A Spy by Nature - Charles Cumming [68]
‘That was Fort,’ she says, breezing back into the kitchen a few moments later. ‘He says hi. Jesus, those fucking vehicle alarms.’
She wouldn’t ordinarily say ‘fucking’ unless she’d had a few drinks.
‘I know, I heard it.’
‘What’s the point of them, anyway? Nobody pays any attention when they go off. They don’t prevent car crime. Everybody just ignores them. You wanna coffee or something? I’m making myself one.’
‘Instant?’
”Fraid so.’
‘No, thanks.’
‘You’re such a snob about coffee, Alec.’
‘Nescafe is just an interestingly flavoured milk drink. You shouldn’t tolerate it. I’m going for a pee, OK?’
‘You do what you have to, sweetie.’
The bathroom is at the far end of the apartment, through the sitting-room and down a long passage which passes the entrance to the flat. The bathroom door is made of light wood with an unoiled hinge which squeaks like a laughing clown when I open it. I walk in and slide the lock. There is a mirror hung above the sink and I check my reflection, seeing tiny pimples dotted along my forehead which can’t look good in the stark white light of the kitchen. The rest of my face is blanched, and I push out my lips and cheeks to bring some colour back into them. Once a little red flush has appeared I go back outside.
Walking towards the sitting-room I steal a look through the door of their bedroom, which Katharine has left open after her shower. This is the most basic sort of invasion, but it is something I have to do. There are clothes, shoes and several issues of the New Yorker strewn on the floor. I walk further inside, my eyes shuttling around the room, taking in every detail. There is a fine charcoal sketch of a naked dancer on the wall above the bed, and a discarded bottle of mineral water by the window.
I go back out into the corridor and hear the distant running of water at the kitchen sink. Katharine is washing up. There is another bedroom further down on the right-hand side of the passage, again with its door open. Again I look through it as I am passing, prying behind her back. An unmade bed is clearly visible on the far side, with one of Fortner’s trademark blue shirts lying crumpled on the sheets. An American paperback edition of Presumed Innocent has been balanced on the window sill and there are bottles of cologne on a dresser near the door. Is it possible that they are no longer sharing a room? There are too many of Fortner’s possessions in here for him simply to have taken an afternoon nap.
I go back outside and walk quietly back to the first bedroom. This time I notice that the bed has only been slept in on one side. Katharine’s creams and lotions are all here, with skirts and suits on hangers by the door. But there are no male belongings, no ties or shoes. A photograph in a gilt frame by the window shows a middle-aged man on a beach with a face like an old sweater. But there are no pictures of Fortner, no snaps of him arm-in-arm with his wife. Not even a picture from their wedding.
On a side table I spot a heavy, leather-bound address book and pick it up. No noise in the corridor. The alphabetized guides are curled and darkened with use, each letter covered in a thin film of dirt. I check the As, scanning the names quickly.
AT&T
Atwater, Donald G.
Allison, Peter and Charlotte
Ashwood, Christopher
AM Management
Acorn Alarms
No Allardyce. That’s a good sign.
To B, on to the Cs, then a flick through to R. Sure enough, at the bottom of the third page:
Bar Reggio
Royal Mail
Ricken, Saul
with his full address and telephone number. I have to get back to the kitchen. But there is just time for M.
M&T Communications
Macpherson, Bob and Amy
Maria’s Hair Salon
Milius, Alec