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

by Rebecca Griffiths

  26

  ‘Hey, Christie. You seen that new girl Albert’s got in for us? Marie, her name is. Supposed to come from Liverpool. Right dolly bird, real special. Yeah, reckon I’ll be samplin’ a bit of ’er before long…’

  He could barely be bothered to engage with what his accidental drinking partner was saying. Having wandered along to Soho to seek out his usual haunt, he’d found Albert’s Cavern was heaving and, standing up at the bar, sipping his half of mild, he was more interested in observing the people around him.

  That rather dapper homosexual was here again, the one with the sandy hair who dressed like a banker. Canoodling with his black boyfriend against the wall by the side of the door.

  ‘Filthy buggers.’ He muttered his disgust under his breath, and yet he was unable to peel his eyes away. ‘God, they are revolting – do they have no shame?’ He should have a word with Albert; the place was crawling with them, it really wasn’t acceptable. Professing to hate these men, they stirred something inside him he didn’t understand; something he wasn’t sure he wanted to.

  ‘… Albert’s got ’er in to replace that Doreen.’ The man beside him was still wittering on. ‘You used to like Doreen, didn’t ya? Yeah, thought so. But she’s gone and got ’erself a bun in the oven though, ain’t she? Shame, cos I liked ’er ’n all. But you can’t be livin’ a tart’s life if you’re in the family way, can ya?’

  Christie moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue and, turning away from the banker and his boyfriend, treated himself to a long, leisurely look at the pretty young prostitute in feather boa and black stockings. He liked the look of her too, not that he would admit it. He didn’t like the types who frequented the Cavern; he saw himself as a cut above and made sure to set himself apart. ‘I don’t know how many times I’ve told Albert he’s to send them to me,’ he answered, at last.

  ‘Send ’em to you. What you on about?’

  ‘Well, I can help them out in that department, can’t I?’ He removed his hat and rubbed a hand over his bald, domed pate.

  ‘Yeah?’ The man paused, then frowned. ‘Oh yeah, that’s right. I heard about you. Is that why they call you the Doc?’

  ‘I’m not one to brag, but aye, I’ve been medically trained.’ A sly smile. ‘Suffice to say I’ve helped a good few of them out in my time. These girls, well, they see me as their saviour when they get themselves into trouble like they’ve a habit of doing – I can do owt I like with them… putty in my hands they are.’ The Yorkshire accent trailed off, only to circle back again. ‘They come to my house in Notting Hill, you know. My wife’s very good about it, she likes helping out in her way. Oh, aye.’ A self-satisfied sigh. ‘Them needing my help when they’re desperate like that, well, it makes me feel—’ He broke off to consider how it made him feel when he had a woman helpless in his rope chair, breathing gas through the mask he pressed down over her face; how it felt to render her unconscious, then strip off her clothes and have intercourse with her lifeless body before strangling her; how it felt to look down on the body afterwards… so quiet, so serene, so still. He knew how it felt, right enough, it was why he needed to do it time and again. Because only when the power shifted from them to him could he quell his crippling inadequacies, the bitterness and humiliation his fear of women caused in him – these were the only times in his life he could feel like a proper man. ‘It makes me feel…’ He cleared his throat to finish what he’d been about to say. ‘Like I’m giving something back to community. You know, doing community a favour. Because there’s enough unwanted little ones in world, wouldn’t you say? Oh, aye.’ Pleased with himself. ‘I like to think I’m rather kind like that.’

  27

  Amid the indelible shadows thrown like ink stains over the offices of F. Lambert & Co, Terrence lifted his cup to his mouth and curled his lip against the cold film that had formed over his coffee. He looked away from the ships and fish he’d been doodling in the margins of his ledger and stared into a series of lithographs of Victorian London that hung on the wall beside his desk. Something in the dark outline of Trafalgar Square, with its pigeons and lions, made him think of Queenie. No joke what she had asked him for. It had been bothering him all day. Another thing that had been bothering him was the possibility she had deliberately set out to destroy Joy and Charles’s happiness. But surely not, he challenged himself – he couldn’t be friends with someone who was capable of doing such a dreadful thing, and was determined to banish the thought.

  Extinguishing what remained of his cigarette, he swivelled his chair to look out the window. To the great-domed view of St Paul’s. A dray laden with barrels clopped by. Already the slant of the early evening sun had crossed the roofs of the opposite buildings. He stroked the dark varnished wood of his desk. His fingertips travelling the ridges and scratches that told tales on past employees who, like him, would have sat staring out through the same windows onto a street that had remained unchanged for centuries. Fleet Street. His mother hadn’t been able to get over it when he’d told her he’d been offered the job on the spot. ‘My son,’ he heard her boast to neighbours and friends, ‘he’s hit the big time.’ But his job at the bank wasn’t what Terrence was proud of. This was just a means to an end, a way to keep the wolf from the door. What he loved, what he had a talent and flair for, was the piano, not numbers and money-counting. Playing on stage with the band was the only thing, apart from Malcolm, that made life worthwhile. Performing at the Mockin’ Bird was a cloak he could wear to hide the true shabbiness of himself.

  The clock struck five. Terrence closed the ledger and arranged his desk in readiness for the morning. Put on his coat and homburg and with a polite ‘Good evening’ to his smattering of colleagues – men he had never discussed more than the weather with – he left the building.

  Striding down the grey street, keeping pace with the wind as it went on its exuberant journey, Terrence stared at the sea of grey suits and hats spilling out of buildings onto the pavement. The wave upon wave of faceless men, of which he was one. A sinuous mass, cascading down into the mouth of the Underground. London meant living in the footprints of war. Holes where a V-2 had hit or a bomb had landed. Half of the city where he lived and worked was still rubble. Nobody had worked out what to do. Apparently, Attlee’s government – Terrence followed the editorials in the newspapers – didn’t know where to start. Everywhere looked tired and scruffy: even this supposedly smart part of town had been smirched by war. It was another reason the Mockin’ Bird appealed to him. It was a sanctuary, a place he could forget himself and the losses that had touched and changed the lives of everyone he knew. At the club, he could forget the part of himself that had been broken and would probably never be put back together again. He thought of Uncle Fish, a man Queenie joked about looking like Humpty Dumpty who, losing both sons in the war, couldn’t quite be put back together again either. Did Terrence want to be involved in terminating the new life that Queenie had growing inside her? Surely new life meant hope, and hope was in short supply these days. He should ask her to marry him. They could help each other out. It would take the heat off him. He would talk to her, try and make her see sense. He could bring the child up as his, it wouldn’t be so bad. They were friends, weren’t they? He loved her like a sister… it might work. He’d always hoped to one day be a father and this could be his chance.

  * * *

  Later. Terrence was drinking in his usual sleazy backstreet bar. Driven to his hole like a hunted animal, he had gazed back on the bright and breezy world he could never truly belong to before pushing in through the anonymous black door. In the hole was murder, copulation, poverty, infidelity and sin – and he was part of it whether he liked it or not. Malcolm was with him, and others they knew. Smoking and drinking, playing backgammon, they could relax here. People knew them, accepted them as a couple, and there was some comfort in that. This may be one seedy joint, where the majority was unsavoury and of dubious character, but they were at least reasonably safe to be themselves among
the prostitutes, the petty criminals and other homosexuals. Although the fear of reprisals and the heavy hand of the law and the social disgrace that would follow if they were discovered was never far away.

  ‘I’ll go get the drinks in.’ Terrence sprang to his feet. ‘Another for you?’

  A nod from Malcolm and he wandered to the bar. While he waited to be served, he scanned the blood-coloured walls. Decorated with frescoes of nymphs twirling in moonlight, they spun him back to Bologna and one of the last battles of the Italian Campaign. When he, along with some of his troop, sought refuge from the enemy inside the Basilica of San Petronio in much the same way he hid from the enemy by coming here. This was just as colourful and distinctive a venue, albeit a little vulgar with its dubious activities on the floor below. Not that Terrence needed to concern himself with Albert’s basement, which, so the rumours went, had the fiery feeling of hell. He glanced over at the row of prostitutes lined up for trade. The girls with bruised looks and sorrowful eyes who, after sharing drinks with scores of shifty men, were led away downstairs.

  ‘Terry, my dear, what can I get you?’

  Piggy eyes, puffy face. Albert’s big body was draped in its usual velvet. Up close he smelled stale. His breath bad. Terrence put a discreet hand to his nose and reeled off his drink order.

  ‘Can I have a word?’

  ‘Fire away, dear heart.’ Albert poured and arranged the glasses into a line along the bar. Terrence tried not to look at the man’s filthy nails.

  ‘You know everyone there is to know.’ He was unsure, now he’d started down this route, if he should keep going. Ideally, he’d have preferred to talk to Queenie first. Share his idea about her marrying him and keeping the baby. But ultimately it was her decision, and she had asked him to find her the name of someone who could help. So that’s what he had to do. ‘I… I… erm…’ He looked around to check no one was listening, then beckoned Albert to a quiet corner of the bar.

  ‘Spit it out, dear boy.’

  ‘A friend of mine, a woman—’ Terrence, still looking around him, handed over the necessary money and scooped the glasses to one side. ‘She’s gone and got herself into a spot of trouble.’

  ‘Trouble, eh?’ Albert’s hand made an exaggerated curve over his stomach. ‘That sort, you mean?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’ Terrence, awkward, heaved down air before plunging in with his question. ‘You don’t know anyone who could, erm, perhaps… you know, help her out, do you?’

  ‘Help her out?’ Albert took the request and leant further in. Terrence, trying not to recoil from his breath, watched him consider this as he cleaned his nails on the corner of a matchbox. The grubby crescent moons floating to the counter. ‘As a matter of fact, I think I just might. It’s interesting you coming here tonight and asking me this.’ Albert stopped cleaning his nails and began stroking his beard that had been braided into a long single plait.

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Yes, very interesting. You see…’ Albert began, then took a breath, enjoying the power Terrence’s need gave him. ‘There’s this quiet, well-educated fellow. People look up to him, they say he’s medically trained. They call him the Doc.’ Terrence opened his mouth to respond and found himself silenced by Albert’s heavy hand on his sleeve. ‘They say,’ a dramatic sigh, ‘he knows how to help young women in trouble, just like your friend is. He claims to have helped them out in the past.’

  ‘Is he decent? I mean…’ Terrence fumbled around for what he wanted to say. ‘I know what we’re talking is risky, but will my friend be safe?’

  ‘I should say so.’ The nodded guarantee as the kohl-dirty eyes raked over him. ‘They say he’s rather genteel, as a matter of fact. Very neatly dressed,’ Albert added with a flourish. ‘Oh, yes, quite the ladies’ man, by all accounts, and very well respected.’ Albert leant even closer to Terrence, who in turn tried not to flinch from his smell.

  ‘Have you got his name? His address?’

  ‘Not on me, but I can get it for you. A day or two should do it.’

  ‘That’s great, thanks. You don’t happen to know anyone he’s helped out, do you? Maybe I could talk to them.’

  ‘Silly boy.’ Albert peeled back his lips on his nicotine-stained teeth and gave him a fatherly smile. ‘They aren’t likely to go broadcasting that kind of thing, are they?’

  28

  ‘Shall we go out this morning?’ Joy suggested to Queenie as they breakfasted on charcuterie and cheeses in Heloise Gilchrist’s dining room.

  She noticed Queenie had barely eaten anything and looked a little tired and drawn. Was she still under the weather? She hadn’t been sick again, had she?

  ‘Sounds good to me.’ Queenie sipped her weak black tea and declined the offer of milk.

  Sitting up at the vast dining table and looking out over Hyde Park with its fading trees, Joy doubted she would ever get used to being here. She was watching a lone white cloud sail over the azure October sky. A leftover from another day, she fancied, losing herself to it. Then something occurred to her. Maybe Queenie didn’t know what to do with the array of cutlery, and that was why she hadn’t eaten much. When Joy had first come here, she hadn’t known what to do with the cutlery either. Until Dorothy. Dear, kindly Dorothy, with her poor red hands, whispered, ‘Start from the outside, miss, and work your way in.’ She should have passed this gem on to her friend before they had sat down to eat.

  ‘You go and enjoy yourselves.’ Heloise, eating very little herself, was feeding strips of ham to the dog in her lap. ‘The wedding planner’s coming to talk table decorations.’ Joy watched her slide her eyes to Queenie, and the look she gave her was cold. ‘Have lunch in Dominique’s on the Strand. My treat. Just mention me, I’ve an account there.’

  ‘Thank you. That sounds lovely.’

  ‘And what are you doing today?’ Joy heard Queenie ask Charles, who seemed to be hiding behind his broadsheet.

  Joy didn’t want to admit it, but things between her and Charles had been strained recently; she put it down to pressures at work.

  ‘Me?’ He lifted his glossy head and rustled his newspaper. ‘Work.’

  ‘Silly me. Just because it’s a Saturday. You men, you don’t stop, do you?’

  Joy identified a twinge of sarcasm in Queenie’s tone but didn’t interfere. She read the front of Charles’s paper instead. Saw how two hundred people had been killed on an express train travelling between Warsaw and Gdańsk. Poor Poland, hadn’t the country suffered enough?

  ‘Do you know, Charles,’ Queenie again, ‘I’ve never thought to ask what it is you actually do?’

  ‘He assists in the running of the family firm. Real estate,’ Heloise interjected as Charles licked a thumb and turned the pages of his newspaper. ‘Don’t you, darling?’ She spread, with minute precision, a smear of butter on a triangle of toast, then bit it in half.

  ‘Indeed, I do.’ Charles folded his paper and laid it over his crumb-speckled plate. ‘And that’s exactly where I should’ve been twenty minutes ago. I’ll see you ladies later.’ He kissed Joy’s cheek then pitched from the room.

  Queenie gave what remained of her query to Heloise. ‘You say Charles assists – are you the person he’s assisting?’

  ‘Me? Work? Stupide. I look after the home. I’ve always looked after the home.’

  Joy wondered if Queenie was thinking about her poor dead mother. Comparing her existence to the privileged life of the woman seated opposite, with her perfect hair and nails. An image of Ellen Osbourne dropped down behind her eyelids. Her hands as they had been when she and Queenie were small. Red and coarse like Dorothy’s: a woman who, up to then, hadn’t reminded Joy of Queenie’s mother at all. Poor Ellen, Joy doubted she had ever dipped a toe into the kind of luxury Heloise enjoyed.

  Watching Heloise, Joy tried to see her through Queenie’s eyes. She supposed the way she drank her coffee, dabbing her lips between each sip, then rolling her napkin away in its silver ring, could be considered irritating. Because despite
the claim, that was about as much housework as Heloise did.

  ‘Are you going to work with Charles when you’re married, Joy?’ Queenie asked.

  ‘No.’ The shrill reply. Not from Joy, from Heloise. ‘She is to devote herself to her husband and family, as I have done.’

  ‘But she hasn’t got a family. Not yet.’ Queenie looked confused. ‘You are going to carry on at the museum?’

  ‘You’re not listening. It’s preposterous for Joy to concern herself with work.’

  ‘… Because Joy’s already told me you don’t like her working at the Mockin’ Bird.’ Queenie, projecting her voice above Heloise’s, determined to finish what she wanted to say.

  ‘Once they are married,’ Heloise ignored her, ‘she must leave that side of things to her husband. And anyway, Joy must’ve told you?’ The arching of the perfect eyebrows. ‘The firm wants Charles to set up a division in Cape Town. So, the matter of the British Museum will be irrelevant when they relocate.’

  ‘South Africa? But that’s on the other side of the world.’

  ‘What do you care? I heard you were off to New York to sing, or whatever it is you do.’ Heloise again.

  ‘I’m not sure about that now.’ Joy watched Queenie press a hand to her abdomen. ‘But Joy, what about your job? You love your job… all those old books.’

  Joy turned her head away and followed the rays of sunlight fragmenting the room, hoping they would show her a way out. Then she thought of one.

  ‘Do you want to see my wedding dress?’

  Queenie nodded and folded her napkin into a neat square.

  ‘Come on then.’ Joy, gleeful, dashed from the room and up the stairs.