She wasn’t stuck up, like Mrs Wyatt or that woman yesterday. And she lived alone, apart from two small children.
Nancy fried cod for their meal that night. On Wednesday afternoons a mobile fishmonger parked in the church square, and mothers collecting their children from school would call at the sea-green van, with its name, The Lobster, painted on the side. Nancy would go out as soon as it drew up, when there wasn’t a queue, and be back in time for the two o’clock opening of the shop. Wednesday afternoons were seldom busy, as the other shops were closed, and she was able to polish the silver and do whatever else in the way of cleaning was required, apart from the floor, which she did after locking the door at five thirty. Ronald would come for her soon after that, his visits done and specialist sales concluded with other dealers.
Tonight he was not hungry, and had a struggle to finish his fish. He did not want to upset her by leaving it.
‘Not out of sorts, are you, dear?’ Nancy frowned, remembering he had not looked himself that morning.
‘No, no. I’ve got a bit of a headache, as a matter of fact,’ said Ronald.
‘I hope you haven’t caught a cold.’ He might have, at yesterday’s sale; he’d seemed tired when he came home, and had less to say about it than usual. ‘Better gargle tonight,’ she told him. If Ronald fell sick, the business would suffer for, though she could manage the shop, she couldn’t get round the dealers, and that was how money was made.
While she was washing up, he went into the workroom where, among other things at varying stages of repair, there was a lustre jug Mrs Wyatt might like. Its handle needed rebuilding but Nancy would make it like new. He picked it up, suddenly wanting to hurl it across the room and smash it into tiny fragments. But he set it down again, the impulse suppressed; an act of such violence cost money, and would have to be explained in some way to Nancy as an accident.
Women were such cheats. Those girls in the magazines, spread out so shamelessly, would clamp their legs together and say no, like Nancy, if you met one of them and tried to touch her. Dorothea Wyatt hadn’t, but she’d been drunk. He pictured her lying on her big, soft bed. Felicity Cartwright, in her neat Fletcham house the evening before, had sprawled on the settee, trousered legs stretched out. Valerie Turner had exposed bare, soft arms; she had wide hips in shrunken, faded jeans. They were cheats, all of them, blatantly setting out to seduce and then crying ‘Hands off!’ All women were the same, even little Lynn in her orlon sweater and pleated skirt, promising all sorts of things to young Peter and leading him on, and then when he couldn’t hold back any more she’d cry ‘No.’ Maybe they’d let you, once or twice, but that was only to gain power; that was what they wanted – power over you, the man.
Valerie Turner would be working in her garage now. She’d be finishing that chest, sanding it down, the stripping done. She’d be dressed in that sagging old sweater she always wore; he could swear she hadn’t a stitch underneath.
Ronald went into the kitchen. Nancy was putting away the last spoon. She never let Ronald help her; she didn’t like to see a man with a tea towel in his hand.
‘Would you mind if I went for a little spin in the van, dear?’ he asked. ‘It might clear my head.’
She might offer to come with him. He almost hoped she would.
‘Oh, do you think that’s wise? Wouldn’t an early night and a couple of aspirins be a better idea?’ said Nancy. ‘Poor dear, is it bad?’
‘Just a nasty throb,’ said Ronald, and it was true. What had been an excuse had become fact – his head was pounding.
‘Well, wrap up well,’ said Nancy. ‘And don’t be long.’
‘I won’t,’ said Ronald.
He went into the bathroom and washed his hands very carefully. In the bedroom, he looked among his clothes, and took out a woollen scarf and the balaclava helmet Nancy had knitted for him to wear in the garden when it was very cold. It was dark purple, almost black. He removed his shirt and tie and put the shirt in the linen basket. Then he pulled on a black roll-neck sweater and replaced his corduroy jacket. He wore the scarf but he pushed the helmet inside the jacket, against his body.
‘Just off, dear,’ he called in the hall. She might still come.
But Nancy had some ironing to do. Ten minutes later Ronald was in Crowbury.
Valerie had read to Timmy and Melissa after their baths, and answered demands for an extra kiss. She had refused biscuits or sweets in bed because the children had cleaned their teeth. At last they settled, and she did the day’s washing-up, watched by Truffles the spaniel from his basket.
She must finish that chest for Ronald Trimm. He was coming to collect it next day. If she went on being late with things, he’d stop bringing them. The work was satisfying in that the pieces of furniture looked good when she had done them; she liked to see them, pale and gleaming, and run her hand over the smooth, sanded wood. At first she’d sandpapered them by hand, but now she had an electric sander which, in her own view anyway, gave a more even finish. She liked that part. What she didn’t enjoy so much was daubing them with stripper, scraping off curling paint, rubbing with wire wool after washing the pieces down with methylated spirit. It all smelled a great deal, and there were piles of waste which had to be disposed of carefully because they would so easily catch fire. She wrapped them up, first in newspaper and then in polythene bags, and the dustmen removed them with her other garbage. She was afraid of bonfires, with the thatch, though she cautiously burned garden rubbish on still days, water handy in a can and bucket.
What she would really like to do that evening would be to watch an undemanding programme on the television and perhaps be made to laugh by some cheerful character on the screen. She shouldn’t be working for Ronald at all; if she had any true initiative, she would seek out these tatty bits of furniture herself, and sell them for her own profit when she’d tarted them up, not someone else’s. But she had no transport to go and find them in, nor any spare cash to invest in making such purchases.
She rented the cottage from Bob Mount of Fell Farm, further along the lane. He’d had the thatch mended but, when the cold water cistern began to leak, it was her responsibility to pay for a replacement. There was always some expense, from shoes for the children to a new element for the electric kettle. Bob was very good; he’d let her have logs from diseased elms cut down on the farm at a very cheap rate, and the rent was, by current standards, not excessive, but he wasn’t a charity and she didn’t expect special consideration. Other women were in a much worse plight than she was; Nigel at least paid something for the children.
On cold winter nights, like this one, with an empty purse and the thought of difficult years stretching ahead until the children were grown up, Valerie could be reduced easily to tears. But, when the weather was good and the children well and cheerful, she was often happy. The ship she sailed was small and patched, but it was her own. She no longer had to pose as the sophisticated wife of a sharp executive on his rapid way to the top. No longer need she try to keep her weight down while giving smart dinner parties for people Nigel was eager to know. He had found the right sort of wife the second time round, one who would enjoy administering the material possessions he was steadily acquiring – the large house with the two-acre garden and swimming pool, and the kitchen straight out of a magazine, according to Melissa. He’d end up as chairman of the company.
With all this, it was a great pity he didn’t hand on more to her. How could she have a well-paid job herself, when she had to be at home for the children? She wouldn’t turn them into latch-key kids. His payments were often late, as well as meagre; she suspected she had been outsmarted over the arrangements.
Timmy and Melissa enjoyed visiting their father. They liked the big garden and the swimming pool, and they seemed quite fond of their father’s new children, twin boys. Perhaps, one day, they would find the contrast too great, and prefer the splendours of Sunningdale to the simplicities of Crowbury.
Sighing, she went to the garage. Truffles raised h
is head as she passed his basket, gave a wag of his tail, and decided to stay where he was.
‘Sensible fellow,’ she told him.
Her father had given her the sander. At first she’d run it from an extension lead plugged into the kitchen but, as the days grew shorter, she had had to have the garage wired. Bob Mount had made no objection. His wife, Pearl, and Valerie had grown quite friendly through meeting at the school, and the children played together sometimes now. Pearl often picked Timmy and Melissa up in the mornings, and Valerie tried to repay this kindness by collecting all of them some afternoons. You got prickly, she had noticed, about accepting benefits when it was difficult to make some return.
A single powerful bulb hung on a flex from the tiled roof of the garage. The chests, cupboards and chairs waiting for Valerie’s attention stood about, casting shadows. Valerie had her back turned to the door, the noisy sander in both hands, pressing it on the top of the chest she was finishing, moving it round and round, the fine dust flying.
Standing outside, he could hear the noise. Carefully, gingerly, he lifted the latch and pulled the door towards him. He peered round and saw her, her arms moving, her legs braced a little apart, quite unaware. He stepped inside and closed the door.
He’d pulled the chin part of the balaclava up over the lower part of his face, the brow bit down to his eyes. Then he’d wound the scarf round even his nose. His corduroy jacket was in the van which was parked off the road in a copse down the lane. This one was going to say yes, and no mistake. He’d stopped at the shop on the way and collected a large folding knife with a bone handle which he kept in his desk for odd tasks like cutting twine. The knife was in his hand now, the blade exposed. He’d given no thought at all to what would happen afterwards; he was intent upon just one thing – getting hold of the girl.
Screaming wouldn’t help her, Ronald thought exultantly, with the sander making such a din. He needn’t try to stop her mouth. He wanted both his hands.
Valerie felt heart-stopping terror as sudden pressure on her shoulder forced her down over the chest, the sander jerking away from her and crashing to the ground. She drew breath to scream, and saw a knife held before her face. She tried to twist away and to kick out at her attacker, but the man stood up against her, stronger, by far, than she was.
She heard the sander whirring on through all that happened as she fought and struggled; she could see it on the floor when she stopped resisting because he threatened to hurt the children.
7
It was all over very quickly. When he had gone, leaving the garage doors open to the night and the cold air, Valerie could not move. She thought she was literally going to die of fright as her heart pounded and fluttered and then thudded in her ears. The sander was still whirring away, lying on the floor, and at last she managed to make the effort to reach the switch and turn it off. Her mind fixed on a single thought – the children. The cottage was unlocked; he could have gone in there first, before attacking her. Truffles was more likely to have greeted him with a wagging tail than fierce snarls.
He’d torn her jeans. Clutching them round her, arms across her belly, she staggered into the cottage and stumbled upstairs to the children’s rooms. But they were safe, asleep. Melissa clasped her ancient teddy and was surrounded by her animal family; Timmy had a small fire engine tucked against his cheek.
Valerie had been too shocked to weep, but now tears filled her eyes as the agonising terror she had felt began to subside. She blinked them back and blundered across the landing into the bathroom and sat on the lavatory, rocking to and fro and moaning to herself. Then she remembered that the cottage was unlocked; he might return. Somehow she dragged herself to her feet and, clutching the wall at the side of the stairs, groped her way down again. She thrust home the bolts at the front and the back doors. She was trembling now, her teeth chattering. Her throat tightened with nausea and, leaning over the kitchen sink, she vomited up her supper.
She stood upright at last, and her gaze fell on the automatic clock on the electric cooker. She felt as though hours had passed, but it was still only half-past eight.
She shivered with shock, her body cold, dirty.
Who would help her? What should she do?
The police, she thought. They must be told. But the cottage was not on the telephone and to ring them she must walk either to Fell Farm, or up the village to the box in the High Street. He might be lurking in the lane, waiting to pounce again. She couldn’t do it. Anyway, she couldn’t leave the children.
When at last it seemed that the sickness had passed, she struggled upstairs again and into the bathroom, where she turned on the hot tap and poured into the bath all that was left of a bottle of Dettol. As the water ran, she pulled off her clothes and left them where they lay on the floor, climbing into the bath while it filled. Fiercely she scrubbed herself, every crevice and cranny. When that was done, she ran the water out and refilled the bath until it ran cold, then washed again, and this time submerged her head and washed her hair. She was sure she would never feel clean again.
The shivering had eased with the warmth, but now, as the water cooled, it began again, and she got out and began to dry her poor violated body. She still moaned softly to herself. She hurt.
Slowly she dressed in fresh clothes, loose old wool trousers and another worn sweater. She went on uttering small moans, her body bent over like an old woman’s. She combed her wet hair, then went downstairs. Truffles came to sniff at her legs and she patted him absently. The fire in the sitting room was almost out, but there were dry logs stacked in the hearth and she knelt before it, building it up, coaxing it back to life with the bellows, while Truffles lay down nearby. His company was consoling. When the fire was going, she pulled up her chair and lowered herself gingerly into it. She still felt cold, so she got up again and put on her padded anorak.
Brandy for shock, she thought vaguely. She’d bought a small bottle, because she was afraid of her father having another heart attack when he was visiting them. She poured some of it into a glass, and as she sipped it she began to feel steadier.
For a long time she sat there by the fire, getting up now and then to add a log. Whom could she turn to? What should be done? Oddly, she thought of Nigel, but he would not want to hear her troubles in the morning when he was at the office and negotiating, no doubt, a major deal. She could never tell her parents.
The police, she thought again. They’d have to know. But he hadn’t killed her. The initial soreness was easing and she did not think she had been really damaged physically. That part was over very fast; terrified though she was, she had realised that it was very brief.
In the morning she had to catch the bus to visit her parents as soon as the children had gone to school; if she cancelled the visit, her parents would need an explanation. The police would have to wait.
She went upstairs and collected the clothes she had been wearing when it happened. She dropped them on the fire where, with a great deal of smoke and an acrid smell, she succeeded in burning them, except for the metal zip from her jeans. Then she scrubbed the bathroom floor where they had lain. After that she fetched the quilt from her bed, stoked up the fire again, and sat in the chair once more with the quilt over her knees.
Towards dawn, she wept, bitterly.
Ronald was only out a little over an hour and, when he returned, Nancy was pleased to see that he seemed brighter.
She made some tea later, before they went to bed, and he ate a digestive biscuit. He’d just driven around, he said, and his head had cleared.
He fell asleep within a few minutes of getting into bed. Nancy heard his heavy peaceful breathing, and rolled over herself, in her long-sleeved brushed-nylon nightgown, with her hair skewered under a shiny green net.
The next morning, Ronald felt marvellous. He whistled as he opened the garage, though it was raining and cold. He was in time to catch Lynn before she reached the bus stop on the corner; he often picked her up and gave her a lift to school. She sat besi
de him, chatting away.
‘Seeing that boyfriend of yours tonight, are you?’ he asked her genially.
‘I see him every day at school,’ she said. ‘You know that.’
‘What’s he going to do when he leaves?’ asked Ronald.
‘He wants to be an engineer,’ said Lynn. ‘He’s good at that sort of thing – mechanical things. He’s doing the lighting for the play. We’ve got a rehearsal tonight.’
‘Oh, so you’ll be late home, then?’
‘Not very, Uncle Ron,’ said Lynn.
‘How will engineering go with your artistic plans?’ Ronald asked. ‘Bit different, isn’t it?’
‘Oh, goodness, I don’t know!’ Lynn was laughing. ‘Peter and I may hate each other in a few years. Who knows? I hope we don’t,’ she added. ‘Only it happens, doesn’t it?’
‘I suppose it does,’ agreed Ronald. ‘Your Auntie Nancy and I have been very lucky. And your mother and father, too, of course.’
‘Yes.’ Marriage was weird, Lynn thought; fancy living with the same person for twenty years! Even for fifty, maybe! She couldn’t imagine how one faced the prospect.
Ronald dropped her outside the school gate and watched her join a group of young people walking through. She wore thick navy knee-length socks over her tights; she was very slim. That girl last night was plump; she had felt soft. That part had been nice.
Driving on to Crowbury, he wondered briefly what she would have done after he left. Had she told the police? The thought gave him some uneasiness, but there was nothing that could lead them to him. The knife was under the seat of the van, with the balaclava and scarf. He hadn’t worn gloves, but he’d touched nothing; only the girl’s clothes and her body. He’d used the point of the knife to unlatch the door and ease it open. His prints would anyway be legitimately in the garage, because he went there regularly. There was nothing to fear.
Hand of Death Page 6
