by Roberta Kray
As she approached the house, she could see the bright police tape still stretched across the top of the steps where the metal stairway led down to the basement. There was, however, no sign of any officers or any official cars. She presumed they’d have finished their work by now, although they didn’t seem to have accomplished much.
The closer she got, the more nervous she became. Did she really have the courage to do this? She fingered the key in her pocket, the key to Elsa’s flat. No one had asked for it back, and until a few minutes ago she’d forgotten all about it. There was nothing to stop her from going inside and searching for the gun – well, nothing apart from her own disinclination to step over that threshold again. The gun might not even exist, or could have already been removed by Elsa’s killer. And then, of course, there was the worry of being discovered.
As regarded the latter, she concocted a story, should she need it, about having left something behind – an item of clothing perhaps – to explain her presence in the flat. It wouldn’t go down well, but she’d just have to act innocent and pretend she didn’t know that access was still prohibited.
The other problem was the neighbours. What if they rang the police and reported her? She glanced at the windows of the flats above, but they were covered by net curtains. It was impossible to tell if anyone was watching or not. The trick, she supposed, was to try and not look furtive, which wasn’t easy when what you were doing was utterly furtive.
With this in mind, and after a quick look round, she strode forward as though she had every right to be there. She ducked under the tape, jogged down the steps and unlocked the door before she could have a change of heart. Once inside, she stopped and listened for any indication that someone might have seen her – the sound of another door opening, or footsteps on the pavement – but there was only silence. She doubted if anyone had a phone in their home round here, and so any call would have to be made from a phone box.
Once she was sure that no one was going to challenge her, she relaxed a little. But as she moved forward into the living room, she instantly tensed again as her eyes took in the disarray. She thought of what had happened here, the horror, and felt her mouth go dry. Deep breaths: one, two, three. She couldn’t afford to lose her nerve. Now that she was here, she had to make the most of whatever time she had.
But where to start? It wasn’t a big flat, and there weren’t many places to hide something as bulky as a gun. The police, she presumed, hadn’t conducted any kind of search, being unaware of what Elsa might have been involved in. They had left their mark, though, with a fine layer of fingerprint dust over every available surface. Her own prints had been taken down at the station, a procedure that had made her feel curiously guilty, even though she had not done anything wrong.
She knew it was pointless checking the more obvious places – the killer had already done that – and so she stood in the middle of the chaos and slowly did a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree turn. Her gaze roamed over every corner of the room as she tried to think of where she’d hide something. She looked up, looked down. She even studied the edges of the carpet, but could see no spot where it might have been pulled up from the floor.
The cupboards over the sink had been emptied of pots and pans and plates. The table had been turned over. Even the chairs had been taken apart, their stuffing pulled out and the cushions ripped open. She could still smell the whisky from where the bottle had smashed on the floor.
Once the possibilities of the living room had been exhausted, she moved on to the main bedroom, but it was the same story here. All the obvious places, the wardrobe, the drawers, had been thoroughly ransacked. She poked around, but with no success. It felt strange, uncomfortable to be going through Elsa’s stuff, and more than once she was tempted to give up and leave. But she’d come this far – she might as well see it through.
In the bathroom, the cabinet had been emptied and the lid dragged off the cistern and dropped on the floor. She reached in behind the toilet and felt between the pipes. She looked under the bath and the sink. She checked the lino for signs of disturbance. Nothing, nothing, nothing.
The final room was the spare where she’d been sleeping. She didn’t even want to go inside. Standing by the door, she stared at the spot where Elsa’s body had been lying. There were bloodstains on the carpet, dark red, almost brown, gruesome. It made her feel sick just to look at them. The room was too small, too sparsely furnished to hide anything in, and anyway Elsa would hardly have taken the risk of the gun being accidentally discovered.
Judith retreated to the living room, disappointed that her search had been a failure. What had she been thinking? That she could just waltz in here and find the weapon that been used to murder Lennie Hull all those years ago? The chances had been one in a million. And that was if there even was a gun. Perhaps she and Saul had been barking up the wrong tree entirely.
She went over to the window and glanced up at the street. Still empty so far as she could see. Well, she was wasting her time. She should quit while she was still ahead – ahead being the fact that she hadn’t, as yet, been caught in the act.
But still she lingered.
The gun had to possess some link to the killer – why else would they be so desperate to get it back? Fingerprints, probably, along with other stuff. She’d read somewhere that an expert could match a bullet to the gun it had been fired from. The police, she presumed, still had the bullet that had ended Hull’s life.
Her gaze fell on the Gauguin print, the picture of the three women that would forever remind her of Elsa. It was lying on the floor, half out of its frame, torn apart like Elsa’s life had been. She knew that she should leave it where it was, but still she crouched down and picked it up. It must have meant something for Elsa to have had it on the wall, to have looked at it every day.
‘I’m sorry,’ she murmured, although she wasn’t sure what she was apologising for. Maybe just her incompetence in achieving anything useful. She gazed at the picture and wondered what the three women had been thinking about as Gauguin had painted them. Perhaps nothing more profound than what they were having for lunch that day.
As she held it up, examining the detail, she noticed a narrow piece of tape, no more than an inch or two, on the inner edge of the broken frame. It was perhaps a repair from a previous break, and yet there didn’t seem to be any evidence of earlier damage. She touched the spot and was sure she could feel something underneath. Her heart began beating faster. Carefully she picked at the tape with her fingernail until she had managed to free a corner and could peel it back.
Her eyes lit up. What she had discovered was a small silver-coloured key. She lifted it away from the frame and turned it over in her fingers. There was a number engraved on it: 22. But what did it mean? The key was too small to fit a front door, but it could be for a box or a safe, maybe even a shed or garage. She knew it was important – the fact Elsa had hidden it was testimony to that – but without knowing what lock it belonged to she only had one half of the puzzle.
She quickly checked the rest of the frame, making sure she hadn’t missed anything else. Excitement and frustration made her fingers clumsy. She searched every edge, every corner, but there was nothing more. Sitting back on her haunches, she wondered what to do next. Take it to the police? That was what she should do, but caution whispered in her ear. She couldn’t trust them. If past experience was anything to go by, the news would rapidly get back to Pat Hull, and she could do without another of his angry confrontations. Also, the police would probably be less than pleased that she’d let herself into the flat in the first place.
She tapped the key against her teeth, trying to think. Well, the first thing she should do was get the hell out of there. She jumped up, shoved the key in her pocket and hurried over to the front door. She opened it carefully, only a crack, listened and then peered up towards the street. When she was sure there was no one in the vicinity, she slipped out, closing the door softly behind her.
She paused again
before climbing the steps, her ears tuned to the slightest sound, and only when she was certain it was safe did she make her way up. Her eyes darted left and right as she ducked under the tape, praying she wouldn’t be seen. Her pulse was racing, her breathing shallow. As she walked along the street, she kept expecting someone to shout or come running after her. The urge to look over her shoulder was almost overwhelming, but she managed to resist until she’d covered fifty yards.
Even then, she didn’t immediately relax. This time she chose the shorter route across the green, wanting to get back to the boarding house as fast as possible. What she was carrying was precious – her hand closed around the key – and probably a major clue as to who had killed Elsa and why. She needed somewhere safe, away from prying eyes, where she could sit down and try to work out where she went from here.
Of course, Ivor Doyle would probably be able to tell her in a second what kind of key it was and what it was likely to fit, but he was the last person she was going to ask. Maybe she would show it to Saul instead and get his thoughts on the matter. Anyway, she didn’t have to make a decision right now.
Her nerves remained on edge as she hurried across the green and on into the high street. She passed Connolly’s without a second glance – all thoughts of Maud were long gone – and was oblivious to the shop windows and their displays. Even the rain barely registered as it drizzled onto her hair and shoulders. She waited at the junction for the lights to change, bouncing impatiently on her heels.
It was only as she turned into Silverstone Road that it occurred to her that the key could belong to a locker, like those left-luggage ones at the bigger railway stations. But which station would Elsa have chosen? Liverpool Street, Euston and King’s Cross were the closest, but she might have gone for somewhere less obvious. There was Victoria, Waterloo, Paddington and probably others too. Except wouldn’t the key have some kind of markings on it to identify where it came from? Unless it had come with a tag that Elsa had removed.
Judith was still weighing up this possibility – and wondering how long it would take her to visit all the various stations – as she walked through the front door of the boarding house. It was quiet inside, as hushed as a church. She had made it across the hall and onto the first step of the stairs when Mrs Gillan appeared from the back of the house.
‘Ah, here you are. You’ve got a visitor. I put them in the lounge.’
‘A visitor?’ Judith’s first thought – and it wasn’t a good one – was that Pat Hull had come for her. She gripped the banister. ‘Who is it? I wasn’t expecting anyone.’
‘She didn’t say, but I believe her name’s Nell, Nell McAllister.’
Judith’s mouth dropped open.
44
It took Judith a moment to recover from the shock. Nell McAllister here, only yards away, the woman Dan Jonson had left her for. She could feel the blood draining from her face. Why had she come? What did she want? She hoped the woman wasn’t going to shout and cry and create a scene. There had been enough drama over the last couple of weeks to last her a lifetime.
Mrs Gillan must have noticed her expression. ‘If you don’t want to see her, I can tell her you’re unwell.’
This, Judith thought, wouldn’t exactly be a lie – she did feel sick – but there were some things that couldn’t be put off. If she didn’t see Nell today, she would have to see her tomorrow, and then she would have it hanging over her all night. It was better, she decided, to get it over and done with.
‘No, no, it’s quite all right. Thank you. It was just a … a surprise, that’s all.’
Mrs Gillan nodded, hesitated as if she might be about to say something else but then retreated to her quarters.
Judith took a few more seconds to steady her nerves before pushing back her shoulders, bracing herself and advancing into what she suspected could be a war zone. God, she hoped not, or she might end up getting thrown out of this boarding house too. The way her luck was going, she’d soon be blacklisted in every establishment in Kellston.
She paused at the door to the lounge and looked in. It was empty apart from a woman who was sitting in the corner, hunched over and biting her nails. Nell suddenly turned her head and looked straight at her. Judith’s first impression was that she must once have been pretty – maybe even beautiful – for beneath the scarring and the odd alignment of her jaw, there were still traces of a fine bone structure. Her hair was blonde, waved, and her eyes were very blue, the colour of the eyes in china dolls.
Judith crossed the room with trepidation. She had no idea how a person was supposed to act in these circumstances. The rules of etiquette had not yet been written for situations like these. She could hardly smile, but she didn’t want to scowl either. It wasn’t the woman’s fault that Ivor Doyle was a liar and a cheat, and yet it was hard not to think of her as being the enemy.
In the event, Nell McAllister seemed even more nervous than Judith was. Jumping to her feet, she gave her a trembling smile.
‘I’m so sorry to just come by like this – it must seem odd to you – but I thought … I thought we should meet.’
Judith gestured for her to sit down and took the chair opposite. There was an awkward pause while both women settled into their seats. When Nell didn’t say anything more, Judith felt obliged to fill the silence.
‘So, he told you about me?’
Nell’s mouth twisted and she shook her head. ‘Who, Ivor? No, he didn’t tell me anything, not a word. But I’ve known for a while that he was married to someone called Judith – I found the certificate, you see – and so when you turned up at the house and I heard him say your name … well, it wasn’t too hard to work out.’
‘I don’t understand. Have you never talked to him about our marriage?’
Nell gave a slight shrug. ‘What’s the point? He’d have told me if he’d wanted to. It’s in the past. It doesn’t matter.’ Then her body seemed to stiffen and her tone suddenly rose in pitch, becoming almost accusing. ‘It is in the past, isn’t it?’
‘Oh, I think we can safely say that.’
‘So what are you doing here? What do you want?’
What Judith wanted was the truth, the truth about everything, but she knew she wouldn’t get it from Nell. She could see the fear in her eyes, and felt some sympathy. It was hard not to. The woman was brittle and anxious, damaged in more ways than the physical. While she tried to think of a suitable answer, she watched Nell’s hands twist around each other. ‘Loose ends, that’s all.’
‘I always knew you’d turn up one day.’
There wasn’t much Judith could say to this, and so she asked instead, ‘How did you know where to find me?’
Nell’s mouth opened, but then, as if she’d had second thoughts, quickly closed again. Her eyes slid over the room before returning to Judith. ‘I don’t remember,’ she said, unconvincingly. ‘Someone told me.’
‘Someone?’
Nell ignored the question. ‘Ivor doesn’t know I’m here. You won’t tell him, will you?’
‘I shouldn’t think I’ll be seeing him again.’ This wasn’t exactly the truth, but it seemed the wisest reply in the circumstances. She had the feeling Doyle hadn’t finished with her yet, that he’d be back at some point to talk more about Elsa.
‘He hasn’t done anything wrong.’
Judith could have disputed this; abandoning your wife and letting her think you were dead seemed pretty wrong to her, but Nell was in the dark about all that. ‘Did I say he had?’
‘It’s what you think, though, isn’t it?’
‘I don’t understand.’
Nell lifted a hand to her mouth and started chewing on her fingernails again. She cast quick, nervous glances in Judith’s direction. ‘I suppose he’s told you all about me.’
Judith was about to deny this, but then thought better of it. ‘A bit.’
‘He’s always tried to do the right thing. It hasn’t been easy for him. He’s only ever … but sometimes it just all goes wrong, doesn’
t it? You don’t mean for it to, but it does. Like it gets out of control and suddenly instead of getting better, everything gets worse.’
‘Like with Elsa Keep?’
‘What?’
‘Elsa Keep,’ Judith repeated, trying her best to maintain a calm and level tone. ‘She’s the girl who was murdered last Saturday.’
‘Your friend, you mean?’
Judith nodded. ‘Ivor’s mentioned her to you, then?’
‘It’s been on the news. Everyone’s heard about it.’
‘But not about the two of us being friends.’
Nell considered this for a moment and then said, ‘It seems nice here. Do you have a pleasant room?’
At first Judith thought she was making a clumsy attempt to change the subject, but as she looked more closely, she saw that Nell’s eyes, currently roaming around the lounge, had an odd, glazed expression. ‘It’s fine, the room’s fine. We were talking about Elsa.’
‘Ivor didn’t have anything to do with that.’
‘I never said he had.’
‘Just because he …’ Nell stopped and frowned, glaring at Judith as though she’d been trying to trap her. ‘What do you want from him, from us?’
‘Nothing. Why should I want anything?’
‘Because you’re here. You must want something.’
Judith shrugged. ‘You’re the one who’s come to see me. What do you want?’
This turning of the tables seemed to confuse Nell. She attacked her fingernails for a few seconds, uncrossed her legs and crossed them again. Everything about her was jumpy and agitated. She couldn’t sit still, couldn’t look Judith in the eye. As if an army of ants was climbing over her, she scratched the back of her head, her neck, a knee, an elbow. Eventually, a long, soft sigh escaped from her lips. ‘You know about Lennie Hull.’
