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Authors: L. C. Tyler
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a while she could be heard opening cupboards and nosing through whatever least belonged to her.
I was happy to have a few minutes to myself. I quickly found the relevant files. They were still in the same drawer that they had occupied when I lived in the flat, and indeed many still had my handwriting on the cover. I extracted the recent statements from the file marked ‘BANK’. A swift glance revealed that there was little to give comfort to any of Geraldine’s creditors. I was also able to locate something else I needed, in an old chocolate box that had served for many years as a receptacle for spare keys. By the time Elsie emerged triumphantly from the bedroom and started her investigation of the sitting room, I had almost finished my own work.
‘So, what have you come up with?’ she demanded.
‘Only papers on Geraldine’s finances.’
‘Skint?’
‘In a manner of speaking. A small positive balance on her current account.’
‘Building societies? Shares?’
‘Building society account closed. No shares that I can find. Large mortgage, recently increased, but the sale of the flat should cover that. Unpaid creditors from her previous exploits, who will never see their money now. Ditto credit cards, I fear.’
‘Pretty much as expected then.’
‘Pretty much,’ I conceded.
‘So, you’ve discovered nothing. Typical. Come and see what I’ve found,’ she said, smirking.
She led me into the bedroom and threw open a wardrobe door.
‘There!’ she said. ‘That is not a woman’s wardrobe.’
I looked at the row of dresses and skirts hanging neatly from the rail.
‘You don’t see what I mean, do you?’ she said. She waved an empty coat hanger at me. ‘What’s this then?’
‘An empty coat hanger?’ I hazarded.
‘Exactly!’ she exclaimed.
‘I don’t follow.’
‘You’re a man,’ she reminded me for the second time that morning.
‘Sorry,’ I said.
‘A woman’s wardrobe,’ she said, very slowly and carefully, ‘does not have empty hangers. A woman’s wardrobe is crammed full, because it contains the clothes you actually wear and it also contains all sorts of other things that you have bought over the years and kept because you never know when you might wake up one morning as a perfect size ten again. OK? This wardrobe is only two-thirds full, which means that half of the clothes have gone.’
Ignoring for a moment the strange mathematics of women’s wardrobes, I surveyed the contents and admitted that it was less full than I remembered it.
‘So, she had time to pack,’ said Elsie. ‘That’s two or three suitcases. Where are they now? They weren’t in the car. And come and look at this.’
She led me back to the sitting room and stood me in front of the bookcase. ‘What do you see? And don’t say “books” or I’ll have to cut your dick off with a rusty hacksaw.’
I stayed silent. It seemed like the safest option.
‘See those little yellow dots?’
I nodded. I had in fact noticed them earlier, but had said nothing to Elsie. They were small, removable sticky-backed paper circles, attached quite inconspicuously to the spines of some of the books and to the photo albums. ‘So?’ I enquired.
‘Well,’ said Elsie, ‘they’re what you put on things when you move house, so that the removal men will know where to take them. You know: blue dots for the sitting room, green triangles for the dining room, white squares for the main bedroom, pink stars for the kitchen, yellow dots—’
‘I get the picture,’ I said.
‘So, why the yellow dots?’ Elsie persisted. ‘She was doing a runner. She wasn’t going to get the removal men to come in and crate things up for her.’
‘Maybe they had some other purpose entirely.’
‘Hang on,’ Elsie announced suddenly. ‘Look – there’s one on that watercolour too.’ She started prowling round the room on a serious dot-hunt. ‘And on this vase. And on this photo frame.’
‘Red herring,’ I said.
I was happy to have a few minutes to myself. I quickly found the relevant files. They were still in the same drawer that they had occupied when I lived in the flat, and indeed many still had my handwriting on the cover. I extracted the recent statements from the file marked ‘BANK’. A swift glance revealed that there was little to give comfort to any of Geraldine’s creditors. I was also able to locate something else I needed, in an old chocolate box that had served for many years as a receptacle for spare keys. By the time Elsie emerged triumphantly from the bedroom and started her investigation of the sitting room, I had almost finished my own work.
‘So, what have you come up with?’ she demanded.
‘Only papers on Geraldine’s finances.’
‘Skint?’
‘In a manner of speaking. A small positive balance on her current account.’
‘Building societies? Shares?’
‘Building society account closed. No shares that I can find. Large mortgage, recently increased, but the sale of the flat should cover that. Unpaid creditors from her previous exploits, who will never see their money now. Ditto credit cards, I fear.’
‘Pretty much as expected then.’
‘Pretty much,’ I conceded.
‘So, you’ve discovered nothing. Typical. Come and see what I’ve found,’ she said, smirking.
She led me into the bedroom and threw open a wardrobe door.
‘There!’ she said. ‘That is not a woman’s wardrobe.’
I looked at the row of dresses and skirts hanging neatly from the rail.
‘You don’t see what I mean, do you?’ she said. She waved an empty coat hanger at me. ‘What’s this then?’
‘An empty coat hanger?’ I hazarded.
‘Exactly!’ she exclaimed.
‘I don’t follow.’
‘You’re a man,’ she reminded me for the second time that morning.
‘Sorry,’ I said.
‘A woman’s wardrobe,’ she said, very slowly and carefully, ‘does not have empty hangers. A woman’s wardrobe is crammed full, because it contains the clothes you actually wear and it also contains all sorts of other things that you have bought over the years and kept because you never know when you might wake up one morning as a perfect size ten again. OK? This wardrobe is only two-thirds full, which means that half of the clothes have gone.’
Ignoring for a moment the strange mathematics of women’s wardrobes, I surveyed the contents and admitted that it was less full than I remembered it.
‘So, she had time to pack,’ said Elsie. ‘That’s two or three suitcases. Where are they now? They weren’t in the car. And come and look at this.’
She led me back to the sitting room and stood me in front of the bookcase. ‘What do you see? And don’t say “books” or I’ll have to cut your dick off with a rusty hacksaw.’
I stayed silent. It seemed like the safest option.
‘See those little yellow dots?’
I nodded. I had in fact noticed them earlier, but had said nothing to Elsie. They were small, removable sticky-backed paper circles, attached quite inconspicuously to the spines of some of the books and to the photo albums. ‘So?’ I enquired.
‘Well,’ said Elsie, ‘they’re what you put on things when you move house, so that the removal men will know where to take them. You know: blue dots for the sitting room, green triangles for the dining room, white squares for the main bedroom, pink stars for the kitchen, yellow dots—’
‘I get the picture,’ I said.
‘So, why the yellow dots?’ Elsie persisted. ‘She was doing a runner. She wasn’t going to get the removal men to come in and crate things up for her.’
‘Maybe they had some other purpose entirely.’
‘Hang on,’ Elsie announced suddenly. ‘Look – there’s one on that watercolour too.’ She started prowling round the room on a serious dot-hunt. ‘And on this vase. And on this photo frame.’
‘Red herring,’ I said.
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