Kiss & Die - Lee Weeks [62]
‘Sure. Let’s go somewhere to talk.’ PJ’s eldest son, Ali, led them up two floors. They came out onto the landing and turned sharp left, past the open maintenance shaft. At the bottom of it the African’s body was just beginning to smell. Ali called out to an old blind Indian woman sat just behind a metal grid and beneath a sign that read Delhi Guesthouse. She was turning beads in her hand and sanding them with fine emery board.
‘Hello, Grandma. I’ve got two men with me. Nothing to worry about.’
The old woman rested her work in her lap and held up her hand in greeting. Her hand was covered in white dust. She cocked her head to one side to listen to the strangers pass.
Mann stopped by her. ‘How are you, Flo?’ He squeezed her hand.
She searched her memory to find the voice. Slowly a smile cracked across her face. Her eyes were milky with cataracts. She had no teeth, just wizened gums. ‘Well, I never. Inspector Mann?’
Mann knelt down and kissed her cheek. ‘Clever as ever and still as beautiful, Flo. Are you well?’
She laughed and held on to his hand. ‘I can’t complain. I sleep nearly all the time. My granddaughter Nina looks after me. Who is that with you?’ She tilted her face towards Shrimp. ‘He smells very nice. I like a man who looks after himself.’
‘My name is Li. Nice to meet you, Flo.’ Shrimp stepped forward and took her hand. She held on to his as she seemed to savour his voice for a minute and then she turned her head back towards Mann. ‘Where is Helen?’
Shrimp glanced Mann’s way. He hadn’t meant to. He had been there when they found her body in a bin bag. He had been there at the autopsy. He had been there all through the investigation but he hadn’t seen what Mann had seen. He hadn’t seen the tape of Helen being raped and murdered.
‘She’s not here right now, Flo.’ Mann had no intention of telling her the truth. She was dead and so was the man who killed her. There were lots of secrets that Mann carried alone.
She lowered her head and shook it as she took a moment to assimilate the knowledge. ‘Here…’ She felt in the pile of beads, carved chopsticks and hairpins and she pressed a small, round object into his hand. He opened his palm and looked at it. It was a hairpin with real hair woven into a plait within the clasp. ‘I made it myself. It’s my own hair. Give it to Helen when you see her next.’
‘Thank you, Flo, I will.’ He put it in his pocket.
She went back to her work whilst they walked on down the passage. There were no lights on. The old woman needed none. There was no natural light in the closed-in corridor. Everywhere was white-tiled, linoleum floor. The fizzing smell of rotting food in the heat and humidity permeated everything. Ali wiped his brow with his handkerchief.
A young Indian woman in her early twenties stepped out from one of the rooms. She had beautiful, turned-up, brown eyes, long lashes, light skin with smooth jet black hair hanging in a thick plait to her waist. Mann knew her.
‘My sister, Nina,’ said Ali. The young woman’s eyes fixed on Mann and she nodded in recognition. Her eyes lingered on Mann before they moved to Shrimp and he got a smile from her.
Ali caught her smile. ‘Go to the market now,’ he said, sharply. ‘The cook is waiting to start marinating for the tandoori. And take Grandma back up to rest now. She spends too long sat in the doorway.’
‘No she doesn’t,’ Nina snapped back. ‘She needs to be out of the room when she is not sleeping. She needs to interact with people. She needs to be useful, to be still a part of the world.’ Nina scowled at her brother as she turned and slipped away, covering her hair in a beautiful shimmering veil of purple as she went.
Mann smiled to himself. She was the real boss of the family; like so many other Indian families, they were matriarchal. He watched her turn and look back at them as