from fishing and, when he wasyounger, from odd bits of work for the council. Perez could remember seeing him by the side of the road sometimes, helping the contractors lay new tarmac. He’d never married, and when he’d moved out the house was in much the same state as the day his parents had moved in. Perez supposed that he’d bought it from the council. Wilding must be the owner now, or be renting it privately. He was hardly a normal council tenant.
Inside the house, Perez could see across a passageway into a small kitchen which held a deep sink with one tap and a Calor gas stove. The table, folded against one wall, looked as if it had been left behind by Willy. There were no fitted cupboards, no washing machine. The only additions were a small fridge, balanced on the workbench, and a coffee grinder. The place had an air of impermanence. A squat. It was as if Wilding were camping out here.
Wilding seemed untroubled that Perez could see the primitive nature of his domestic arrangements and gave another of his smiles. ‘Let’s go upstairs. It’s more civilized there. Can I make you tea? I’m sure Aggie will have offered you tea earlier, but I expect you could use another by now. Or coffee perhaps? Coffee is one of my few luxuries here. I grind the beans every time.’ He spoke slowly and Perez had the sense that he was considering the effect of every word. But perhaps it was just that he’d spent too long on his own in his upstairs room and conversation no longer came easily.
Perez was tempted by the coffee. It would be a long day and he would need something to keep awake and alert.
‘Coffee would be fine.’ He paused. ‘One of my luxuries too.’
‘Ah! Another addict! I can recognize the signs. Splendid. Go in and make yourself at home. The room at the front. I’ll not keep you waiting long.’
He had followed Perez halfway up the stairs, but now he turned and went back to the kitchen, moving very lightly for such a tall man. All his movements were easy and unhurried. It was as if he’d expected a visitor and had planned in advance the words he would use and the way he would move.
As Wilding had said, the workroom was more civilized. The bare, unvarnished floorboards were hidden by a woven rug in the middle of the room. The desk was old, leather-topped and obviously his own. He’d made some makeshift shelves from bricks and planks and they were crammed with books. There was a CD player and a rack of discs. A large unframed canvas hung on one wall. It was of a field of hay, which had been cut and piled into untidy heaps, under a fierce yellow light. Perez thought it might be by Bella Sinclair and felt ridiculously pleased with himself when he approached and saw the signature. He would tell Fran later. He was still staring at it when Wilding came in, pushing the door open with his foot. He was carrying a cafetiere and two mugs on a tray, a box of shop-bought cakes. He had learned the convention of island entertaining. It was considered impossibly rude not to offer a guest something sweet to eat.
‘I don’t have any milk,’ he said, in no way apologetic. ‘But I could run to the shop if you’re desperate.’
‘I drink it black.’
‘Splendid.’ A favourite word. ‘You have the chair,inspector. I’m quite happy on the floor.’ And he lounged, legs outstretched, still managing to dominate the room.
Perez would have liked a cake, but it seemed they were just there for show. He couldn’t ask for one without seeming greedy. ‘Martin says you’re a writer.’ Perez was interested in the man, his profession. Every witness statement and confession was part fiction, but he couldn’t imagine conjuring a whole story from thin air, couldn’t see where you would start. ‘Do you write under your own name?’
Wilding laughed. ‘Oh yes, inspector, but don’t worry if you’ve never heard of me. Few people have. I write fantasy, an acquired taste.’ He seemed rather pleased that he was unknown.
Inside the house, Perez could see across a passageway into a small kitchen which held a deep sink with one tap and a Calor gas stove. The table, folded against one wall, looked as if it had been left behind by Willy. There were no fitted cupboards, no washing machine. The only additions were a small fridge, balanced on the workbench, and a coffee grinder. The place had an air of impermanence. A squat. It was as if Wilding were camping out here.
Wilding seemed untroubled that Perez could see the primitive nature of his domestic arrangements and gave another of his smiles. ‘Let’s go upstairs. It’s more civilized there. Can I make you tea? I’m sure Aggie will have offered you tea earlier, but I expect you could use another by now. Or coffee perhaps? Coffee is one of my few luxuries here. I grind the beans every time.’ He spoke slowly and Perez had the sense that he was considering the effect of every word. But perhaps it was just that he’d spent too long on his own in his upstairs room and conversation no longer came easily.
Perez was tempted by the coffee. It would be a long day and he would need something to keep awake and alert.
‘Coffee would be fine.’ He paused. ‘One of my luxuries too.’
‘Ah! Another addict! I can recognize the signs. Splendid. Go in and make yourself at home. The room at the front. I’ll not keep you waiting long.’
He had followed Perez halfway up the stairs, but now he turned and went back to the kitchen, moving very lightly for such a tall man. All his movements were easy and unhurried. It was as if he’d expected a visitor and had planned in advance the words he would use and the way he would move.
As Wilding had said, the workroom was more civilized. The bare, unvarnished floorboards were hidden by a woven rug in the middle of the room. The desk was old, leather-topped and obviously his own. He’d made some makeshift shelves from bricks and planks and they were crammed with books. There was a CD player and a rack of discs. A large unframed canvas hung on one wall. It was of a field of hay, which had been cut and piled into untidy heaps, under a fierce yellow light. Perez thought it might be by Bella Sinclair and felt ridiculously pleased with himself when he approached and saw the signature. He would tell Fran later. He was still staring at it when Wilding came in, pushing the door open with his foot. He was carrying a cafetiere and two mugs on a tray, a box of shop-bought cakes. He had learned the convention of island entertaining. It was considered impossibly rude not to offer a guest something sweet to eat.
‘I don’t have any milk,’ he said, in no way apologetic. ‘But I could run to the shop if you’re desperate.’
‘I drink it black.’
‘Splendid.’ A favourite word. ‘You have the chair,inspector. I’m quite happy on the floor.’ And he lounged, legs outstretched, still managing to dominate the room.
Perez would have liked a cake, but it seemed they were just there for show. He couldn’t ask for one without seeming greedy. ‘Martin says you’re a writer.’ Perez was interested in the man, his profession. Every witness statement and confession was part fiction, but he couldn’t imagine conjuring a whole story from thin air, couldn’t see where you would start. ‘Do you write under your own name?’
Wilding laughed. ‘Oh yes, inspector, but don’t worry if you’ve never heard of me. Few people have. I write fantasy, an acquired taste.’ He seemed rather pleased that he was unknown.
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