I have to get back. There’s something I need to do.’ He seemed undecided about explaining himself, but gave in after a brief moment of hesitation. ‘It’s about Ruth Singh. When the police came and did the interviews, I told a bit of a lie. I didn’t want to get anyone into trouble, but it’s started to bother me.’
‘What did you tell them?’ asked Kallie.
‘It was about Ruth’s visitor, the night before she died. I stopped to dig out my keys and saw someone ring the doorbell to number 5. Ruth definitely recognized her visitor, but I couldn’t hear what they were saying. I told the constable I didn’t know who it was. But there was this hat and a long black leather raincoat, not the kind of outfit you’d miss. At work I’m used to checking wardrobe continuity all the time, so I notice these things. Then I saw the coat lying in one of the bedrooms at Oliver and Tamsin’s party.’
‘You mean it belonged to Oliver?’
‘No, to one of the guests.’ He looked pained. ‘It doesn’t mean they know anything about Ruth’s death, does it?’
‘Who are we talking about?’
‘Well—Mark Garrett. The coat was odd, not the sort of thing I’d imagine him wearing,