Portobello by Ruth Rendell Read Free Book Online Page A

might, for instance,
calculate that in naming eighty pounds and a hundred and sixty
pounds as the lower and upper limits he, Eugene, would have
avoided the sum arrived at by adding forty to the lower and
subtracting forty from the upper. So why not take this figure, which
was of course a hundred and twenty, and take away five from it?
Put like that it seemed not impossible at all to reach this conclusion,
hardly a coincidence. Anyone of moderate intelligence could
reach it, choosing only between five pounds added to a hundred
and twenty and five pounds subtracted from a hundred and twenty.
    The only thing to do, then, would be to send a cheque for a
hundred and fifteen pounds to Joel Roseman at the Welbeck
Nightingale Clinic or the Bayswater address and hand over another
cheque for a hundred and fifteen pounds to the man who was
coming at 6.30. He could afford it, he would hardly notice it but
still he had begun to wonder why he hadn't gone to the police in
the first place. Leaving Dorinda to close up the gallery, he left in
a taxi for Moscow Road. There was no point in going there, Joel
Roseman must still be in hospital, but he was curious about this
man who had had a heart attack in the street not far from his own
house. Ludlow Mansions turned out to be what he expected,
Edwardian red brick with the usual turrets and cupolas protruding
from its slate roof, stone steps going up to double doors and inside
a gloomy hall with a porter sitting behind a desk. Eugene thought
of asking him for Mr Roseman and perhaps being told that he
hadn't been in hospital at all but was away on holiday or even up
in his flat, but he decided against it.
    Another taxi took him to Spring Street. Eugene got there just
as the woman in the sari was turning the sign on the door from
'Open' to 'Closed'. It was a sign. The fates or his guardian angel
were helping him to give up. From the window he could see the
packets of Chocorange and Strawpink ranked neatly alongside
throat pastilles and indelicately close to condoms. He turned
away. Stopping cold turkey was the only way and, though already
craving a Chocorange, he congratulated himself on his strength
of mind. But 'cold turkey' was an unfortunate expression,
associated with hard drugs, and he wished he hadn't used it even
in his thoughts.
    A taxi with its orange light on arrived just as he was back on
the pavement. Sometimes he thought London taxi drivers ought
to give him points for being a frequent fare like a frequent flier.
By this time he would be up for a free round-the-world trip. Home
now and prepare for the arrival of the nameless man.

CHAPTER SIX
    Although the front room of Uncle Gib's house was kept
'looking nice' and therefore its door never opened, the exception
was when he held a prayer meeting. In preparing for
selected guests from the Church of the Children of Zebulun, he
went so far as to fill twelve very small glasses (of assorted shapes
and patterns) with orange squash but not so far as to clean the
room. Fortunately, most of the visitors to the house in Blagrove
Road spent their time on their knees, for if anyone sat down on
the horsehair sofa or one of the chairs, clouds of suffocating dust
puffed out of the upholstery.
    Normally calm and laid back, Uncle Gib became rather nervous
on prayer meeting evenings and got through at least ten cigarettes
in the preceding two or three hours. He was anxious to be rid of
Lance before the first Child of Zebulun arrived. His own past was
no longer of importance. Several years before, he had repented in
front of the whole congregation, been named and shamed, called
a lost sheep, bleating and wretched, at last been forgiven and
received into the fold. Now, thanks to the infinite mercy of God,
he was an Elder. Things were different for Lance, unregenerate
shoplifter, mugger, mobile phone thief and batterer of the woman
he had lived in sin with, taker of the Lord's name in vain and a
no-good son to his parents. When you came to think of it –