‘I think I know how I died,’ said Henry.
‘You do?’ exclaimed Rita.
‘I think I must have been murdered,’ said Henry.
*
‘Murdered?’ exclaimed Rita, almost stuttering over the word.
Her body broke out in a cold sweat. Who would murder Henry? She couldn’t imagine for one minute that he had a single enemy. Rita wished Henry hadn’t mentioned murder. It had caused her to feel quite faint.
Henry gave a small nod of triumph.
‘I am in excellent health. My heart and blood pressure are sound. I would never drown. That’s just impossible. The mole on my chest the doctor said wasn’t suspicious, and that was just a few months ago and …’
‘But Ray …’
‘Huh, what does he know?’ mocked Henry.
‘Can you not remember?’ she asked.
‘No. I just woke up dead. At least I think I’m supposed to be dead.’
He sighed. ‘I’m getting weary of it now.’
Rita didn’t want to think of the river and its cold murky water stealing the air from Henry. She could almost taste the water, foul and unclean; his mind losing focus faster than a child at a fun fair. Only for Henry there was no fun, only fear. Fear of that unknown assailant who had ended his life.
‘Someone drowned you?’ said Rita.
‘Yes,’ said Henry with certainty. ‘The question is who?’
Chapter Thirty-Two
Henry stood by the lamp post in the pouring rain. The weather matched Henry’s mood. He imagined himself to be Henry Miles, from Graham Greene’s novel,End of the Affair. Very fitting he thought. If only this were a novel, a novel with a happy ending. He looked at the blue door of his house and then to the Georgian window at the side of it. The living room was bathed in a warm glow. Imogen had the fireside lights on. Henry had fitted those. He’d thought they would give the house a warm, cosy, cottage look. No doubt it was warm in there too, as warm as toasted marshmallow. Henry knew he could walk straight through the blue front door, but he didn’t feel ready to do that, not just yet. The last time he’d visited the house, it had been a sombre experience. He didn’t want to see that lazy, good for nothing, roofer again. Not until he could box his ears good and proper.
His interest was awakened, when through the grey, misty rain, he recognised Cynthia’s white Peugeot as it pulled onto the driveway. It was followed by another car, driven by a woman that Henry didn’t recognise. They climbed from their cars and then stood for a few moments looking up at the house. Henry looked also but he couldn’t make out what had them so interested. Finally, it dawned on him. The woman was an estate agent.
‘No,’ he shouted. ‘You can’t sell my house. Cynthia, I’m warning you.’
How quickly things were spiralling out of control. He rushed across the road, his feet sloshing through the puddles. The front door was now open, and Henry walked into the hallway behind a heavy cloud of perfume.
Imogen closed the door and hugged her mother.
‘What weather!’ Cynthia shook off her coat.
‘This is Faye.’ Cynthia took the other woman’s coat and hustled her forward. Henry thought her to be the plainest woman he’d ever seen. Badly cut, dark hair hung straight and shapeless around her face. The tiny gold studs that adorned her earlobes did nothing to enhance her plainness. Her small shrunken eyes blinked rapidly a few times as she looked around, her nose sniffing the air like a ferret. Cynthia hung their coats and said, ‘Well, do you sense anything, Faye?’
‘Not at the moment,’ said Faye, her expression serious. ‘I need to tune in,’ she added mysteriously.
‘Yes, of course,’ said Cynthia with a knowledgeable nod of someone who knew all about psychically tuning in.
Henry had a bad feeling about this.
‘I thought we’d have it in here.’ Imogen led them into the living room with its warm glow from the fireside lights.
Henry detected a tremble in her voice.
‘Don’t sell the house, Imogen,’ he pleaded. ‘Give me time to sort this out.’
