His eyes were used to the gloom by now and he studied the contents of his hidey-hole. The orderliness of it said a great deal about the woman’s character. Garden tools hanging from hooks, a neat stack of flowerpots, pots of paint on a shelf and brushes in a jam jar. It even smelled clean in here. From what he’d seen of her cottage, that was equally orderly. It was going to be a doddle. He could be in and out within ten minutes.
At half past one Seth crept silently up the garden, slid his hands through the small window, reached the lock on the door, turned it and went in. He had always prided himself on his stealth. A teacher at school had once said he moved like a cat. He went straight to the desk, but to his disappointment the address book he’d seen earlier was no longer there. Taking his torch from his belt, he flashed it around the room. The beam caught two nice silver candlesticks, a couple of photograph frames and a carriage clock which looked as if it might be valuable. But he had to find Rosie’s address first.
Holding his breath, he gingerly opened the top drawer in the desk. It was full of stationery. The next drawer down held some cardboard files. He opened one, then another, but all the correspondence was typewritten and unlikely to be from Rosie. The last drawer had ordinary letters, a whole clump of them held together with a paperclip. He put them on the desk and, holding the torch so he could see them properly, he turned them over one by one.
‘Get out of my house!’
Seth nearly jumped out of his skin at the sound of the woman’s commanding voice. He hadn’t heard so much as a creak from upstairs. He turned in astonishment and dropped his torch. It spun on the floor for a second or two and Seth was rooted to the spot in fear as the beam of light flashed round the room, showing her ghostly figure at the top of the stairs.
‘There is nothing in this house to steal, you scoundrel!’ the woman said in a crisp, cold voice. ‘Get out immediately!’
Suddenly the overhead light was switched on and Seth was astounded to see that the woman was brandishing a heavy stick of dark shiny wood. She came down the stairs towards him and his legs turned to jelly.
‘I’ve killed snakes out in Africa with this stick,’ she said quite calmly. ‘And I won’t hesitate to hit you with –’ She stopped abruptly, her eyes opening wider. ‘Good heavens, you’re Seth Parker!’
It was bad enough to be caught red-handed, but even worse to find himself recognized by a woman he’d never met before.
‘I want my sister’s address,’ he managed to stammer out. ‘Give it to me now or you’ll be sorry.’
‘I think not,’ she said, and came further down until she was almost at the bottom of the stairs. ‘I’m going to pick up the telephone and call the police.’
It was her calm and her self-assurance which unnerved Seth. He’d been disturbed before on burglaries and his victims had always been so terrified of him they backed away. She was such a small woman too. Even standing on the stairs, her eyes were below the level of his, grey, steady and utterly fearless.
Seth took a menacing step towards her, expecting her to back off, but instead she raised the stick and brought it down hard. Had he not jumped to one side, she would have caught him on the shoulder. But Seth was a street fighter, and as the stick came down below its intended target, he grabbed the end of it with one hand and with the other he caught her by the shoulder.
‘Drop it!’ he roared, pulling her off the stairs. She was much stronger than she looked and she struggled desperately to get away from him. But she was no match for Seth and he soon wrenched the stick out of her hand.
He lifted the stick above his head, ready to bring it down on her.
‘Don’t,’ she called out. Yet to Seth’s ears it sounded more of a threat than a plea for mercy and for one brief second Seth wanted to let her go. There was defiance in her cold eyes; she wasn’t even cowering from him. She had real courage.
Seth respected bravery, and deep down in his heart he knew he had little of it and it shamed him. But just as he’d often watched a hawk hovering in the air and admired its sheer beauty, yet still felt compelled to lift his gun and shoot it, so he lifted the stick and brought it down hard on her head.
She just collapsed like a meringue struck with a spoon. Seth watched her slither down to the floor in some surprise. Somehow he’d expected her to be more resilient than that. She landed on her knees, holding her head in her hands, her eyes at last wide with terror. ‘Please don’t do this, Seth,’ she whimpered.
He looked scornfully at her. Her courage was gone now, she was just another pathetic woman pleading with him as they always did. He had no desire to kill her, but he knew he must. She knew who he was.
Taking the stick in both hands, he brought it down again on her skull. She keeled over and he continued to beat her jerking, bucking body as if she were a sack of hay he wanted to flatten. It was only when her dressing-gown turned red with blood that he paused. She was still at last, and he knew she was dead.
He dropped the stick beside her. It took a couple of minutes before he realized the enormity of what he’d done. She looked like a broken doll covered in strawberry jam. In panic he rushed for the back door, but as his lungs filled with fresh air and the moment of nausea left him, it occurred to him that he must make it look like a real burglary. Going back into the room, he averted his eyes from her body and drew the curtains at the back window.
He was systematic now. He finished checking through the letters, but there were none from Rosie. He opened the desk drawers and scattered the contents on the floor, then went through every other cupboard and drawer in the room. He came across a nice silver bangle which he put to one side, along with the photo frames, candlesticks and carriage clock. But still he couldn’t find the address book, so he went upstairs.
For some reason the woman’s bedroom unnerved him. It was so bare, just a narrow bed, a chest of drawers and a wardrobe, no feminine frippery, perfume or cosmetics, not even an ornament or two. On the wall was a photograph of her taken when she was much younger. She was in a nurse’s uniform, flanked by several smiling army officers. Seth wondered momentarily why she had never married.
The address book was by her bed, alongside a half-written letter. He snatched it up, but before pocketing it checked to see if Rosie was in it. There was a Rosemary Smith amongst the ‘S’s, at an address in Sussex. He thought about it for a moment, and felt it must be her. But if it wasn’t her, well, that was Miss Marks’s bad luck.
A rummage through a handbag produced seven pounds and a bit of loose change. He stuffed that in his pockets, then turned off the light and went down to collect the things he wanted to take. Two minutes later he was leaving the way he had come in, taking care to lock the door behind him.
Seth was halfway to London before it dawned on him that once the news of this murder got out, Miss Marks would guess he was responsible. His stomach heaved, and he just had time to pull over on to the side of the road and lean out of the window before he was violently sick. He sat there at the roadside in the dark for some fifteen minutes, trembling with fear. What was he going to do? One side of his brain told him that Miss Marks was crooked enough to be persuaded to keep quiet, but the other said he couldn’t count on it. If he didn’t take her Rosie’s address, she’d be mad and come looking for him again; if he took it to her and got the rest of the money, she’d know for sure that he’d been there.
He had no choice but to kill her too.
It was then that he realized his clothes were splattered with blood. Fortunately he had a pair of overalls in the back of the van, so he got out and put them on, wiping his shoes with a clump of grass before continuing his journey.
He was very tired by the time he reached the outskirts of London and the sky was growing light. He didn’t dare delay getting to Camden Town but he was so very scared. He had no way of knowing if Miss Marks lived alone. There was no time to check her out, as he had Miss Pemberton.
Driving slowly down Harmood Street he saw that 13A was a basement flat and he felt a c
ertain relief. It would have been much more difficult if she’d lived in a couple of rooms upstairs. He parked around the corner, and after copying Rosie’s address from Miss Pemberton’s address book on to a scrap of paper, he took a heavy claw hammer from a tool-bag in the back of the van, tucked it into his belt, then buttoned his overalls up over it.
Seth rang the bell on the basement door. It was nearly six now and people were coming down the street on their way to work. He stood back in case anyone should glance down into the basement area and see him. It stank of dustbins and cats’ pee. It wasn’t the kind of place he would have expected a nurse to live in.
‘Who is it?’ she called out through the locked door.
Seth looked up towards the street nervously. He hoped there was no one within earshot. ‘It’s Seth,’ he called back. ‘Sorry to call so early, but I’ve got what you wanted.’
The door opened but she had the chain on, and Seth could only see half of her face.
‘I told you to write,’ she said in an irritable voice.
Seth took a deep breath. ‘I know, but I’ve got to go up north to work today and I’ll be gone for weeks. I thought you were in a hurry for it.’
She hesitated. Seth wished he could see her clearly. ‘You can wait till I get back if you like,’ he said, shrugging his shoulders and turning as if about to walk away. ‘But I had to come this way and I thought you’d want it.’
‘You’d better come in, then,’ she said, and closing the door she took off the chain.
Seth smiled with all the charm he could muster as she reopened the door. ‘What a task you set me,’ he said, stepping over the threshold before she could change her mind. ‘That Miss Pemberton was like my old schoolteacher, a real dragon.’
Freda was only half awake, but even so she was alert enough to realize she must be careful with this young man. He would want the rest of his money, and she wondered how she was going to get it out of its hiding place without him seeing how much she had.
‘Any chance of a cup of tea?’ Seth asked cheekily once he was right inside her room. ‘I’ve had a long drive.’ He was somewhat stunned by the squalor. He’d frequently lived in worse, but the way Miss Marks spoke and her haughty manner had given him the idea she would live graciously. There were piles of old newspapers, dust and grime everywhere, and even her recently vacated bed looked as grubby as many he’d slept in. He didn’t want tea or to stay here for a moment longer than necessary, but at the same time he didn’t want to appear too hasty in case she became alarmed.
‘Let me see the address first, then I’ll put the kettle on,’ Freda said. She was not only thrown by this unexpected visit, embarrassed by him seeing where she lived, but also very wary of being tricked by him. She wouldn’t put it past him to give her a false address.
‘She’s in Sussex. In a place called The Grange,’ Seth said, pulling the scrap of paper out of his pocket. ‘Sounds a bit posh. Maybe it’s another nursing home.’
Freda gasped. The Grange was the home of Mr and Mrs Cook. She felt a surge of white-hot anger at herself for not considering earlier that Rosie might have gone to them.
Seth saw her reaction and was puzzled by it. ‘You know that address, don’t you?’ he said.
‘Well, yes,’ she admitted. ‘I’m just surprised to find Rosie didn’t tell me or anyone else that she was going there to work.’
‘Well, the deal’s still the same whether you knew the address or not,’ Seth said quickly. ‘And it took a bit of persuasion to get it out of Miss Pemberton too.’
‘Let me make the tea,’ Freda said quickly. As she turned to go out into the kitchen, she picked up her handbag and took it with her. She knew she had less than three pounds in there, but she didn’t trust Seth not to riffle through it the moment her back was turned. ‘Sit down. I won’t be long.’
She filled the kettle and put it on the gas, then glancing back into the other room to make sure Seth was still sitting down by the window, she bent down and groped under the cooker for the tin box where she kept all her personal papers and cash. It took only a couple of seconds to pull out the notes from a bundle. She put them in her handbag and, putting the address in the box, replaced it under the cooker.
‘Do you take sugar?’ she called out a couple of minutes later, relieved she’d managed this sleight of hand without him seeing anything.
‘Yes, two please,’ Seth replied, and slid his hands into his leather gloves. He was shaking with fear now. It was broad daylight outside, more and more people were out on the streets going to work, and he’d heard someone moving about in the flat above. He had to do what he’d come for and get out quickly.
He heard her turn the tap on again. He stood up, unbuttoned his overalls, took the hammer from his belt, and walked stealthily across the room towards the kitchen. She was bending over the sink swilling round the teapot as he looked in. Lifting the hammer above his head, Seth clenched his teeth and lunged at her, hitting her with full force on the back of the neck.
Freda Barnes didn’t call out. She just slumped forward over the sink, the teapot falling to the floor and shattering.
Seth hit her again, even harder, then, heaving her back on to the floor, he checked her. Her eyes had rolled right back into her head, her mouth was hanging open. She was dead.
He looked down at her in disgust. Her dressing-gown had come loose and he could see down the front of her nightdress. Her tits were huge and flabby and her stomach bulged out beneath them. He kicked her hard in the side for good measure, then reached for her handbag.
As soon as he saw the notes folded just inside it, he knew she must have got them from somewhere out here in the kitchen. It took him only a few minutes to find her box hidden under the cooker and the wad of notes concealed in it, along with the address he’d just given her. He smiled with pure delight; judging by the thickness there was over five hundred pounds. He was glad he’d come.
Seth paused before letting himself out, looking around him one last time. He’d found a few nice pieces of jewellery in a drawer, which, together with the cash she had, puzzled him. Why was she living in such a grim place? More important, however, was why was she so anxious to find Rosie. The two things seemed to be connected, but he couldn’t see how or why.
Chapter Seventeen
Mrs Underwood looked speculatively at the two bottles of milk in the porch as she waited for Miss Pemberton to answer the door. She thought one of the bottles must be from the day before as it was separating, yet her neighbour’s downstairs curtains were still drawn and it was after ten in the morning.
Una Underwood was the seventy-year-old, stick-thin, wizened widow who lived next door to Violet Pemberton. They had a friendly but not close relationship. The social worker often went out early in the morning and returned late at night, so sometimes they didn’t see each other for days on end. But Violet always asked Una to feed her cat if she was going to be away overnight.
Una was puzzled. She had called round as the big tabby had been mewing hungrily around her door earlier. Then she’d noticed Violet’s car was still in its usual parking place just up the road. Walking round the back of the cottage, Una tried the back door. It was locked. The living-room curtains at the back were drawn, so she couldn’t see in. She thought that was very odd too. Violet never drew them in the summer, she always said she liked to watch the sun go down. Even if she had gone off early in the morning by train and forgotten the cat and the milk, somehow she couldn’t imagine her tidy-minded neighbour not pulling back the curtains before she left. Una decided she must get another neighbour with a telephone to ring the welfare office in Bridgwater to find out if Violet was away on business.
An hour later PC Hargreaves, the local policeman, rode up the lane on his bike as Una was polishing her brass door knocker.
‘Morning, Mrs Underwood,’ he called out cheerfully. Resting his bike against her hedge, he took off his helmet and wiped his brow. ‘Whew! It’s hot today. I hear you’re a bit worried about your neighbo
ur.’
‘I’m probably being a terrible fusspot,’ Una said anxiously. She didn’t like people to think she spent all her time watching her neighbour’s comings and goings. She explained about the car, the milk, the drawn curtains and the cat. ‘I got another neighbour to telephone her work, but they haven’t seen or heard from her either for two days. She does get called away on cases sometimes, but it’s not like her to forget to ask me to feed her cat, or to phone in to her office. I’m afraid she might be in there, too ill to answer the door.’
‘Well, let’s put your mind at rest,’ he said soothingly, patting the old lady’s thin shoulder. ‘Would you like to come round there with me? I might have to break a window to get in.’
Una looked even more worried then. ‘I hope she won’t be cross with me,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t want anyone breaking my windows.’
‘I’m sure she’ll be pleased that you cared enough to watch out for her,’ he said. ‘And if she is ill, she’ll be very grateful.’
They walked round to the back of Violet’s together.
‘Well, that’s a bit of luck,’ the policeman said with a smile as he saw there was a small window open by the back door. ‘I’m always telling people to shut their windows when they go out, but all the same it’s handy to find an open one in an emergency.’
He put his arm in and turned the key in the back door. Una went to follow him in. ‘No, you stay there, Mrs Underwood,’ he said. ‘I’ll just take a look round on my own first.’
Rosie Page 49
