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

by Rebecca Griffiths

  When she emerged at the top of the steps, her drab choice of clothes surprised him; it seemed she had reverted to her loose-fitting coat and inelegant footwear, but there wasn’t time to think much about it as she took off at speed.

  Dear me, she is in a hurry. Come on, quick, quick, you’re going to lose her if you’re not careful. He chivvied himself up and, drawing on the last of his cigarette, screwed it out against the wall of a house and lobbed it into the garden. ‘Wait for me,’ he croaked, sliding along the snowbound pavement, his feet already wet inside his plimsolls. ‘Wait for me.’

  55

  Joy tried to smile and make polite conversation, but all she could think of was Charles and how much he would have enjoyed this. The food, the lively company, the sense of occasion. He always loved an occasion. Things got so bad, when the waiter finally came to take her order, she couldn’t speak. She could only hide behind her menu card and cry while she listened to Amy making excuses for her.

  When the food arrived, Joy couldn’t eat. She stared dumbfounded at the epergne of flowers. The petals dropping like tears. Mournfully forking up mouthfuls she didn’t want; what should have been delicious, turning to ash in her mouth. Torturous, this business of conducting herself as if her heart hadn’t cracked in two. Lonely amid the company, the scrape of crockery, the air thick with voices and cooking smells. Joy saw Charles’s face everywhere. In the whorls of the wooden floorboards of the restaurant floor, in the deep dish of buttery potatoes she couldn’t bring herself to spoon onto her plate. In the rise of Putney Bridge through the windows. His personality entangled in a gesture that was inadvertently given by a stranger, or in the sound of laughter from a nearby table.

  Her fingers, automatic, drifted to the lapel of her jacket for the assurance her little apple brooch always gave her. But it wasn’t there. Like her love, she had lost this too. And the stark realisation of this triggered the same panicky feeling she’d been experiencing in the confines of her bedsit when she thought the walls were going to fall in and crush her. She needed to get out of this place. Out into what remained of the snowy afternoon.

  ‘I’m sorry, Amy. All this, it’s too soon,’ she explained to her friend, wary of causing a fuss.

  ‘No.’ Amy took her hand. ‘It’s me who should be sorry, expecting you to be able to cope with my raucous lot.’

  ‘It was kind of you to include me, but I need to be on my own.’

  ‘Where will you go?’ Amy, frowning.

  ‘I’ll have a walk. I’ll feel better outside.’

  ‘But it’s cold, Joy, and it’ll be dark soon. Do you want me to come with you?’

  ‘No, don’t worry.’ Joy kissed her cheek and took out her purse. ‘I don’t want to spoil things for you. You’ve a lovely family, please tell them I’m sorry.’

  ‘Stop saying sorry. Just promise me you’ll take care of yourself. I’ll see you Monday?’ Amy waved away Joy’s offer of money. ‘Look, before you go, I bought you a little something. Don’t worry, it’s only small.’

  ‘A present? But it’s not my birthday or anything.’ Joy, puzzled, took the tissue paper parcel.

  ‘I know that, but, well, think of it as an early Christmas present.’

  ‘Oh, Amy, thank you. It’s beautiful.’ Joy unwrapped the pretty patterned silk scarf and, liking the way the green and orange swirls brightened up her drab old coat, knotted it around her neck. ‘You’re so kind to me.’

  * * *

  Out on the street, gulping down the freezing air, she decided, as there was enough daylight left, to head home via Fulham, that the walk would do her good. It had stopped snowing, but the air was bitter and, fastening her coat to the throat to keep out the icy fingers of wind, she followed the puff of her breath along the slippery pavement.

  She recognised the grand stone entrance of Brompton Cemetery from the time Charles had brought her here to show where his father and brother were buried. Joy sidestepped the offer of a map the guard wanted to thrust on her – she didn’t need it; she knew where she was going. She was here to retrace the steps of that summer day. After all, she told herself, sweeping snow with a gloved hand from the tops of tombstones, she hadn’t been able to find the origins of where he’d stopped loving her anywhere else.

  A sudden rush made her look up to what must have been a thousand starlings. The green-black oiliness of their wings, each bird a unit of sound making a whole, they unfurled like a huge dark sheet shaken out by the breeze on her mother’s washing line. Settling again, the birds, momentarily pinned to bare branches, their silhouettes cut sharp against the sky, dressed the trees like macabre Christmas decorations. Around her, the place was deserted. A hushed world of snow blanketing the land of the dead. Joy let go of a sigh that floated up to the amorphous grey sky. A sky that yielded nothing of the deep cobalt of that summer day. There was nothing of the green-leafed awning she and Charles had walked beneath either. Laughing, touching, their way ahead gilded in sunshine.

  Winding along the maze of snowy paths that portioned up the cemetery, she took the gentle hill that led to the upper, grander section with its towering sepulchres and elaborate mini chapels. Some well-tended, others abandoned, spreading out like a romantic forest. She found the rather grand crypt dedicated to the family Gilchrist: its pink speckled marble standing proud and erect among its slanting neighbours. She walked up to it and swept the sharp edge of polished stone free of snow. A robin redbreast flew up from the undergrowth and sang to her, the anguished song of winter in its throat. She watched it, captivated by its boldness, until it flew away.

  Left alone in the spooky hush of the enveloping gloom, she shivered and blinked away an image of Charles holding his bunch of chrysanthemums that had been as sunny as that afternoon.

  ‘This is where I’ll be one day.’ He laid his flowers. ‘You too. You’ll be a Gilchrist when you marry me.’

  It had been a strange and surprisingly comforting idea through the tumbling pennies of sunlight. One that buzzed in her head like summer insects as she stood in her cotton sundress and sandals, her white cardigan tied about her middle. Strange, that on such a glorious day she should be asked to look upon the spot where she would end up when she died. With the sun warm on her shoulders, death was the last thing on her mind, despite the setting he’d brought her to. All there had been was their future: a land of dragonflies and bumblebees under the blue dome of a perfect sky.

  And now?

  She stared at her hands and hunted the creases of her gloves for the answer. Now, she replied to herself, she was doomed to live life shut out in the cold with the wind biting her ears for company. Its torturous almost indecipherable whisper reminding her every second of every day how much she had lost.

  Then there was another whisper.

  ‘’Ow do, lass.’

  It was the man she had met in the park on that May morning. The man she thought had been following her around London ever since. Stepping out from behind a stone-faced angel, he startled her, and she slapped a hand to her quickening heart.

  ‘I seem to have lost my dog. You haven’t seen her, have you, lass? A little terrier? White as snow, she is.’ The man pushed his round, horn-rimmed spectacles up his nose and emitted a soft chuckle. ‘White as snow… it’s no wonder I can’t find her.’

  He must have been following her along the path and yet Joy had had no idea he was behind her. The expression beneath the trilby made her toes curl inside her shoes.

  ‘Look at you, you poor little mite, you’re shivering.’ He stepped closer and, turning his wedding ring behind the knuckle, stared off into the middle distance as if trying to work something out. Then he snapped back, the cold blue of his eyes seeking hers. ‘If you’d help find my Judy, I’d be happy to buy you a nice cup of tea somewhere so you can have a warm-up. What d’you say?’

  Despite the polite request the susurrant voice was making, she didn’t trust it, and felt a pinch of terror.

  ‘Oh, I… I…’ she stammered into the frozen air. ‘I
couldn’t possibly.’

  ‘Why ever not? There’s no need to be nervous of me, lass, I don’t mean you no harm.’

  Watching his stiff little movements, the way he poked out his tongue as he twisted his gaze to search, or so she imagined, between the tilting gravestones for his missing dog. Something about him reminded her of an antique toy at her aunt’s house: a monkey automaton she was not permitted to play with unsupervised.

  ‘I’d say you could do with cheering up, lass.’ She shrank from the smile that slithered and settled about his lips. ‘I’d say you’ve had your heart broken.’ He held her in his gaze. ‘I think I’m right, aren’t I? Aye, thought so.’ Gentle-sounding and persuasive, he answered himself before she had the chance. ‘But you really mustn’t go blaming yourself, lass. There are some bad men in this world and, well, they draw women to ’em like dead bodies draw flies.’

  The analogy, as chilling as it was unexpected, swung between them as haunting as an echo. He couldn’t possibly know about what had happened between her and Charles, could he?

  ‘I’m a good listener. You can talk to me. I trained in medicine and part of it were understanding people’s predicaments, to develop… oh, how to say it? A good bedside manner.’

  She stared at his chin. At the thatch of bristles that had escaped the razor. She wanted to believe he was harmless. She wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt. But she was as suspicious of the blade-sharp creases running vertically down the front of his trousers as she was of his motives. Where is his dog? Where is its leash? Why isn’t he calling for it? She remembered his white terrier from the park that morning, but she didn’t believe the dog was with him today. The unwanted thought was accompanied by images of Buster and the things he had tried to do to her in the basement of the Mockin’. The remembered horror of it fought for attention through her billowing anxiety. She inadvertently tipped back her head to the sky, exposed the white curve of her throat. Then, sensing his gaze and her own defencelessness, she dropped her head again.

  An unwelcome thought occurring, sharpening: no one knew she was here. She had come walking alone. What had she been thinking? Stupid, stupid. Not that admitting her foolishness did anything to help her. Hemmed in by the pink marble tomb and this troubling stranger, she knew she was in grave danger and was on the brink of something bad, but had no idea how to get herself out of it.

  ‘Why so sad, little girl?’ The man’s face twisted horribly and looked hideous in the fading daylight. ‘Don’t be sad. Shake it off… shake it off.’ And he tossed his head around as if to demonstrate. ‘That’s it, there’s a good girl.’ All friendly and light, yet Joy was aware of something deadly taking shape behind his eyes.

  ‘I really should be going.’ Her mouth wobbly, trembling against the cold. ‘It’ll be dark soon.’

  The man smiled; he didn’t appear to have heard. ‘You do have the most beautiful hair.’ He shuffled closer, his breath hot on her cheek. ‘Such a vibrant shade. I were telling my wife about it.’

  ‘Your wife?’

  ‘Oh, aye.’ He nodded and, as if requiring clarification, picked up a strand of her hair then dropped it again. ‘I could tell you were special, moment I laid eyes on you.’

  ‘Laid eyes on me?’ Panic, a galloping horse she couldn’t rein in. Joy cast around for someone to help her, but there was no one.

  ‘Oh, aye. I’ve a very good instinct for people.’

  A spike of fear through her gut. She needed to get away from him. Run… run…! the voice in her head screamed.

  If she was to make a break for it, might she have a chance? A quick downward glance at the small feet in their peculiar canvas shoes. But how quick was he in those? How far could she get?

  56

  November went and December came. Queenie had never seen such rain. It didn’t fall from the sky but swirled down on the wind and washed the snow away in an instant. She had ventured out nevertheless. Her hair damp from the gap between collar and hat. It was Friday. She had walked to the newsagents on Wimbledon Broadway, not for her usual women’s magazines but for a bag of liquorice twists and the free sheet of classified ads she was making it her business to check each week. Passing women taking dead fir trees and sprigs of bright, berried holly into their houses. Balancing in slippered feet on stepladders to pin mistletoe under the weatherboards. She envisaged their children, sitting around kitchen tables, putting pen to paper, sending letters starting with, Dear Father Christmas. Quilp, the postman, was rushed off his feet, but the only cards Queenie had been given were by hand. The boys in the band, Uncle Fish, Sammy. Nothing from her father. No invite to spend Christmas with them on their smallholding in Norfolk. Not yet. Don’t hold your breath, girlie. After writing to tell her father what had happened, could she seriously imagine Norma entertaining her – pregnant with no man in tow – around the table? Paper hats, pulling crackers, passing the buttered parsnips. The only post she’d had was a letter reminding her to sign the recording contract. Something she tore up, in the same way she had torn up the original contract. Burnt it on the fire. She was letting Dulcie Fricker break the bad news to Herbie Weiszmann.

  To add to the sickening uncertainties about her future, Queenie was finding it difficult to sing. She couldn’t make her voice work in the way it used to and she’d lost the buoyancy she needed to stand up on stage and perform. Riddled with guilt about what she’d done to Joy, she couldn’t even apply her make-up properly. Unable to bear herself in the mirror for long enough, hating her face, what she found behind her eyes.

  She scanned the sheet of classified ads taken from the newspaper rack, found an advert for psychiatric nurses to work at the Friern Mental Hospital in Barnet. Read about the training they were offering young women who wanted to work in this area of care. It seemed as if they were offering a decent wage with accommodation too. Queenie had decided some time ago that it was important to spend what was left of her life being useful to others. It was the only way to atone for what she’d done to Joy. She circled it with her pencil and folded the sheet into quarters, put it in her coat pocket. The rent on the house was running out soon and even if she was able to carry on singing at the club, she couldn’t afford it on her own. She would send for an application form; it was worth a shot. She could start in early June. Yes, June would probably be about right. After the baby was born. Because she’d decided she would have it, then give it up for adoption. It was her only option now. There was enough in her Post Office savings account to stretch another month or two on the rent.

  She moved down inside the crepuscular cavern of the shop to wait for a break in the rain. Although why? Her feet were wet inside her shoes and rainwater dripped from her hat; she couldn’t get any wetter. The shop bell tinkled and suddenly it was a hive of women’s voices up at the till. Queenie turned her back to them and worked her way along the shelves, pretending the meagre array of tins, jars and packets of Kellogg’s cereal were of interest.

  ‘She’s only gone and got herself pregnant.’

  ‘Someone else’s man, I heard.’

  ‘Don’t see no ring on her finger.’

  ‘She’s a disgrace. It’s a good job her father’s not ’ere to see what a mess she’s made of everything.’

  ‘You seen that gentleman caller of hers?’

  ‘He’s no gentleman, he’s one of them homo-sex-u-als.’

  Were they talking about her? No, she mustn’t be paranoid. No one knew the trouble she was in. Or did they? The waistband of her skirt under her coat was digging into her tummy and she hadn’t been able to fasten it to the top. Was she showing? Always an object of curiosity to the women around here, it wouldn’t be much of a surprise if they’d put two and two together.

  ‘Little better than a prostitute.’

  Ouch. Queenie smarted as if she had been struck in the face. She knew they resented her; she’d been a fool to give them the ammunition. She had played right into their hands.

  In the old days, she would have marched up to the till an
d given them a piece of her mind, but not now; she was changed now. And plumping for a packet of custard creams, not because she wanted them but to satiate the eyes she imagined were boring into her, she steeled herself to go up to the till.

  ‘A quarter of liquorice twists and a Standard, please.’ She ignored the tittering at her elbow. Turned her head to the rain that sluiced down the shop’s windowpanes. Nearly dark. Not that the day had ever got properly light.

  ‘Don’t you want a copy of Vogue? It’s just come in this morning,’ the shopkeeper asked.

  ‘Not today, thank you.’ And she took out her purse, paid for the sweets and the evening paper.

  She was about to step out of the shop when the shocking blackened banner – ‘Man with Two Bodies on His Hands’ – stopped her dead.

  She stared at the photograph of the man they were calling a murderer. He looked familiar. This startled young man caught in the flashbulb of the waiting reporters at Paddington Station. It took her a minute, then she remembered where she’d seen him. He was that Welshman in the pub in Ladbroke Grove that night. The Elgin, that’s right, she was remembering more. Timothy. Tim. She read his name and that too rang a bell. He was nice, cheery. Black eyes and shiny black hair that was plastered off his face. Joking with the barman, with her.

  ‘This can’t be right?’ she muttered, snatching at the storyline. ‘Arrested… Strangled his wife, Beryl, and his baby daughter…’

  This was shocking enough. But not as shocking as seeing where Timothy Evans had been living and where he was supposed to have committed these murders. An address she knew, a house she had nearly stepped inside. A place in her memory that chilled her to the bone: 10 Rillington Place.

  57