He had to stop and, bending forward to catch his breath, he put his hands on his thighs and heaved down the soupy air. He watched a pack of stray dogs roaming a hummock of debris and, recovering a little, he lifted his head to read the street sign – St Charles Square – fixed to a shallow wall that fell away to rubble. Some irony there, he thought. This wasn’t right. He tried to breathe past the burning sensation tightening in his chest. Where was he? He spun on his heels. All was quiet and still: a forgotten land of fog. He might have a chance if he could find St Marks Road – he knew Christie’s was somewhere off there. But which way?
42
Rillington Place was a mean, shabby cul-de-sac of ten houses on either side. Queenie thought they looked small, almost miniature, despite them having three floors. Each as ramshackle as the next, their most striking features were the peeling paint and the soot-stained chimneys. The light from the gas lamps barely penetrated the fog and the shadowy pockets that fell between them spooked her. But everything spooked her. Her nerves were shot and she was colder than she ever remembered.
She walked forward, dodging the oily puddles of pollution. Saw how London’s flotsam and jetsam had gathered along this street that had no way out. The echoing bark of a dog started up, then stopped again. A rat scuttled past. Then another. This had to be the grimiest, most poverty-ridden part of London she’d ever set foot in. With purposeful strides, holding the collar of her coat to her jaw, she listened to the shuffle of trains that could only be a few streets away. The only other sound was her footsteps, and the only sign that anyone lived along here was a child’s ball in the gutter.
Number ten was the last house on the south side, pushed hard up against the high transport depot wall and beneath the shadow of the black-skinned iron foundry chimney. Rearing up through the fog, the chimney’s pear-shaped form dominated the street. Queenie walked to the foot of it and looked up. A redundant shell with no means to defend itself other than the sign of ‘KEEP OUT’ hanging like a necklace against its cold brick throat.
She hid in the dimness on the opposite side. Conscious of the rise and fall of her chest beneath her winter layers. Her heart fluttered like a trapped bird behind her ribs as she stared into the gas lamp squatting out front. Its tangerine flame flickering off-on, off-on. Pulse-steady. A dustbin had been blown sideways by the wind, its stinking innards spilled over the pavement.
Her stomach grumbled and gurgled and she feared she might be sick. Then a light went on in the hall of number ten, strong enough to pick out the edges of the curtains in the single ground-floor bay window. Did she dare risk crossing the street to look inside? No, she would smoke a cigarette first and gather herself together. She took out one of her white Sobranies and noticed the shake in her hand when she lit up. The burn of a match providing a brief respite against the cold night air. Then she was sick. She leant against the wall of the transport depot and retched until her insides felt raw. Only liquid, just the port and the splattering of the black sweets, nothing else. She hadn’t eaten anything of substance. Woozy and light-headed, she berated herself for having that extra port. The alcohol, mixed with her nerves, had made her feel very queer indeed. Nervous all day, this was on top of a string of sleepless nights when she had tossed and turned, unable to make up her mind.
But she’d made it up now, and with Heloise’s threat replaying in her mind – Joy must never find out. Never. If she does, I won’t be responsible for my actions – she crossed to the other side of the street. A hand to her hair and a tweak of the headscarf, she glanced at the crumbling windowsill, the dead fern in its rusted can. Cigarette finished, she dropped it into the gutter and lifted her hand to knock on the filthy door. Failing to see the other hand that had pulled back the curtain of the downstairs window an inch. A hand that appeared to be quite detached from the eyes that peered out on her. Breath misting the glass.
43
‘Come on in then, lass. That’s it. Don’t look so worried. I’ll put kettle on, we’ll have a nice cup of tea before making a start, eh?’ The softly spoken man with the Yorkshire accent beckoned her down inside his hall. ‘That’s it, you go through to kitchen, its cosier in there.’ He adjusted the gaslight and blinked at her from behind his spectacles. ‘That’s it, you get nice and comfy, lass, make yourself at home.’ He directed her towards his tatty rope chair. ‘No standing on ceremony here. I know it’s a serious thing we’re doing, but I think it’s best we’re informal about it. Drop a milk in your tea, lass?’
‘Just a little, thank you. I-I’m ever so nervous, Mr Christie… I-I don’t really know if I should be here. I think perhaps I-I should go.’
‘Ooo, no, no, no. You’ve come this far; you’re doing right thing. I’ve helped out many a lass in your condition. I were nearly a doctor, you know, had it not been for my accident, so you’re in safe hands with me. There you go, you drink your tea, lass. That’s it… just, just, erm, one or two things I need to know… Have you popped off your, erm … underthings, and prepared yourself for me? Oh, good, that is good. Have a little more of your tea. That’s it, warm you up.’ He rubbed his hands together. ‘You ready for me to make a start now?’
‘Y-yes, Mr Christie.’
Tea finished, he reached across for a cushion.
‘Let’s just pop this behind your head… that’s it. And if you could lie back and relax for me.’
‘Oh! What’s that?’
‘Just a bit of equipment I have to use, medical equipment… to give you a whiff of gas so you don’t feel owt. That’s way, good lass. Nowt to fret about. It’ll soon be over. Just let me pop this mask over your face, and before you know it, you’ll be asleep… Ah, that’s it, I’d like you to sleep now…’
44
Terrence was still running. But at the end of his reserves, panting and sweating beneath his homburg, he’d undone his thick winter coat to let the foggy night air blow through him. Not that it did much to cool him down. With St Marks Road somewhere behind him and his desperation to find Queenie building street on street, he kept up the pace. Until eventually, looking up at a brick wall in front of him, a street sign read: Rillington Place.
‘Thank God,’ his murmured gratitude as he slackened to a jog and turned down into it.
He listened to the rasp of his breath as he looked around at the derelict houses on either side. How poor and sordid everything was. The squalor was even worse along here. The decaying façades, the litter that gathered in the gutters; his anxiety for Queenie’s safety tightened its hold. These dwellings reminded him of the doll’s houses his sisters had played with, and if there had been soft earth outside instead of concrete, Terrence imagined it would have been possible to jump from the top-floor windows without hurting himself. How could anyone live like this? And yet people evidently did. There were lights in the rooms beyond the blackout blinds and curtains pulled across mean bay windows. There were stilettos of chimney smoke.
He couldn’t run any more and, slowing to a brisk walk, he put a hand to his mouth and coughed. Coughed again. His chest hurt and he thought he might be sick, but the feeling ebbed again. He listened to the fruitlessness of his cough reverberate along this forsaken dead-end street. When it faded, it was replaced by a ghastly silence that closed over him like the lid of a coffin. He dabbed perspiration from his brow with a cotton handkerchief, then pressed the handkerchief to his nose, reluctant to breathe any more of the filthy, coal-choked air. He hoped he’d got this wrong, that Queenie hadn’t come here tonight.
He reached number ten. The last house, at the end of the street, and positioned up against a high brick wall topped with coiled barbed wire. The tall phallic finger of a disused foundry chimney skewering it to the sky. Still panting, he knocked on the grubby door. Used the seconds available to straighten himself out and smooth down his hair. There was no answer. But someone was in there. A chink in the curtains showed there were lights on inside. He lit a cigarette, took a good long drag and felt his heart rate slow. He knocked again, harder this time.
‘Answer, why don’t you?’ he grumbled. ‘I’m not going away until you do.’
He took a step back from the door, smoking his cigarette. Looked up at the front of the house and saw the upper floors were all in darkness. But whoever lived on the ground floor was home.
He was about to knock again when he happened to glance down at a white cigarette butt in the gutter. He bent and picked it up. Saw the telltale smudge of a lipstick’s traces. Scarlet. Queenie’s lipstick.
He chucked his cigarette aside and hammered the door with both hands. Harder and harder. Keeping on until his knuckles hurt.
‘Open up!’ he shouted, banging wildly. Flecks of paint came off on his fist and he brushed them away on his coat. ‘Open up! I know you’re in there. Open up… open up.’
He bit down on his lip and tasted blood. Queenie was in there, he knew it. He also knew he’d arrived too late. He buttoned his coat to the chin but not before the cold night had reached down into his stomach, making a little stale whisky return to his throat.
45
‘Yes. What do you want?’ The whispery voice from behind the partially open door of number ten was out of breath. ‘You’re making an awful lot of noise for this time of night… is there some kind of emergency?’
‘Are you Mr Christie? Mr John Christie?’ To Terrence’s dismay, the man’s accent reminded him of his late father’s.
‘I am, aye.’ The clean-shaven face was sliced in half by the shadow of the door.
‘My friend came to see you tonight. A young lady, dark hair?’ He waited in the expectant silence.
‘Your friend?’ The one eye Terrence could see squinted from behind a horn-rimmed lens. ‘No one’s come here tonight. I don’t know what you’re talking about. Why a-are y-you hammering my door?’
Terrence could tell the man was nervous from the way he kept looking over his shoulder. It was as if he was fearful someone was about to come down the stairs behind him.
‘Look, I know she was here. So, are you going to tell me where she is, or am I going to have to force my way in?’
Terrence tried to look past the man’s slight frame, down into the gloomy hall. He watched him wipe an agitated hand over his high bald forehead and saw how his top lip glistened with sweat. There was no doubting it, he’d interrupted something and, taking a step closer, he shouldered his weight against the door, determined to get inside. But the door didn’t budge. The man must have had his foot wedged against it.
‘What are you hiding in there?’ Up on tiptoes, peering over Christie’s shoulder, Terrence saw a pram in the hall.
Then it hit him. Like walking into a wall. As corrosive as the industrial drain cleaner the landlord used when he came to unblock the drains at his mother’s house. But despite its harshness, it wasn’t enough to mask the rot beneath. A smell that thrust him back to Italy. To the German airstrikes of May 1944 and the putrid stench of decaying bodies trapped beneath the ruined streets of Pontecorvo.
‘Uch!’ he yelped and jumped back, clamped a hand to his nose. ‘What the hell’s that stink?’
As still as a post, Christie remained unmoved. The cold, hard gleam in the man’s pale blue eye was pitiless. This was one sinister individual.
‘My friend Queenie!’ Terrence was shouting now. The white fag butt squeezed in his fist. ‘She came here tonight; I know she did.’ He shook it at him. ‘You’re to let me in, d’you hear?’ He charged at the door again, rammed his weight against it. Christie was stronger than he looked. The door didn’t move. ‘Queenie! Are you in there? Queenie!’
‘I don’t know what you think you’re doing, coming here and shouting. I’ve got no one here, you’ve no right. And another thing, you can’t just… Hang on a minute… I know you, don’t I? Aye, I know who you are now.’ A flash of sharpness from the narrow-skulled man and, instead of cowering in the shadows, he leant around the door, emboldened and complacent all of a sudden. ‘I know what you do. I’ve seen you.’ The expression had mutated from fretful to indignant and was washed a strange curd-yellow in the guttering gaslight.
‘Seen me?’ Terrence gulped, holding the man’s gaze. ‘No. No, I don’t think so.’
‘Oh, I have.’ Christie took his time. ‘Aye, you’re one of them dirty buggers.’ The voice was no more than a whimper; the rat eyes scurried over him. ‘I’ve a mind to call police and have you removed from premises. We don’t want your type here. This is a respectable house, with respectable people. Your friend? Why would likes of me have owt to do with any friend of yours? I’m a decent citizen, I am. How dare you turn up here with your shouting. Who gave you this address? Supposing my wife had come to door?’
A glimmer of hope. A wife could mean Queenie was safe. ‘Is your wife here? Can I talk to her? Maybe she’s seen Queenie.’
‘My wife, luckily for you, happens to be holidaying with her brother in Sheffield.’ Christie snuffed out any hope. ‘Not that it’s any of your business.’
‘Queenie! Queenie!’ Terrence thrust his voice down into the dingy hallway Christie was protecting. ‘Are you there? Queenie?’
‘I said, didn’t I?’ Soft and slow. Terrence needed to strain to hear what the man was saying. ‘I don’t want your type here. I don’t like your type. I know what you’re up to. Filthy bugger… buggering.’ A sickly smile. ‘I’ve a mind to tell authorities about you. I’ve contacts, you know. Four years in London Police Force, I’ve two commendations. One word from me, lad, and they’ll pick you up in a jiffy.’
At the mention of police, Terrence’s insides flipped over. This wasn’t an empty threat; he knew all too well how easily and swiftly this could be made real.
‘Go on. Clear off. You dirty bugger.’
Christie made to close the door. But before he did, Terrence heard the heart-wrenching cry of a baby.
46
Joy loved the sensation of rubbing against the silky soles of Charles’s feet. Pressed against his body beneath the bedcovers, this had become her favourite place. This wasn’t Dorset, this was Bayswater, in the guestroom Heloise permitted Joy to use on the odd occasion she stayed over. Charles wasn’t supposed to be in here. He was supposed to be in his own room. But with Heloise visiting her sister in Boulogne, and Dorothy at home, he’d crept along the landing and, without knocking, without any warning at all, she’d woken up to him climbing in beside her.
To sleep would be to squander these precious moments, so she stayed awake. Watched him sleep instead. Tonight, the splinters of gaslight seeping in through a gap in the curtains gave her parts of his face. How different he looked, vulnerable somehow. A rush of something maternal, coupled with the love she had for him, made her blink back tears.
‘Blessed,’ she mouthed her gratitude while focusing on his flickering eyelids. ‘Blessed.’
This was how Joy considered herself to be these days, and the feeling was new to her. She turned over, onto her back, and counted the ways Charles had transformed her life in the few short months she’d known him. Hardly daring to believe she was to be his wife. That their wedding day was only weeks away, with all the adventures in South Africa that were to come. Breathtaking, the speed with which everything had changed, while at the same time, it was difficult for her to remember what life had been before it was filled with such colours and textures. She wriggled between the cool cotton sheets and thought she might explode with the anticipation of it all. The only fly in the ointment was Queenie. She had hoped she would be proud; proud that the geeky, awkward little Joy had finally fledged and found herself the most wonderful man. She couldn’t leave things the way they were with her, she needed to try and make things right. She would call over and they could talk things through, get to the bottom of whatever it was. Joy didn’t want there to be this strangeness between them, not when she was off to Cape Town and Queenie to New York. Despite their obvious differences, they shared too much history, and as far as Joy was concerned, their friendship was something worth saving.
She had so much to thank
Queenie for; Queenie was why she had come to London in the first place. Her thoughts as she tucked the layers of blankets and eiderdown over them. Nuzzling into the generous sweep of Charles’s back. She circled him with her arm and stroked the soft skin of his chest with the pad of her thumb. What a strange galaxy Queenie revolved in. She was about as far removed from Joy as the other side of the moon. What it took to stand up and sing at the Mockin’ Bird night after night wasn’t something she could imagine doing, but then she didn’t have Queenie’s talent. Charles was keen on the whole jazz scene, so, of course, it had to have some merits, but working there hadn’t helped endear Joy to it. If she was honest, she found the smoky interior and patrons a little sleazy and was relieved to be finishing soon. She had only agreed to work there at all to please Queenie.
Joy still couldn’t believe Charles wanted to marry her but supposed she never was any good at reading men; she’d not had the experience. Unlike Queenie, who understood how to play them. Before she’d met Charles, Joy knew she had frustrated Queenie by her seeming lack of interest, by preferring the company of books. Her mother used to warn her that men didn’t want women who involved themselves with higher things and that what women thought would never be of importance. Showed how much she knew. Joy smiled, cuddling Charles tighter.
There had been a boy in Arras. They were in the same class at school. Everywhere she went, he was there – before her years in England and when she returned to France. It was something her mother actively encouraged. Recognising his interest, she would invite him for tea. But only because he came from an esteemed family that boasted established connections in the town – a family any self-respecting parent would wish their child to marry into, Joy heard her mother telling her aunts. But the idea of marrying someone she didn’t love and ending up as unhappy as her parents frightened her.
The Girl at My Door: An utterly gripping mystery thriller based on a true crime Page 19
