A Wayward Game Read online

  Lorraine looks for a moment as if she might protest, but she doesn’t yet have the confidence to argue with her clients, and so just gives me a muted smile.

  “You’re welcome. And please, Miss Hollis, do contact me, whenever you wish.”

  She wobbles out of the doors on her high heels, and I watch as she heads off in the direction of the car park. I turn and glance at the concierge. He’s sitting behind his desk, pretending to concentrate on some paperwork and studiously ignoring my presence. I begin to rummage around in my handbag, as if searching for something; and then, after a few moments have passed, I take a step back, put my hand to my forehead, and sink into one of the soft chairs provided for the comfort of visitors. I sit slumped forward, still with my hand to my head, and try my best to look weak and ill. I glance sideways, and see the concierge looking up from his paperwork.

  “Are you all right, Madam? Do you need any help?” A soft young voice, with just the hint of a Cockney accent.

  I raise my head, and look at him.

  “No – no, thank you. I’ll be all right in a moment. I wonder if I might have some water?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  He disappears through the doorway behind the desk. Glancing after him, I see a small office room, with a computer monitor flickering on top of a desk. He returns a few moments later, with a small glass of water, and holds it out to me.

  “Thank you.” I take a sip. “I get these turns occasionally, I’m afraid. Diabetes,” I add, in a confidential tone.

  “I’m sorry, Madam. Do you feel better now?”

  “I will shortly.” I hesitate, and take another sip. “These little episodes have been coming rather frequently of late. I’m really quite worried about them.”

  “Would you like me to contact someone? A relative, a doctor?”

  “No, thank you. I’m sure I’ll feel better in a moment or two. I wonder, though—” I look up at him pleadingly. “Could I possibly use a computer here? I’d like to contact my doctor, and make an appointment immediately – for this afternoon, if possible. Normally I’d use my mobile phone, but the battery has run out.”

  The concierge hesitates, just for a moment. “We don’t normally allow it, Madam. The computer in the office is for staff use only.”

  “I’ll only be a minute or two, I promise.”

  “Well—” I sense him weakening, his timid gallantry slowly overcoming his innate caution. “I don’t suppose there can be any harm in it. Please, come this way.”

  He leads me into the small, windowless office room, and holds out the chair in front of the computer screen. I sink down onto it, and smile gratefully. He smiles back at me, and then turns and goes back to the main desk, leaving me alone.

  A lifetime of administrative tasks has honed my talent for locating obscure information quickly. After a final glance over my shoulder, I open the folder in which, I suppose, just about all information relating to work and staffing at Lexwood House may be found. A vast number of files appear on the screen, and I skim through them. Timesheets, staff regulations, contact details, bulletins – all the bureaucratic detritus of businesses and organisations everywhere. I glance over them, and at last reach a folder titled “Staff Records”. I click on it, and a list of sub-folders appears. I read through them, and click on the one entitled “Rota”.

  It’s a slim chance, of course – so slim a chance, in truth, that I wondered if it was even worth the effort. But I find, unexpectedly, that it has paid off. Amongst a list of chronologically-ordered spreadsheets, I find a file entitled “June 2006”, and click on it.

  It takes a moment for me to untangle the vast amount of information accrued here, the bewildering records of names, dates, and hours. Then I find the cells for June 15th and 16th, and the names of the two concierges who would have been on duty on those days. The evening and night of June 15th-16th, when Sallow and Diane returned from Dorset, was covered by William Walsh; the morning and afternoon of June 16th, when Diane was reported missing, by Martha Lewis. I scribble the names down in my notepad, and take another quick glance through the doorway. The telephone on the front desk rings as I do so, and the concierge reaches out and picks up the receiver, answering in his polite, rather bland way.

  As his voice drones on, I close the spreadsheet and the sub-folder, and return to the “Staff Records” folder. Scrolling down, I find an Access database titled “Staff Contact Details”, and open it. It takes me a moment to locate William Walsh, before his details flash up: 22 Rose Court, Blackheath, followed by a telephone number. I make a note of these details, and then look for Martha Lewis. Her address is listed as 13B Wallington Lane, Deptford. I scribble everything down, and then slip my notebook back inside my handbag and close the database just as the concierge finishes his telephone conversation.

  I can scarcely believe my luck. It was such a long shot, so unlikely that these details would exist after all this time. I smile, and then remember that I am meant to be feeling unwell, and try to put on a strained, miserable expression. To complete the pretence, I pick up the telephone, pretend to dial, and then hold a curious, one-sided conversation with the buzz of the dial tone: “Hello? Yes, I’d like to make an appointment . . . Yes, for this afternoon, if possible . . . Yes, Jane Hollis. Doctor Smith did tell me not to hesitate if I felt unwell again. Yes, thank you. Goodbye.”

  I get up and walk out into the lobby. The concierge glances up as I pass, and smiles.

  “Are you feeling better now, Madam?”

  “Yes, thank you. Much better.” I smile back at him, and hesitate just for a moment. “I wonder – I’ve an old family friend who works here, I think. I’ve lost contact with him in recent years. William Walsh. Do you know him?”

  The concierge looks mystified, and shakes his head. “William Walsh? I don’t know anyone of that name. I haven’t been here long myself, though, just ten months or so. He must have left or retired before I started.”

  “That’s a shame. I remember he once mentioned a colleague and friend of his here, Martha. Martha Lewis, I think her name was. Is she still here?”

  “Martha?” A shadow passes over his young face. “Didn’t you hear? She died a couple of months ago. Collapsed suddenly. Heart trouble, I think.”

  “Oh, God. How awful. I’m very sorry.”

  “Well, I didn’t know her very well, but all the same, it was a terrible shock.”

  “No doubt. Well, thank you. You’ve been very helpful.”

  “Do you need anything else, Madam?”

  “No, thank you. I’ll be quite all right now. Goodbye.”

  I turn and begin to walk away, anxious to get away from Lexwood House now that I have the information I wanted. It’s a relief to step outside, out into the cool, fresh air. I walk away from the building and towards the Thames, comforted by the familiar city skyline. On the embankment, I stop and look back.

  For all its clean, rational spaces and tasteful luxury, Lexwood House is a cursed place in my mind, a haunted place. Diane was, ultimately, a stranger in this place. She was a chameleon, of course, and adopted the tone of her environment. She did so successfully enough to fool outsiders, but those on the inside would never have been deceived. She would never really have been a member of this privileged set, and being on the outside in such a way automatically puts you at a disadvantage. Sallow had all the power, and he must have known it. I look up at the tenth floor, where Sallow still lives, and then feel my heart constrict as a curtain in one of the windows twitches.

  For an instant – little more than a second – I see a bleary image of a man who, at this distance, looks like Sallow. He peers out of the window, and across into the city. He’s dishevelled, as far as I can tell, wearing a bathrobe, his hair rumpled with sleep. He should be at work at this hour, but of course he could be ill, or hung over. Given what I’ve heard about his leisure pursuits these days, I guess it’s the latter, or some combination of the two.

  The curtain falls back into place, and Sallow disappears. />
  Don’t be afraid. Fear can make you freeze. Over the years, I’ve taught myself to overcome my fear – not by denying its existence, but by acknowledging and then defying it. If you’re afraid of flying, get on the plane anyway. If you’re afraid of water, jump into the pool, and you’ll be so busy trying to swim that you’ll soon forget to be afraid. The moment you stop moving, however, you’re done for. I hitch my handbag up onto my shoulder and walk away, as nonchalantly as I can. My trembling heart slows as I walk, and my fear fades, but a nagging unease remains.

  I walk back into the heart of Greenwich, and am surrounded by a sea of pedestrians and roaring vehicles, and by the security of anonymity. A gaggle of Italian teenagers, accompanied by a weary teacher, walk by, talking loudly. A tour bus creeps past, and I catch the guide talking about Maritime Greenwich. Everything is so commonplace, and so comforting, that for a moment I wonder if I’m not just allowing my nerves to get the better of me.

  I make my way back to the tube station, and board the train that will take me back to the centre of London. I sit down next to the window, and feel my taut body beginning to relax. The train clatters through a tunnel, and then emerges into the light once more, and I look back across the Thames. Greenwich begins to recede into the distance, but the ugly tower of Lexwood House remains visible for a long time, glowering over the city, and watching me as I watch it.

  ~

  Lucy Lowry died in a car accident four years ago. She has no particular connection to this story, except insofar as she was, when alive, a reporter for an obscure local newspaper called the South-West London Gazette and, during her time there, mentored an aspiring young journalist called Katherine Argyle.

  I stayed in touch with her over the years, grateful for the help she had given me, and when she died I went to the funeral, and then helped her sister to clear out her rented one-bedroom flat in Kingston. There, amongst all the usual effects of a single thirty-something working woman – bank statements, old make-up, a jumble of shoes and handbags, and contraceptive pills to delay the pregnancies that would now never arrive at all – I found her staff ID card. Knowing as I did by then that having a few aliases to hand can be a useful thing, I stuffed it into my pocket and took it home with me. It wasn’t an honest or honourable thing to do, I suppose, but I like to think that Lucy would have understood. Sometimes, if you want that big story, you have to resort to slightly underhand methods.

  I glance down at Lucy’s card. The photograph shows her as she was shortly before her death, and she was not dissimilar, physically, to the woman I have become. She could easily pass for my sister – or even, perhaps, for me. Like me, she was brown-haired, indistinctive, easily confused with another. Her hair was a touch lighter than mine, and her face a little plumper, but no one, glancing at this tiny photograph, would guess that the woman staring out from it was not me.

  Or so I hope, at least. I hold the card more firmly, and walk the remaining distance along the quiet suburban street.

  Finding out William Walsh’s identity and address proved relatively easy, of course, but that is no guarantee of success. Perhaps he has moved elsewhere, or even died, since 2006. Even if he is still here, he won’t necessarily buy my story, or agree to talk to me, but there’s nothing to be lost by trying. I ring the doorbell and wait, my stomach fluttering with nerves.

  Slow footsteps echo inside the house, and I hear the sound of a bolt being drawn back. The door opens, and a pale, wrinkled face looks out at me. It’s a kindly face, tranquil, and curiously ageless. The blue eyes that stare back at me are bright, intelligent, and not unfriendly. The man to whom these features belong is comfortably dressed in a pale blue pullover and beige trousers, the kind of smartly casual attire that makes me think that he was raised with a degree of formality. Only his blue slippers hint that he is doing no more than relaxing at home. He smiles at me, a little warily, and raises an eyebrow in an enquiring manner.

  “Mr Walsh?” I ask, smiling at him.

  “Yes.”

  “Lucy Lowry, South-West London Gazette.” I hold out my false ID, and hope that Mr Walsh won’t ask too many questions, or call the office to make enquiries. He peers at the ID card, and then looks back at me, a little cautiously.

  “Yes? Can I help you?” he asks.

  “Perhaps you can, Mr Walsh. I’m writing an article about the disappearance of Diane Meath-Jones. I understand that you were working as a concierge at Lexwood House, where she lived, at the time.”

  “Oh, dear me.” Mr Walsh sighs, and shakes his head. His voice is pure Cockney, his diction slightly dated. “How the devil did you find out where I lived? No, don’t tell me – I know that you journos have your little ways. Well, yes. Diane Meath-Jones. That poor girl. Breaks my heart to think of her, even now. But – with all due respect, love – I can’t see why people can’t move on, and leave her to rest in peace. Really, I told the police everything I knew just after she disappeared.”

  “Yes, of course. I do understand.” I smile again, a little apologetically. “It’s just that, eight years on, there are still no answers for Diane’s family or friends.”

  “Yes, of course.” Mr Walsh’s face softens. “Yes, it must be bloody awful for them. I do sympathise. But still, I wonder what good can come of yet another article about it. Millions of words have been spoken and written already, and still nobody knows what happened.”

  “The case always attracted a great deal of publicity. It will be years before it’s forgotten. And – well, personally, I don’t think it should be forgotten. Not while so many questions remain unanswered.”

  “Yes. Yes, of course.” I sense a brief, fierce struggle taking place behind Mr Walsh’s kindly eyes before, all at once, he seems to give in. “Look, love, if I do talk to you, don’t go printing my name, all right? It’s just – well, this is my life. I never asked to be caught up in all of this.”

  “Of course, Mr Walsh. I’d never name a source if they didn’t wish me to.”

  “All right. Five minutes, then.”

  Mr Walsh leads me down the hallway and into a small, flawlessly neat living room. A newsreader’s voice wafts from the radio in the corner, and he switches it off as he enters the room. A large tabby cat is lying on a cushion in the corner, and opens one sleepy eye as I walk in. It gives me a cool, green-eyed stare and then, having decided that I am of no interest after all, closes its eyes and falls asleep again. A grandfather clock chimes the hour. There are a large number of family photographs on display, some of them rather old. One of them shows a slightly younger Mr Walsh, standing on a beach with his arm around a smiling, grey-haired lady.

  “My wife,” Mr Walsh says, as if reading my thoughts. “Died four years ago, God bless her.”

  “I’m very sorry.”

  “It’s not very nice, being the one left behind,” Mr Walsh says. “You get so used to that other person being there, it’s like a part of you gets ripped away. And your life tends to shrink a bit as you get older: friends and workmates get thinner on the ground, your kids are away getting on with their own lives, and only your wife is there, and when she goes – well, I don’t know what to do with myself, sometimes. Are you married, love?”

  “No.” I smile.

  “Pity. Funny how women tend to stay single for so long these days. Times change, of course. Would you like a cup of tea? Some biscuits?”

  “No thank you, Mr Walsh. I can’t stay long; I’ve a very full day ahead.”

  “I suppose you have. People always seem to be in a hurry these days. There are times when I’m bloody glad I don’t have to run around anymore.” He smiles as he sits down in the armchair opposite. “Getting older does have some advantages – not that you’ll need to worry about that for a good few years, of course. Well, what did you want to know?”

  “How long did you work at Lexwood House, Mr Walsh?”

  “Not very long. I never really had what you might call a career, you see. In my day, you didn’t; you just took whatever work was going. So I
did this and that over the years, and then found myself just three years short of retirement age, and thought that a job as a concierge might not be too bad. I’d be sitting down a lot, with plenty of people to chat to, and pretty easy work. I started there in,” – he thinks for a moment, frowning up at the ceiling – “2003, it must have been. Got on pretty well with it, too.”

  “You enjoyed it?”

  “It wasn’t too bad. A bit slow at times. And the people who lived there weren’t as chatty as I’d hoped. But why would they have been? They were young, they were busy; they didn’t have time for a daft old codger like me.”

  “Was Mr Sallow already living there when you started work at Lexwood House?”

  “Yes. He must have been one of the first residents, because when I started the building had only been finished a few months.”

  “And did you see him very often?”

  “Sometimes; he’d come down to the lobby every so often to collect his mail or ask about something. For the most part, though, he didn’t have much to do with the staff. Took the lift straight down to the underground garage in the morning, and went straight back up to his apartment in the evening.”

  “What did you make of him?”

  Mr Walsh frowns. “I didn’t know what to make of him. I mean, he was never impolite or anything. And some people found him quite charming. He was a dashing figure, I suppose. Always dressed in the best clothes, driving that expensive car of his.” He waves his hand around, a little vaguely, signifying either dislike of, or a lack of interest in, such conspicuous consumption. “Flashed his cash around, you could say. Of course, I heard that his father was an OBE or some such thing, and had millions in the bank. But I heard something else, too: that Sallow’s grandfather had just been a market trader in the East End. And in a way, you know, it showed. Sallow never really seemed comfortable, like he was expecting someone to come along and take it all away. Like he was terrified of losing it all.”