There’s a piece of bamboo cane propped up against the fence. Picking it up and standing at arm’s length from the bin, I flick the lid up. The hum of flies and waft of something rotten assaults me but I’m more prepared this time and with my hand over my nose and mouth, I take a step closer. I peer into the bin from as far away as possible. There must be several full bin bags piled on top of each other, the last one to go in the bin sitting right at the top. White maggots, their colour a stark contrast with the black bin bags, wriggle and squirm their way around the plastic. With the bamboo cane I poke at the bag. It hasn’t been tied properly and I manage to flick it open.
I’m not sure what I’m expecting to see in there. Maybe my imagination is running away with me, but I’m relieved when I see food and drinks cartons. On the top is what looks like a piece of rotting meat, which would explain the flies. I flick the bin lid shut, relieved that it was nothing more sinister and then chide myself for an overactive imagination. What did I expect to find in there? A dead body?
Unexpectedly, a face pops up over the fence. A woman who looks to be in her seventies, with her hair neatly combed around her face and a small dash of red lipstick across her mouth, looks at me.
‘Are you from environmental health?’ she says. ‘About time you turned up. I’ve been calling you for days. That there bin hasn’t been emptied for weeks. Downright disgraceful. It would never have happened when Mr Kendrick was alive. It’s a health hazard.’ She eyes me again and produces a pair of glasses, which she perches on her bony nose. She has another look at me. ‘You ain’t environmental are you?’
‘Er, no. Sorry,’ I say. I have already rehearsed my story in case I spoke to any of the neighbours. ‘I’m actually a relative of Alice Kendrick. I’m from England and haven’t seen her for years. I’ve come over as a surprise.’ I smile broadly. It’s pretty near the truth.
‘A relative, you say? Of Ali Kendrick? I don’t remember her or her father ever talking about a relative in England.’
‘Oh, our families lost touch a long time ago,’ I say. ‘Didn’t even realise I had a cousin until recently.’
‘Well, you may be on a wild-goose chase. I don’t like to disappoint you, but Ali Kendrick isn’t here. I haven’t seen her for several weeks now. All that business must have been too much for her and she decided to get away for a while.’
‘Oh, no. Do you know where she is?’ The disappointment and hope are both genuine. By all that business, I assume the neighbour is referring to Patrick’s death.
‘She left me a note to say she was going travelling around Europe. Now, I’m surprised she hasn’t gone to England to find you, seeing as you’re long-lost relatives.’
I can detect the suspicion in her voice as she emphasises the long-lost bit.
‘Like I said, our families weren’t good at keeping in touch. You don’t happen to know where I can find her stepmother do you?’
‘Funny how you know she has a stepmother when your two families weren’t talking all this time.’ The neighbour might be old, but her brain is young and nimble.
‘We heard that Patrick had died from his wife’s family,’ I say, grateful that my brain is able to match hers for agility. ‘Her daughter sent me a message via Facebook. You know, the Internet.’
She waves me away with her hand. ‘I know what all that is, I’m not stupid.’
‘No, of course you’re not.’
‘Daughter, you say? Well, here’s the rub. Roma doesn’t have a daughter. Just a son.’
Shit. I’m sure Alice spoke about a stepsister once. I quickly try to remember what the stepbrother was called. ‘Nathaniel,’ I say. ‘Nathaniel sent me a message. Sorry. It’s been a long day. I’ve been travelling for hours. Can’t think straight.’
The neighbour appraises me once more. ‘Yeah, the kid was called Nathaniel. If you’re trying get hold of them, why don’t you message him back on Facebook?’
Bloody hell, she’s proving quite a match for me. Why wouldn’t I do that? From nowhere I manage a fast response. ‘We weren’t friends on Facebook and I can’t find him again. You know, all those privacy settings. You don’t happen to have their address or a phone number?’
I get another long, hard look from her before she makes up her mind. ‘Wait there.’ She disappears and comes back a few minutes later. She waves a piece of paper over the fence. ‘That’s their address and phone number. You may wanna ring first. She’s up in Jacksonville.’
‘Okay, thanks,’ I say, reaching to take the piece of paper.
She snatches it away. ‘First, though, you can do me a favour and put those bins out.’
I suppose I can’t complain. It’s a fair exchange and I really want that address and phone number.
The neighbour watches while I put the two wheelie bins out and then, once I’ve done that and she’s satisfied that I’ve fulfilled my part of the bargain, she hands over the slip of paper.
I retreat to the car and drive out of the cul-de-sac, making my way back to Jasmine Street. I’m probably not supposed to pull over and stop, but I do anyway. I’ll plead tourist ignorance and use my best English accent, flutter my eyelashes and offer sincere apologies if the police come by.
I call the number on the paper and it’s answered on the fourth ring.
‘Hello.’ The voice is female but that is all I can tell from the one-word answer.
‘Hi. Is Roma Kendrick there please?’
‘Speaking.’
‘Hi, I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m trying to get in touch with Alice Kendrick and I’ve been given your number. You don’t happen to know where she is, do you?’