‘No.’ I didn’t want to tell her what I was doing there.
‘Only they said they’d send someone, you see,’ she pressed on, ‘Victim Support or something, after the burglary. Shook him up, that did. I used to take him a bit of dinner now and then, if Harry and I were having a hot pot and that, or a nice bit of chicken – but he doesn’t like to answer the door now. I mean, the stories you hear.’
I nodded, wondering where we were headed and whether to interrupt.
‘Now he sometimes goes to his sister’s in Ashton but he usually tells me, and he knows if he needs anything he can just bang on the wall – but he’s not been himself since. It’s aged him. You can see it. They took his wallet and then they duffed him up. Now what did they have to do that for?’
I murmured in sympathy.
‘I could try calling for you if you like,’ she offered. ‘He might be in there but not wanting to open the door.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Who shall I say?’
‘He doesn’t know me.’ I began to feel uncomfortable. If this good neighbour knew I was serving debt-collection papers on him she wouldn’t be so keen to help. ‘I’ve some important papers for him.’
She nodded. She pushed the letter box back and put her mouth to the gap then stepped sharply back and turned away as if she’d been bitten.
‘Are you all right?’
She shook her head emphatically, her eyes wild.
I shoved the papers in my pocket and dropped Digger’s lead. I moved towards the door and pushed the metal flap up. The stench made me recoil as quickly as she had. As a child I’d once kept a bucketful of dead crabs in the shed, unknown to my parents. After a week they smelt like this.
I pulled my sweatshirt up to cover my nose and mouth and opening the flap again, peered in. I couldn’t see anything but the dismal hallway. But when I turned my ear to the door and listened I heard the buzzing and humming of flies and, as I realised what they were doing there, my stomach finally rebelled and I turned to the road and threw up.
We rang the police from Mrs Grady’s. I waited with her. I’d no desire to see what was left of Mr Kearsal, though I was curious about the manner of his death. It was hours before I could finally go, after countless cups of tea and Hob-Nobs.
The police arrived with vans and fancy tape and ambulances and men in suits. One of the suits came and talked to us, establishing who we were and our relationship to the deceased before noting the facts of our gruesome discovery. Mrs Grady was out in the kitchen busy making fresh tea when I was asked my name and the nature of my business in the area. I was glad she didn’t have to learn that I was trying to serve papers on Mr Kearsal.
Outside, what neighbours there were had formed a little audience and Mrs Grady filled them in. The press arrived en masse from all the local free papers, plus the Manchester Evening News, the local television and radio. I explained quickly to Mrs Grady that I didn’t want to be interviewed or photographed. She looked at me as if I’d gone barmy but agreed and dutifully posed with another neighbour next to the police cordon.
One of the policemen made a brief statement to the effect that Mr Kearsal had been found hanging, and that at this stage there was no suspicion of foul play. A journalist asked if there’d been a note. Yes, a note had been recovered from the scene.
At long last I got Digger and myself into the car and home. I wondered on the way what the score was with Platt & Co. if I’d failed to serve the paper because the intended recipient was dead. Surely they’d pay me? Flipping heck, I deserved overtime and a bonus, given how long it had taken.
At home I had a shower to try and wash it all away. The sickly smell wouldn’t go. I sprinkled lavender and rose oils round my room to try and disguise it, but I felt dirty still. I’d never known Mr Kearsal, never met him, but the fact that he had taken his own life was a chastening thought. And it was disturbing to think of him hanging there day after day, alone and unmourned.
I’d recently acquired a new answerphone which would let me ring it up and access my messages. This saved me having to traipse into the office just to check the machine. It’s not that the office is far, it’s only round the corner from the house, but some days I don’t need to go in there at all. I called my new machine and it played me a message from Rebecca Henderson. She had a new job for me. How was I getting on with the last one?
