THE HOUSE:
A rambling Regency villa, set back from the road within a walled garden, overlooked by a stooping crowd of cedars. Once it had been owned by a wealthy patron of the Bloomsbury group, who had commissioned trompe l'oeils, grisaille murals. There was even a two-hundred-square-foot orangery rumored to be a Lutyens. The last visitors to this place, if asked to recall, would have remembered gardens on a far grander scale than was usual for most town homes. One could disappear in one of the many hived-off areas and lose track amongst the topiary and espaliered plums. White Pascali roses bloomed over trellised arbors, bees flew in straight lines down corridors of yew, searching out pyracantha and fuchsia.
But now there were blankets of rotting leaves piling up against the walls, and partially hidden near the garage entrance lay the skeletonized remains of a dog, trapped there since last summer. The curtains remained closed during the daytime. The cleaner, because of the trouble, had been sacked months ago, and gradually areas of the house had become unfit to live in. Harteveld moved through those parts at night only, shuffling along through the mess. But during the day the heavy oak door which led to that part of the house was locked. He couldn't risk unexpected visitors accidentally seeing his things. His belongings-
Tonight he had locked the door and was in the "public zone": the area he could afford to show outsiders, comprising the hallway, the kitchen, the cloakroom, the small study and the living room, where he stood now, by the fireplace in front of the portrait of his parents.
He's spent the afternoon cleaning-making it safe for tonight, hooking a hose to the sink in the main kitchen and sluicing disinfectant through the waste disposal. The smell, though, had defeated him. It was coming from-but at that point he had hesitated, his hand on the old door. For a long time he stared at the marquetry panels; the bamboo and spindly bridges supporting parasoled geishas. No. He turned away. Nothing he could do about the mess in there.
Now he swallowed two buprenorphine, washing them down with pastis and water. Then he opened a lapis lazuli snuffbox and, with the long, sharpened nail of his little finger, scooped a pile of cocaine into his left nostril. He rubbed the residue on his gum and closed his eyes for a moment.
If she didn't come soon he believed he would explode.
He bit his lip and stared up at the portrait of his parents: Lucilla and Henrick.
No, he realized, no, he wouldn't explode. What he would do was to haul himself up onto the mantelpiece, wait until he was sure he had his balance, then carefully lean forward and very precisely, with a minimum of fuss, bite Lucilla's face out of the canvas.
