And today was the day. Tuesday. By now Daisy would have done her stuff and the papers would be safely lodged at Rigby’s. For a moment he thought of his wife with fondness. He had to admit that she’d treated him decently. She’d been honest and loyal. And she was quite a looker. She always had been, of course, or else he would never have got himself tangled in the mess that was their marriage. He’d begun to think it a shame that she wasn’t coming with him. She was his wife after all. But Grayson Harte would make sure the papers he’d authorised were for one person alone. And even if there had been tickets and a passport, he doubted she would have agreed to travel. She was in training for a job she evidently enjoyed. And she didn’t enjoy him, that was clear. It piqued him to know it, but he no longer held sway. Better, then, that she stay in England for however long this interminable war lasted, though he doubted it would be for much longer. A matter of months in his estimation, before Hitler would be marching along Whitehall. Vaguely, he hoped Daisy would be all right when that day came, that she would survive the occupation. But he couldn’t allow himself to worry too much about her; he had his own future to consider. He was about to become a citizen of a new country, a young and thrusting country, and it was better that he arrived there untrammelled by past attachments.
He laced his shoes and readied himself to creep downstairs. These days, that was the way he moved in and out of the building. The men below had been unusually quiet the last day or so, but he didn’t trust them or their plans, and he was always conscious of the need to remain as unnoticed as possible. As if on cue, he heard the first sound in days of a raised voice. Then another voice weighed in. He sighed. Couldn’t they have kept their quarrel until he’d visited Rigby’s and was back safely in his hideout? The journey to the shop wasn’t going to be so easy now that they’d woken from whatever torpor had kept them silent. Here and there he caught the odd word or phrase shouted or hissed with some violence. Hindi words.
One man, the one with the deeper voice, the one Gerald reckoned was Anglo-Indian and seemed to be in charge, was proposing something that the other was vehemently against. There were several can’t do its and must do its. Then only chance. Duty was another word. He couldn’t make much of the argument but whatever it was, it was stopping him from collecting his pass to safety. Hopefully, the men would quarrel themselves into silence. But the row went on, even escalating in noise as the minutes passed. They no longer seemed to care they might be overheard. This was serious. Before they’d always hushed each other, aware that he was living only a thin ceiling above and could understand their language. But this time their argument was so fierce, they’d forgotten the possibility of an eavesdropper.
Perhaps he could slide past their front door while they were engaged in shouting at each other, and stay out until he saw at least one of them leave the house. There were plenty of places in Ellen Street he could conceal himself. And the men never left the house together. In fact, he didn’t think the darker-skinned man went out at all. With one of them absent, he could risk slinking back into the building. He creaked across the floorboards to the far end of the room. The attic formed an L shape, the foot of the letter L jutting out over what must be a storeroom beneath, but because of the angle it made, it was possible to see into the room below. Just a few feet—if he pushed his face close up to the small window and looked sideways.
He did just that and what he saw caused him to stagger backwards. The men were locked in combat, no longer shouting but uttering thick grunts mingled with the occasional rough curse. Their arms were around each other’s neck, trying to wrestle one another to the floor, their fingers poking at unprotected eyes. Then one of them lunged and his kick sent the other man sprawling across the floor. Gerald was back at the window, pressing his forehead hard against the glass. The fallen man had dragged himself from sight, the other man too. Presumably ready to follow with another kick. But no, the man was on his feet again and backing into Gerald’s sight line and the other, the lighter-skinned man, had followed and had his arm raised. There was a flash of silver. The flash of a blade? Gerald felt nauseous. He had no wish to look longer and dragged himself to the nearest chair. It was a while before his heart stopped jumping.
A strange quiet reigned, as though the house was holding its breath. He could hear nothing, not even a curse. What was he to do? He made a rapid decision. He would go. If the men were still engaged in a life and death struggle, they would be far too busy to pay him attention. And he had to get to the shop. He had to get those papers. But he would still be cautious, opening his door very, very slowly and then taking one step at a time, hoping against hope that the stairs remained silent beneath his soft soles. He had reached the landing below and was about to take the first step towards the ground floor, when the door to his left was suddenly flung open. It was the door to the men’s room, which meant they must have finished their quarrel—at just the wrong moment.
They had. Gerald looked aghast when he realised what he was looking at. The man standing inches away was breathing heavily and his eyes were wild, but it was his shirt that transfixed. A white shirt, at least it had once been white, but now splattered an ominous red. And beyond the man, beyond the open door, Gerald’s scared eyes took in the body of the second man, lying prone, lying in a pool of red, that was trickling a path through the floorboards. Time slowed almost to a stop and for Gerald it seemed as though the scene in front of him had been going on forever. In fact, it must have taken seconds before he jerked himself into full consciousness and took action. He fled precipitately, jumping the stairs two at a time, desperate to get to the front door. It was only seconds before the blood-spattered man moved too, pounding after him in a frantic bid to block his escape. With every fibre of his body, Gerald strained to reach the door. If he could get there, lift the latch, flee along the road, he would be in reach of green space, in reach of bushes and trees that could conceal him from … a murderer. The word drummed through his brain even as he pushed his legs to go faster. All thought of collecting the papers had vanished. All he could think of was survival. He reached up and grasped the door latch. The footsteps behind him grew loud in his ears. He pulled up the latch and twisted the doorknob. The door opened an inch, two inches. He could feel the fresh air of the spring day. He could feel the man’s breath on his neck.
CHAPTER 13
For several minutes after it happened, Sweetman found himself in a state of panic. A double murder was something he hadn’t foreseen, but he’d had no choice. He’d tried hard to persuade Mishra that his plan was the very best, better by far than the failed kidnapping. But his companion had been stubborn, had threatened to go to the police, give himself up, rather than be implicated in Chandan Patel’s death. He shouldn’t have been surprised. For some time he’d fancied the man felt no real commitment to the cause, not in the way he did. And, when it came to the crunch, his fellow conspirator had flunked it, as he’d always suspected. Sweetman had been left alone to carry out orders. Better alone, though, better than having Mishra alongside, constantly questioning, constantly squeamish. But if the man wasn’t with him, he was against him, and a danger that had to be stopped. He hadn’t meant to kill, not really. But he’d been in a fury and the knife had been to hand and … it was better like that. It had a certainty about it and he liked certainty.
Hari Mishra wouldn’t be missed. Since they’d been in England, the man had hardly gone out of the door. Just that one journey when they’d tried to kidnap Patel. No one even knew he lived here, only the man above and he was in no position to squeal now. He’d been frantic, wondering how best to dispose of the body when Minns had walked down the stairs and spoiled everything. Why choose to arrive at just that moment? It was almost as though the man had been trying to catch Sweetman out. There’d been nothing for it but to silence him immediately. He couldn’t have him go to the police, any more than he could have allowed Mishra. He’d be a wanted man, watched for by every blue helmet in London. It was crucial to keep a low profile, if
he was to do what he intended. Remain anonymous. Until the day after tomorrow. But how, with two dead men on his hands? He had to get rid of them, cover his tracks, until he’d accomplished his mission. After that, he didn’t care what happened to him.
He forced himself to be calm. His face was running with sweat, his hands shaking and sticky. But a few swigs from the whisky bottle he’d kept hidden set him straight. He slumped down in the chair and thought very hard. The old woman on the ground floor had been moved last week into a nursing home. If she’d been around, he’d have had no chance. That at least was good news. If he could have just walked out of the house and left the bodies behind a slammed door … At any other time he could have done that, but by ill chance tomorrow was the day of the week that the landlord collected his rents each week. The man was meticulous in his timing, letting himself in to the house and knocking at the door of each lodging room at three in the afternoon to demand his money. There was blood everywhere, in the room, on the stairs, by the front door. He couldn’t risk the landlord seeing and going to the police before he’d had time to deal with Patel. Somehow he had to stop him coming.
Then he knew what he had to do. He could always count on his brain to come up with the right solution. Really, he’d been wasted trying to train that idiot, Mishra. He would set off a bomb. There were hundreds of bombs all over London, dropped by the Luftwaffe but lying dormant until disturbed by some unfortunate. He would keep the landlord at bay with a bomb blast. For a while it would cover up the murders, hopefully leaving the dead men in fragments and making identification difficult. The post-mortems would eventually show they’d been murdered, though post-mortems were sketchy these days when so many people were dying, but even if that happened, the bomb would confuse matters and the police enquiry would be delayed. He took another swig of whisky. He’d do more. He’d make it look like the Minns chap had killed his fellow tenant by putting the gun in his hand, and then set off the bomb to cover the evidence. Eventually, they would discover there’d been a third tenant, but it would sow more confusion and more delay. And delay was what he needed.
It was lucky that he hadn’t told Hari about the bomb. Each night after his companion had gone to bed, he’d assembled it bit by bit from the instructions he’d been handed. He’d had an idea that if all else failed, they might use it to deal with the envoy. But he couldn’t be sure that Patel would be near enough to the explosion to be injured, and he’d abandoned the idea in favour of a kidnapping. Now the bomb could come into its own. He only hoped it was big enough to tear the house apart.
Daisy saw him almost immediately, walking towards her across Charterhouse Square, weaving a path through the newly leafing trees. As he drew near, he held out his arms to her, but she didn’t respond and he allowed them to fall slackly by his side.
‘Daisy?’ He seemed nonplussed.
‘I’m afraid I can’t talk for long. I’ve only a few minutes and then I’m due back on the ward.’ Her voice was deliberately controlled and she stopped several feet away, looking past him and across the square.
‘I don’t pretend to know what’s going on,’ he said quietly, ‘but at least look at me.’
That forced her to face him directly and his expression, stunned, hurt, made her stomach clench. ‘Something has happened,’ he said. ‘Tell me.’
‘It’s nothing … No, it’s everything.’
She couldn’t tell him about Willa. He would say all the right things, of course. How sad, such a tragedy, so young, but he wouldn’t understand. Not how despairing she felt. Not how meeting again, she was riven with guilt at how much time she had lavished on him and how little on Willa.
‘You’re sounding cryptic. How about some explanation?’
‘I don’t mean to be. I’ve had time to think, that’s all.’
‘And what have you thought?’ His expression was anxious but the words were sharp-edged.
‘I enjoyed our evening at the Ritz,’ she began.
‘Night,’ he put in.
‘Night then.’ She dug her toes into the grass. ‘I’m truly grateful for what you’ve done for Gerald. And for me. With Gerald gone, I can get on with my life again.’
She stopped speaking and the silence was intense. Even the birds had ceased chattering to listen. ‘I am grateful,’ she repeated, and then in a rush, ‘but I don’t think we should see each other again.’
She was stumbling, she knew, acting blindly, but she had to find a way out. All the bad things that had ever happened to her were forcing her to walk away.
‘You surely don’t mean that.’ His bafflement was complete.
‘I do. I think it’s best—for both of us. Please don’t be angry or try to persuade me differently.’
‘But why? Why this complete change? Two days ago I thought …’ His voice trailed off. He was struggling to make sense of the situation and not doing very well.
‘I thought so too,’ she said. ‘But I’ve decided otherwise. When I had time to think more clearly about the future, our being together didn’t seem such a good idea.’
‘But why for God’s sake?’ He was still struggling. ‘Is it because you’re still married? I know there are difficulties, but they’re not insurmountable. There is such a thing as divorce. It’s not pleasant, I grant you, but sometimes it’s the right thing to do.’
‘It’s not because of Gerald.’
Grayson deserved an explanation but she couldn’t give one, not one that he could understand. Not one, even, that she could understand. Taking a deep breath, she began again, ‘I can’t say more but please accept my decision.’
‘I should be able to, shouldn’t I? After all, it’s not the first time you’ve changed your mind.’ There was the very slightest tinge of bitterness to his voice and she saw his lips tighten into a thin line. He was hurting, she knew, hurting badly, and her determination almost buckled.
‘I know it’s not what you want to hear,’ she hurried on, ‘but in time you’ll come to see it’s the right thing—for both of us.’
He walked a few paces away, his hands thrust deep in his pockets. Then he turned and walked back to her. ‘I really don’t understand you.’ His clear blue eyes were unreadable. ‘I thought I did. I hoped I did. But this—’
‘Goodbye, Grayson.’ She held out her hand but he refused to take it. ‘I hope you have a good war. Keep safe.’ There was nothing more she could say or do.
‘That’s it, is it?’ His tone was cold and crisp as she turned to go.
‘Yes, that’s it,’ she said, and walked back into the Home, her tears beginning in earnest as the door shut behind her.
Bertie Sandford looked up surprised when Grayson strode into their shared office the next morning looking like thunder.
‘Lost half a crown and found sixpence?’ he asked.
Grayson didn’t answer, but sat down at his desk, and began to thump through a pile of papers without reading a word.
‘You met your girl then?’ Sandford sucked lazily at his pipe. When Grayson remained mute, he tried again. ‘Don’t tell me, she’s given you the heave-ho. Well, what do you know?’
‘What do you know?’ Grayson asked belligerently.
Bertie leaned against the sludge-coloured wall, one hand opening a box of matches and the other waggling his pipe at Grayson. ‘Only that you’ve been chasing a dream, old man, and one that was bound to end in disaster.’
Grayson’s shoulders hunched. He didn’t need this, particularly from a man who’d only ever felt love for himself.
‘I told you,’ Bertie went on unwisely, ‘it’s never a good thing to venture too far out of your circle. I’m sure this Dora—’
‘Daisy,’ he snarled.
‘This Daisy, then, is a nice enough girl, a good-looker too no doubt, but she’s not right for you. Never has been.’
‘Would you care to elaborate?’ Grayson’s tone suggested this was unlikely to be a sensible thing to do.
‘I tried to tell you weeks ago. When she swanned into
your life again but you were so puffed with excitement at meeting her, you wouldn’t listen. You’ve been a crazy man, getting involved in her schemes, risking your career, your future. Madness! If Carmichael hadn’t given you carte blanche, you’d be stuffed good and proper.’
‘But I’ve not been.’
‘Luckily for you. My point is that you could have been. And still might be. And this girl, Daisy, now she’s got what she wanted, is off. I’m right about that?’
When Grayson didn’t answer, Bertie nodded sagely. ‘I thought so. That type of girl always is.’
‘What type of girl?’ His voice was dangerously brittle.
Bertie got up from his desk and strolled across to his colleague. ‘It’s not her fault that she’s used you.’ His voice oozed unwanted sympathy. ‘That’s how her sort operate. Let’s be frank, old man, she’s not your class. She wouldn’t fit in. You’d never be able to take her home to Mother, would you?’
‘You talk bullshit, Sandford. And you’re a raging snob.’
‘I’m just being realistic. Think about your home, your school, your career. It’s not exactly on a par with hers, is it?’
Grayson had never given it much thought. Up until now it hadn’t mattered. Now suddenly it did. Was Sandford right? That he and Daisy were so far apart they could never make a good future together?
The thought stirred him to anger. ‘What the hell has my background got to do with anything?’ He jumped up from his desk and started across the room.
Seeing the normally cool Grayson striding in his direction, a murderous expression on his face, Bertie abandoned his indolence. Hurriedly, he began to back out of the open doorway and cannoned into the man who was just then coming into the room.
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