The Murder Room by P. D. James Page B

him?”
    â€œI told him that I work in a bar near King’s Cross.”
    â€œBut Ryan, is that true? I thought you worked for the Major.”
    â€œI do work for the Major, but I don’t tell everyone my business.”
    Five minutes later, watching as he put on his outdoor shoes, she realized again how little she knew about him. He had told her that he had been in care, but not why or where. Sometimes he told her that he lived in a squat, sometimes that he was staying with the Major. But if he was private, so was she—and so was everyone at the Dupayne. She thought,
We work together, we see each other frequently, sometimes every day, we talk, we confer, we have a common purpose. And at the heart of each of us is the unknowable self.
    9
    It was Dr. Neville Dupayne’s last domiciliary visit of the day and the one he most dreaded. Even before he had parked and locked the car he had begun to steel himself for the ordeal of meeting Ada Gearing’s eyes, eyes that would gaze into his with mute appeal as soon as she opened the door. The few steps up to the first-floor walkway seemed as wearying as if he were mounting to the top storey. There would be a wait at the door; there always was a wait. Albert, even in his catatonic phase, responded to the sound of the front doorbell, sometimes with a terror which held him shaking in his armchair, sometimes by rising from it with surprising speed, shoving his wife aside to get to the door first. Then it would be Albert’s eyes which would meet his; old eyes which yet were able to blaze with such differing emotions as fear, hatred, suspicion, hopelessness.
    Tonight he almost wished it would be Albert. He passed down the walkway to the middle door. There was a peephole in it, two security locks and a metal mesh nailed to the outside of the single window. He supposed that this was the cheapest way of ensuring protection but it had always worried him. If Albert set the place on fire, the door would be the only exit. He paused before ringing. It was darkening into evening. How quickly, once the clocks were put back, the daylight hours faded and darkness stealthily took over. The lights had come on along the walkways and, looking up, he saw the huge block towering like a great cruise ship anchored in darkness.
    He knew that it wasn’t possible to ring quietly; even so his finger was gentle on the bell. This evening’s wait wasn’t longer than usual. She would have to ensure that Albert was settled in his chair, calmed after the shock of the ring. After a minute he heard the rasp of the bolts and she opened the door to him. At once he gave her an almost imperceptible shake of the head and stepped inside. She relocked and bolted the door.
    Following her down the short passage, he said, “I’m sorry. I rang the hospital before I left and there’s no vacancy yet in the special unit. But Albert is top of the waiting list.”
    She said, “He’s been there, Doctor, for eight months now. I suppose we’re waiting for someone to die.”
    â€œYes,” he said. “For someone to die.”
    It was the same conversation they had had for the last six months. Before going into the sitting-room, and with her hand on the doorknob, he asked, “How are things?”
    She had always had this reluctance to discuss her husband while he sat there, apparently either not hearing or not caring. She said, “Quiet today. Been quiet all the week. But last Wednesday he got out, the day the woman social worker called, and he was through the door before I could lay a hand on him. He’s quick on his feet when the mood takes him. He was down the steps and off down the high street before we could catch him. And then there was a struggle. People look at you. They don’t know what you’re doing hauling an old man about like that. The social worker tried to persuade him, talking gentle like, but he wasn’t going to listen to her.