by John Creasey
“I don’t remember as vividly as you obviously do,” he said. “What are you driving at? That Chayter might do the same thing again?” When Frisby didn’t answer, he went on: “This chap had been in Germany for a year, he’d seen a lot of action, he’d been in charge of a concentration camp for several months, he was at the end of his tether – and he came home and thought he found his girl-friend in bed with another man. So he killed her, and found he’d killed a stranger. That isn’t the kind of crime a man’s likely to repeat. In France, they would probably have let him off.”
“I know,” said Frisby. “But if a man like Chayter didn’t say anything, it still isn’t safe to assume that he’d nothing to say. Shall I ask the stations to report if he signs in?”
“Yes,” said Roger. “And let me know where it is. Now, there are plenty of new jobs to look after. Let’s get cracking, shall we?”
Chapter Two
The Cage
Paul Chayter looked across at his wife, who was knitting a jumper and watching a television play at the same time. He was holding the Daily Telegraph in such a way that he could glance at the screen, which usually bored him, or at Julie – who did even more than bore him; in some moods, she drove him to distraction. It was peculiar, he thought, that he should feel so, for no one could deny she was good-looking, even lovely. She had a figure a woman ten years younger would have envied, she looked after him and his home well, and yet – over the years they had lost whatever love there had once been between them.
He wished he were not here—
It was like being in prison – in a cage.
The significant point about their life together was that he could never tell her what he was doing, what he was planning, what went on in his mind. These were things it was wiser – perhaps more pleasurable, for he was a secretive man – to keep to himself. In the early years of their marriage he had been busy building up his business, as a small quality printer, specialising in leaflets and brochures. He had a gift for lay-out which came in useful whenever he was printing for some special group or organisation. In those early days, Julie had helped him, typing, invoicing, acting as secretary. Then one day, many years ago, he had taken an order for an extremist political group.
“Paul,” she had said. “You’re not going to print that?”
“Of course I am,” he had replied. “It’s good business.”
“But that—that’s beastly.”
And he had stared at her for a long while, before saying: “Don’t tell me what I can print. Don’t ever try.”
And she never had, but before long she had left the business. The reason given was that she had become pregnant; she had lost the hoped-for child, but had never gone back to the office. Working alone he was increasingly successful in a highly stylised and individual way, preferring to do the composing and the lay-out entirely single-handed.
Then his brother had committed murder. Paul had thought it the most hideous of crimes, the one unforgivable sin.
Now, there were times when he himself ached to put his hands round a woman’s throat, and choke the life out of her. This was one such moment; he fought down the impulse, and almost laughed. It was funny really; bloody funny.
Julie Chayter was aware that her husband was looking across at her over the top of the Telegraph, but for a while pretended not to notice. She was in fact aware of more than he realised, and for the rest, preferred ignorance. She had long since stopped thinking about his business, and had no idea how much money he made. It was, in any case, of little material importance to her, for Julie had an independent income. She had made a life of her own, serving on charity committees, playing an occasional game of golf or bridge. Her personal friends were few, and inevitably, as a married couple, their joint acquaintances still fewer.
That they were strangers in mind and thought occasionally worried her, even though she subconsciously realised that it was the saving factor of their frail unity. She recognised, and fought against the recognition, a cruel, mean streak in him, which any mention of his brother brought into instant play. In all the time they had been married she had never known him utter a sympathetic word about Cecil. Only once, years before, had he visited him in prison. It had been a solitary visit. He had been a solitary visitor, for their parents had died long before the murder, and Cecil’s fiancée had never forgiven him.
“He asked for it,” Paul would say. “And he got it.” Or: “He made his own bed, let him lie on it.” Obviously, he was deeply resentful. Occasionally he would come across an article in a Sunday newspaper which recalled Cecil’s crime, and it would put him in a rage for hours. If ever a newspaperman asked him for information about his brother, he would slam down the receiver – or bang the door in the man’s face.
Julie wondered if Paul had the slightest idea how much she had grown to dislike him.
In a way, she had made Cecil a test of will. She had known him in the old days, and had liked him. The shock of realising what he had done had affected her conventionally, but the sense of horror had gradually faded, and over the years she had been very conscious of the terrible life he was condemned to live.
The only times Paul ever wrote to him were at her insistence.
“He’s not interested in me, and I’m not interested in him,” he would say. “He can look after himself.”
“But he’s nowhere to go when he comes out of prison.”
“Maybe not, but he’s not coming here!”
The first time Paul had said that, Julie had simply shrugged her shoulders. After the third reiteration, she had made a resolve: Paul himself would write to invite Cecil here, once it was known when he would be released. Somehow or other she would shame him into it.
Not once did it occur to her that she might be subconsciously interested in Cecil for himself.
So she had dropped hints, urged Paul to write more often, and carried on a war of attrition, fighting it at first out of an outraged sense of duty, lately because she was determined, in this one instance, to have her own way. When the Home Office notification of his impending release had come, she had taken up the battle in earnest, and gradually Paul had given way. And by good luck she had been at his side when the Prison Governor – or the Chaplain, she wasn’t sure – had telephoned. Paul liked to create a good impression, and had done so almost instinctively.
What was he thinking now? she wondered.
The odd thing was that she was half-wishing she had never forced the issue. It might prove disastrous – both from her point of view and from Cecil’s. Supposing Cecil had grown to hate Paul? Supposing prison had changed him so much that he was virtually a different man?
If he came.
It was late, now; she had expected word before this.
Recollection of Cecil, as she had known him all those years ago, grew stronger, his image appearing vividly in her mind.
Did Paul remember, too?
Did Paul wonder why she had been so insistent? Until he had written to the Prison Governor, she had allowed him no rest. Had he given way only for the sake of peace and quiet, or because he had after all felt compassion?
He lowered the paper, the shadow of a sneer – but perhaps it was the light – across his face.
“If he’s coming, he’s late.”
“Yes. Perhaps—” she broke off.
“Perhaps what?”
“Oh, it doesn’t matter.”
“Probably not.” There was no doubt at all about the sneer, now; she felt that he hated her.
Or was her imagination playing her tricks?
This was the view she had of him most often; the front of his high forehead, the wispy browny-grey hair, and the pronounced, sparsely filled-in widow’s peak, the thin, bony face lined and yet somehow ageless at fifty-five. His expression would be called quizzical or perplexed by some, disapproving by others, sneering by her. Whenever he looked like this, she would pretend not to notice, and take refuge in baby-talk.
Was hate the right word?
She had to say something, had to break the spell, and she exclaimed: “Paulie!”
Not ‘Paul’.
“What?” he grunted. His lips straightened.
“Why were you looking at me like that?”
“I happened to glance up, that’s all.”
“Glance. You were laughing at me!”
“Oh, nonsense!” Paul felt the stirring of anger which often followed a moment of annoyance or embarrassment with Julie. She would keep on trying to make him. ‘explain’, trying to compel him to say something he had no desire to say, probably hoping to sting him into a quarrel, with its raised voices and its futility, and in the end the almost sickening ‘reconciliation’.
“Paul, you were. I saw you. I—”
The telephone bell rang, across her words.
The effect was quite remarkable, for at the first ring, Julie’s expression changed, the hint of childish petulance vanished, and eagerness replaced it. She put her knitting down on a coffee table by the side of her chair, and started to get up.
The bell, in the passage just outside the room, continued to ring. The instrument itself was on a recessed shelf near the door – nearer to Paul than to Julie. This was a long, narrow room of pale colours, with the central door opposite the French windows leading into their Hampstead garden. In the gloaming, shrubs and trees showed in silhouette against a sky too light for stars.
“You ought to see who it is,” she said.
“Aren’t you expecting a call?”
“Not—not really. It might be—” she broke off, almost in confusion.
It might be Cecil.
The bell was still ringing.
“Oh, for goodness sake!” exclaimed Julie. She sprang up and crossed to the telephone, snatched it up, and announced: “This is Mrs. Chayter … Who? … Oh.” Her voice dropped, half in relief, half in disappointment. “I’m not sure, I’ll see if he’s in.” She placed one hand over the mouthpiece and turned to Paul. “It’s a newspaper; the Daily Globe. Do you want to speak to them?”
They both knew that the newspaper representative wanted to talk about Cecil’s release. If he refused to talk, Paul knew, the Press would never give in, it was better to get it over. He stood up, and Julie held out the instrument, then went slowly back to her chair. She turned down the volume of the television.
“Paul Chayter here.”
“Good evening, Mr. Chayter, sorry to bother you. I wonder if you can tell me where to get in touch with your brother, Cecil Chayter.”
“No, I can’t,” Paul said flatly.
“He isn’t staying with you, then?” It was a hearty voice, with a trace of North Country accent.
“He may be, later.”
“Do you mean you’re expecting him?”
“I mean my wife and I invited him.”
“Did you then! That was very—” the speaker broke off, as if realising that he was about to say something in questionable taste. “Kind of you,” he put in hastily. “Have you any idea what he plans to do, sir?”
“Where he’s been living, correspondence and discussion are not very easy,” Paul said dryly. “I’ve no idea what he has in mind. Good night.”
He rang off without giving the newspaperman a chance to say another word, and walked moodily across the room, looking at Julie. She pretended to be absorbed in the play, although she could hardly hear the words.
“Now I suppose we’ll be plagued for days by these fellows,” he remarked.
Julie didn’t look up as she asked: “What’s that?”
“You heard perfectly,” said Paul, fighting a rising irritation.
“But Paul dear, I didn’t. Really.”
Liar, thought Paul. Bitch and liar. Suddenly, he wondered how often she lied to him, how much she pretended. He had never thought seriously about that before, it had never occurred to him that she might be living as much of a lie as he; perhaps more of one. The innocent, rather baby-like expression seemed genuine enough, but all at once he wondered if it were simply a blind.
“I said I suppose we’ll be plagued by these fellows for days,” he repeated, forcing his voice to gentleness. “Newspapermen are always scavenging for any kind of scandal.”
“They really are beastly, aren’t they,” Julie agreed. She fluttered her eyelashes. “But I suppose they’re only doing their job.” She glanced at the screen again, but gradually dropping pretence, gave him her full attention. “Do you think he’ll come?”
“Who? That reporter?”
“No, silly. Cecil.”
“If he were coming, he’d be here by now.”
“Well it’s not late, really.”
“He knows our telephone number.”
Quickly, almost impatiently, Julie leaned forward and turned off the television; even the whispering voices had made a background of sound, and the silence in the room now seemed very deep.
“I wonder what he will do.”
“There’s no point in guessing.”
“He’s not trained for anything, is he?”
“Only making mailbags, or whatever they do in prison.” He thought he detected a gleam of annoyance in her eyes, but she covered it quickly.
“You don’t really care, Paul, do you?”
“Not much,” Paul admitted. “If he needed money, I would help him, but I’m not going to give him a job, if that’s what you’re driving at. He can manage.”
“He went straight from school to the Army, didn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“And he was still in the Army when he—when he killed that girl?”
Paul answered coldly: “Yes.”
“So what can he do?”
“If he condescends to come here at all, perhaps he’ll also condescend to confide in us,” Paul said irritably. “You’re showing a quite remarkable concern for your brother-in-law with the shady past, aren’t you?”
“And you’re being as cold as a fish about him! Not that that’s any change.” Almost as soon as the words were out, Julie wished she hadn’t uttered them, but she made no attempt to take them back. It was the first time she had criticised him openly, the first reference she had made to his ‘coldness’. He had imagined she had been unaware of it in her empty-headed, light-hearted, almost frivolous way; but obviously she was fully aware; and resentful.
He could force an argument now, or even a quarrel, but he was not sure that he wanted to. He needed time, to make up his mind exactly what to do. She was looking at him challengingly, expecting the flare up, so he turned back to his chair, picked up the newspaper, and sat down. She was tempted to lean forward and snatch the paper away, but before she had time, there was a sharp ring at the front door bell.
Chapter Three
‘Home’
Julie was acutely aware of the echo of the front door bell as she stared across at Paul. There was something different about him tonight, something more than an understandable apprehension over Cecil’s release and home-coming.
Did he hate Cecil?
Or did he really hate her?
She felt that he was sitting there, deliberately exasperating her,
“Well?” she asked sharply. “Aren’t you going to see who it is?”
Before Paul moved or answered, the door bell rang again. This was in a way another trial of strength, and she was determined that she should not lose.
Slowly, Paul rose to his feet. Draping the newspaper over the seat of his chair, he went towards the door. She could have screamed at him to hurry. His tall, angular figure was normally cluhisy of movement, but this snail’s pace was deliberate. His old suit was short in the legs and arms, giving a kind of scarecrow effect.
Even when he was out of sight the time of waiting seemed interminable.
She heard the front door open, and sat stiffly upright. Tonight there was so much more than the usual tension between her and Paul; there was the knowledge that if this were Cecil, then a murderer was about to step in her house. For the first time she began to feel a kind
of fear.
Paul’s words carried down the passage.
“Good evening.”
There was silence.
“Can I help you?” Paul asked.
Julie leant back in her chair. So it wasn’t Cecil; obviously it couldn’t be.
There was another silence. All at once Paul’s voice rose.
“It is you!”
Julie’s heart began to thump.
Then came a clear, unmistakable voice: “Yes, Paul.”
“Cecil!”
“So you didn’t really expect me.”
“Of—of course I expected you. I—But come in! Come in!”
There was a pause.
“Come in, I tell you!”
“Paul,” said Cecil, his voice rather harsher, “I don’t want to come unless I’m quite sure I’m welcome.”
Warmth seemed to sound in Paul’s voice, much more than Julie had known for a long time.
“Of course you’re welcome!”
“Is—is Julie in?”
“Of course she’s in! Cecil, come in, old man.”
There were movements, footsteps, creaking, the snap as the front door closed. Julie sat absolutely motionless, stiff with tension, unable to relax or to move – but she must move, she must jump up and meet him at the door, if she didn’t then all Paul’s assurances would ring false.
“Give me your hat and coat.”
“Thanks.”
“You haven’t been here before, have you?”
“No.”
“Bloody silly question! Sorry.”
“No use pretending it hasn’t all happened,” Cecil said.
“No need for me to rub it in, either. Er—come inside, Cecil. Julie’s in here.”
She must get up. They were just outside the open door, Cecil would probably appear first. She sprang to her feet, forced a smile and made herself go forward, hands outstretched. It must be a warm welcome. Should she kiss him? Or would that be overdoing it?
He appeared in the doorway.
