The Girl at My Door: An utterly gripping mystery thriller based on a true crime

by Rebecca Griffiths

  19

  ‘That’s it, lass, you relax for me… just breathe.’ He pressed the mask down over her face with his right hand, used his other to pull the stocking from his pocket. ‘Breathe nice and deeply,’ he clucked around her. ‘Silly girl, aren’t you, getting yourself in trouble like this. I’d say it’s a good job I’m here to help you out.’

  He fiddled with a length of rubber tubing he kept concealed behind a grubby flap of curtain. Then a hiss of gas as he adjusted the bulldog clip and opened the tap.

  ‘It smells a bit funny, Mr Christie.’

  ‘Well, it will do, lass. It means it’s working. Are you feeling sleepy?’

  ‘Yes, a bit.’

  ‘That’s good… you’ll drift off in a minute. Keep breathing, we want you nice and sleepy, don’t we? There, lass,’ he soothed. ‘You’re doing ever so well… nowt for you to fret about.’

  ‘I don’t know if I want to do this.’ Her muffled distress as she tried to pull the mask off. ‘I don’t like it, I don’t… I want to stop. I’ve changed my mind.’

  ‘Stop being silly. You’ve to trust me. Now relax.’ The mask was forced back over her mouth and nose. ‘That’s it… just breathe. That’s it. Breathe. It won’t hurt… I won’t hurt you.’

  ‘No, please, I want you to stop… Get off. Get that thing off me.’ She thrashed her arms and scrabbled to push free of the mask, to get out of the rope chair.

  ‘Stay still, you dirty bitch. I bet you used to be all cocky and aloof, didn’t you? Aye, I know your type. Before your belly was bulging and tongues started wagging. You bloody want it, and I’m going to bloody well give it to you.’

  And as she opened her mouth to scream, he drove his fist full into her face.

  20

  Tuesday. Mid-August. The Mockin’ Bird was closed for the night and Queenie, preening herself all day for this evening’s outing, told Terrence that she, Joy and Charles would meet him at the Blue Note Bar in Soho at eight. Calling for Joy and Charles in Bayswater, the maid, Dorothy, opened the door and instructed her to wait in the hall. Absorbed in what she could see of her face in an oval mirror, Queenie was applying fresh dabs of Californian Poppy to her décolletage when the sound of voices drifted down the stairwell. Animated. Insistent. Enough to make her shut her bag and edge up the stairs, in time to see Heloise Gilchrist pacing the landing. Her hands clasped before her like an expectant father, the puffball dog weaving between her ankles.

  ‘Is anything the matter?’

  ‘Oh, it’s you. You were told to wait in the hall.’ Heloise scooped the dog in her arms.

  ‘I heard raised voices.’

  ‘Did you now? Well, it’s Joy. She’s not feeling well. She says she’s not up for going out this evening.’

  ‘That’s a shame. What’s wrong with her, poor thing? Where is she?’

  ‘She’s having a lie down. But, please,’ a restraining hand was placed on Queenie’s arm, ‘that scent you’re wearing. What is it? I’ve noticed it on you before. It’s awfully strong. The poor girl’s feeling nauseous as it is.’

  ‘My scent? Oh, for God’s sake.’ Close to losing her temper with this woman, she pushed past and leant around the door. Found a pale-faced Joy propped on a throne of cushions. Queenie adjusted her diaphanous shawl, its embossed butterflies threatening to flutter free of her shoulders.

  ‘Queenie.’ Joy gulped her greeting. ‘You look beautiful. Doesn’t she look beautiful, Charles?’

  Charles was perched on the end of the bed, his back to the door. He twisted to face her, then returned to Joy to nod his appreciation. How dishy he looked in his dinner suit and glacé shoes. The sight of him made Queenie clean forget to ask Joy what was wrong.

  ‘I hope she’ll be better by tomorrow; she’s meeting her mother for lunch.’

  ‘Sylvie’s coming to London?’ Queenie raised her eyebrows to Heloise.

  ‘I’ll be fine. I just need an early night.’ Joy lifted a hand to her fiancé’s face. ‘I can’t wait for Maman to meet Charles.’

  ‘If he can get away from the office. He’s a meeting with the African contingency he needs to prepare for.’

  ‘Yes, but that’s not until late afternoon,’ Charles reminded his mother.

  ‘And we’ll be finished with Maman by two.’

  ‘Two?’ Heloise spluttered. ‘But she’s coming all the way from Arras?’

  ‘She’s not stopping in London, she’s off to Essex in the evening.’

  ‘Essex?’

  ‘Queenie’s grandparents live there.’

  ‘She’s seeing them but not me?’ An indignant wiggle. ‘How come she knows them?’

  ‘From before the war. It’s how Queenie and I met.’

  ‘Has Joy told you much about Sylvie?’ Queenie asked Heloise.

  ‘No. I’ve said she’s to bring her to tea. I’d like to meet her.’

  A mirthless laugh. ‘You wouldn’t want to meet her, trust me.’

  ‘Anyway, enough of all that.’ Heloise, cuddling her dog. ‘Joy’s been telling us she still wants you and Charles to go out tonight. Is that what you’d like?’ The tone, accusatory.

  Queenie returned her stare. ‘I don’t mind.’

  ‘Charles?’ Heloise prompted him. The chill of her stare boring holes between Queenie’s shoulder blades.

  ‘It’s only for a couple of hours, my love.’ Casual, stroking Joy’s wrist. ‘Just to check out this new drummer.’

  ‘Yes, you must go,’ Joy chirruped. ‘You’re all dressed up now.’

  Charles turned to look at Queenie again. Properly this time. A slow, protracted look as he pulled on his cigarette, his eyes cruising the length of her: forehead to neck, over the swell of her hips and down her thighs. Queenie felt he could see every inch of what she was, and the flowing material of her dress no more covered her than water. She fiddled with the string of glass beads around her neck and, in the way a woman might let a lover, in the tingling moments before allowing him to touch her, she let him drink her in. It was the most erotic of sensations, standing there, wanting him to touch her; quivering in anticipation. The intensity was enough to make her stumble backwards.

  ‘Are you feeling unwell?’ Heloise was on to her. ‘You’re not coming down with what Joy’s got?’

  Queenie righted herself and tightened her shawl. ‘What Joy’s got?’ She eyed Charles again. ‘No, I haven’t got what Joy’s got.’

  * * *

  Malcolm wasn’t there to meet Terrence from the train. Not in the ticket office or the waiting room, with its pre-war décor. Terrence hovered on the platform and heeded the sombre silence, hoping any minute his love would appear, shamefaced and apologetic. But he didn’t and, under the weight of the passing time, doubts flooded his mind. Was Malcolm in trouble? Had he been arrested again?

  Enough pacing, Terrence sat down on a bench, his face the picture of despondency as he watched trains come and go. When were they last in touch? Not long ago. He checked his watch, then the clock on the platform in case his watch had stopped. It was getting late. Malcolm was never usually kept back at work, so where was he? Had he changed his mind? Terrence slumped against the bench, felt its wooden skeleton press against his own.

  ‘Everything all right, sir?’

  A man in a blue jacket with dusty hair was standing beside him. Terrence hadn’t noticed his approach.

  ‘It’s just that, well…’ Obviously station staff, the man blew his nose on a handkerchief pulled from a pocket of his uniform. ‘I couldn’t help noticing you’ve been sat here for some time.’ His complexion washed out by the fading day. ‘D’you need a cab or a bus? Cos there’s a taxi rank out front. I can show you if you like?’

  Terrence gave a small smile. ‘Thanks, but I’m waiting for someone.’

  The man didn’t budge, his gaze intensifying.

  ‘It’s not a problem if I wait here?’ Terrence, feeling the need to ask permission.

  ‘A girlfriend, is it, sir?’ He shifted around inside his uniform. ‘The
person you’re meeting?’

  ‘No, just a friend.’

  ‘A friend, eh?’ He winked.

  ‘Not to worry, I can meet…’ Terrence began, but the man had sat down beside him. He blinked through a shaft of evening sunlight that fell between them. ‘You’re quite right; I can’t sit here any longer. I’d best get going.’

  A restraining hand was placed on his leg. Terrence gawped at it in shock.

  ‘There’s no need to rush, sir.’ Another wink, creepy this time.

  Terrence slipped to his feet and moved away from him. The ghostly impression of the man’s fingertips still on his thigh. ‘I think you’ve got the wrong idea, mate.’

  ‘You sure about that, sir?’ The stare was unwavering, drilling down to the tormented nub of him.

  ‘Perfectly sure, thank you.’ Terrence, his voice trembling. ‘I have to get going.’

  ‘If you say so, sir.’ The man gave him a strange, lopsided salute. ‘Goodbye. I hope you find your friend.’

  * * *

  Terrence heard his landlady’s voice before he reached the top of the stairs.

  ‘You’ve a visitor, Mr Banks.’

  ‘I have?’

  ‘I said he could wait for you in your room. I hope that was all right?’

  ‘Depends who it is.’

  ‘A dark fella.’ Mrs Spencer slapped a hand to her face that was stained a peculiar yellow by the light in the hall. ‘He looked perfectly nice. Very polite. My Bert gave him the once over… didn’t you, Bert?’ Her husband’s muffled response from their downstairs quarters. ‘Bin in the wars a bit though, ain’t he?’

  Terrence knew immediately who she was talking about and was eager to get to his bed-sitting room. But, as usual, Mrs Spencer wanted to talk.

  ‘We’re not like others round here. Me and Bert don’t mind them West Indian fellas. Not when they’re here to put poor Old Blighty back together again. What d’you say, Mr Banks?’

  ‘I totally agree.’ Terrence, itching to get away.

  ‘I was only sayin’ to Mrs Carter from across the way, I was sayin’, she shouldn’t be discriminatin’ against ’em. I said I’d seen that sign she got up in her winda… “No Blacks, no Irish, no dogs”. That’s not very Christian, is it, Mr Banks?’

  ‘No, it isn’t.’ He was doing his level best to be polite.

  ‘I don’t get along with them people who are suspicious. The Blacks are fine by me, like I said. No, I don’t go along with them nasty names they’ve got for ’em neither. Cos it’s only suspicion that makes ’em behave that way. Taking their jobs? I ask you – I’d like to see them do the sorts of jobs they do.’

  ‘Was there anything else, Mrs Spencer? Only it’s been rather a long day.’ Terrence feigned a yawn, hoping she would get the message.

  ‘Oh, sorry, Mr Banks. There’s me, yabberin’ on. Bert’s always on at me, aren’t you, Bert?’ Another grunt. ‘Only to say, well, how to put it? If this visitor of yours is in a tight spot, me and Bert don’t mind if he stays the night… just the one, mind.’ She raised a finger. ‘Any longer, and I’m not sure it’d go down well with me other tenants, what with the limited facilities, an’ all.’

  ‘That’s very decent of you, Mrs Spencer. Thank you, I’ll let him know.’

  ‘Well, it’s like my Bert says, it’s not like you’ve got a woman up there.’ A forceful cackle. ‘Cos we couldn’t be allowing those kinds of shenanigans under our roof.’

  * * *

  They stood touching hands beside the iron bedstead.

  ‘Mrs Spencer says you can stay the night if you want.’

  ‘She said dat?’ Malcolm shot him a look of disbelief.

  ‘She’s a good sort. Her and her husband. It’s funny,’ Terrence smiled, ‘you being a man turns out to be beneficial for once. She’d never have agreed if you’d been a girl.’

  They laughed.

  ‘Can I really stay?’

  ‘One night.’ Terrence took his cigarettes and lighter from his jacket pocket. Placed them beside the novels by his bed. ‘I wouldn’t push our luck beyond that.’

  He watched Malcolm scan the room. Saw how he took in the mock-gilded mirror, the washstand, the double bed, the tallboy, the pink-and-grey patterned wallpaper that reminded Terrence of the spilled intestines he’d seen during the war.

  ‘Nicer than my gaff.’ Malcolm grinned in a way that suggested he felt safer here than out in the balmy summer evening.

  ‘It’s not bad.’ Terrence looked at him. He wanted to share it with Malcolm forever, until it became a home for them both. ‘Why don’t we look into getting a place where we can both live? Would you like that?’

  ‘Wouldn’t dat be difficult?’ Malcolm’s voice: a deep rumble that began in his boots.

  ‘Not if we were careful. Are you afraid?’

  ‘I’m always afraid, man. But… but dey won’t let us do dat.’ His eyes, expectant as a child’s.

  ‘Why not? We’ve come this far.’

  Terrence looked at the long piece of sticking plaster fixed to Malcolm’s cheekbone. The face beneath, still a little swollen. Terrence lifted his fingers to what remained of the damage but didn’t touch.

  ‘Poor darling.’ He flinched from the memories of that night.

  ‘Wrong place, wrong time.’ A painful smile.

  Terrence was troubled by the vulnerability he found in Malcolm’s eyes. His stint in police custody had changed him.

  ‘I love you. You do know that?’ He lifted Malcolm’s hand to his lips. Kissed it. He smelled of spearmint and aftershave.

  Terrence dropped his gaze to the mauve eiderdown and pillows on the bed. All he wanted was the intimacy others had. The double bed, the sharing, the growing old together. Marriage. Yes, why not? Why couldn’t men who loved each other marry? Because society would rather see you strung up and flogged in the street, that’s why. He counted his own mother among them, and his mother professed to love him. But she loved her religion more, he reminded himself. It was a fantasy to think he and Malcolm could be secure, to live a life that did not require looking over their shoulders. But, oh, to make peace with himself. A faint nostalgia for the dark confessional box and the priest’s voice. For what had been lost, forgotten or rejected. To be made safe from the eternal pain that was surely awaiting him when his time on earth was over. Huh, he thought, flinging his head to the ceiling and coming to his senses – that was the biggest fantasy going.

  The little clock on the tallboy pinged eight and Terrence, mindful that morning was just a few hours away, pressed his mouth against Malcolm’s with an urgency like never before. They had to live, live for the moment; it was all they were guaranteed. Tasting the sweetness of him, he shut his eyes against the world. This was heaven. You could keep your puritanical God if this was a sin.

  ‘Oh, hell, I was supposed to be checking out that drummer tonight.’ He pulled away, suddenly remembering.

  ‘You go. I’m not in de mood. And us out together in de street?’ Malcolm sucked air in through his teeth.

  ‘Queenie’s going to be there, she’d love to meet you.’

  Malcolm shook his head. ‘It ain’t safe, man. I know you tink you can trust her but…’

  ‘Don’t worry.’ Terrence squeezed his hand. ‘We don’t have to go. I’d rather stay here. With you.’

  ‘And dat double bed.’ Malcolm whistled his appreciation. ‘We ain’t never had no double bed before.’

  * * *

  The Blue Note Bar in Soho was a twenty-minute taxicab ride from his mother’s house in Bayswater. By the time Queenie and Charles arrived – without his cane for a change – the party was in full swing. Deep underground and jam-packed with young men in turtleneck sweaters and girls in cocktail dresses and pointy heels, it was a new experience. But where was Terrence? He’d been going on about this drummer for weeks. Queenie scanned the stone walls and vaulted ceiling running with condensation, but there was no sign of him. Charles, meanwhile, enquired about their reservation and they were ushered t
o a table near the stage, where the loud freeform rhythm of the instrumental band – the gambol of the piano, the alarm call of brass, woodwind and drums – made conversation near impossible.

  Queenie made a point of listening to the drummer. He was good. Easily as good as Buster, in the days Buster was sober enough to keep the beat. She could see why Terrence was interested in him: he looked just his type in his natty suit and beaming smile. Toes tapping to the rhythm, she sipped the whisky macs Charles had bought her. The more she drank the less she cared about Terrence. It was great here. The lively crowd, the vibrancy. Americans had a word for it. Groovy, that was it. She was going to have to swot up on slang like that before going there.

  Queenie gave up trying to keep the shawl in place and let it slip from her shoulders, delighting in the way her skin took on the blush of the rosy-coloured table lamp. The Mockin’ had lamps, but not like these. These turned each table into a mini spotlit stage. All you saw were hands. Moving in and out of cigarette packets, lifting tumblers, jewellery twinkling on fingers and wrists. Nothing of the individuals they were attached to. Whoever they were, they dissolved into the tobacco smoke. It created an intimate, illicit, clandestine feel. A sense of danger. Nothing like the club where Queenie sang. Compared to the Blue Note, the Mockin’ Bird seemed more of an old boy’s club with its blatant cronyism and private members’ policy.

  ‘Can I dance with you?’

  The vibration of Charles’s request found the delicate edges of her ear and surged through her like electricity. Already charged by the alcohol, she drained her tumbler and watched – as if this was something happening to someone else entirely – him lift her hand and lead her to the dance floor. They held each other close. Him positioning her. She could feel the power of him as he pressed her close to his chest, iron-hot and steaming through the sleek material of her dress. Shoulders, chest, hips, knees. The hardness of his thighs. The hardness of him. Her legs buckled beneath her, forcing her to cling tighter.