Lane: A Case For Willows And Lane

by Peter Grainger

  I would never admit to being lonely, she told herself, but a little more company would be welcome. She could have called Margaret or Stephanie today, of course, and they would have come up to here or she would have gone down into the town to see them. They could have had tea in the shop that overlooks the harbour, and cakes, and hours of nattering about the tourists, but she was already booked by them tomorrow morning because of her birthday, and if they met today, there would be less to talk about then. So, she reflected, I eke out my experiences, I make them last, I measure out my dull existence with tea spoons.

  And at four twenty precisely, there was a knock on the front door. Emily stood up and went to answer it. Door-to-door salespeople were unusual in the town but it might be a meter reader – it was due – or, more likely, charity fundraisers, who seemed to think that everyone who lived in Polcoombe must be a millionaire with a guilty conscience. She straightened her back, found her stern look and prepared to repel boarders.

  Two men, one standing a little further away from the door. The man nearest to her wore a dark grey suit, somewhat inappropriate for the weather, but obviously some sort of business person – though it wasn’t a good suit, she had to say, and it didn’t fit him particularly well. Neither, for some reason, did his skin; it seemed too tightly drawn across the face, making the nose beak-like, and it had an unhealthy pallor, a yellowness that made Emily Willows think that he might have problems with his liver.

  For a moment no-one spoke, and she glanced at the second man. Younger, taller and much bigger, round-shouldered with huge hands hanging loosely by his sides, wearing a shiny bomber-style jacket and cheap, light blue jeans, with white but dirty and heavily scuffed trainers. He seemed to be more interested in looking up and down the street than at the woman whose door his companion had just knocked upon.

  The be-suited man said, ‘Mrs Willows?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I wonder if we might have a word.’

  ‘Do you? Well, it rather depends on who ‘we’ are and what it is that you would like a word about.’

  It’s best to be brisk with door-steppers, Ron used to say – don’t let them get the upper hand. She was already sure that these two characters had nothing to say in which she could possibly be interested.

  The yellow-faced man presented her with a smile of many teeth and much insincerity, but it was his next words that alarmed her because she knew in that instant that he was lying and that they might be dangerous.

  ‘We’re police officers, madam.’

  The lock on the door was a Yale. If she had stepped back quickly and closed it… If she had, even, run out into the street so that the world could see and hear… If she had done anything but what she did, which was to confront them on her doorstep with the famously clichéd ‘Oh, really? I would like to see your warrant cards, please.’

  The same unhealthy grin, as the nearest man reached into his inside jacket pocket whilst simultaneously half-turning towards his companion and saying, ‘All clear?’

  ‘Yes. Get on with it, for Christ’s sake.’

  ‘Certainly, Mrs Willows. Here’s my warrant.’

  He had taken out what appeared to be the bone handle of an old-fashioned knife. As she watched, he rolled it somehow in his fingers and a blade appeared, a single-sided blade, a cut-throat razor. He stepped in close to her as she opened her mouth to call for help or at the very least protest, put his other hand, the left, against her chest and pushed hard, sending her staggering backwards into the hallway. Within seconds both men were inside and the door was closed – no-one could have seen and no-one would hear her scream but she did so anyway, loudly and angrily as she backed away from the grey-suited man into the lounge. He sprang forward with surprising speed and caught her wrist, telling her to shut up – now he had the blade in one hand and her wrist in the other, so she did the appropriate thing and brought up her knee. She was close but not close enough – he swore, raised the blade and then very clearly changed his mind. Instead, he let go of her wrist, bunched his other fist and hit her hard in the face.

  She had never been struck in anger before, not in her entire life. Ronald had been the gentlest, most even-tempered of men, and as a child she had grown up in a safe, clean and polite world where violence was viewed with disapproval and switched off at the wall if it intruded into their young lives. And as she stumbled backwards onto the sofa, with no pain yet, just a lightning strike of stars, she thought, men don’t hit women, men do not hit women, but he has hit me hard in the face and I can already taste blood. I’m going to die, or worse.

  The younger man had watched these events from the doorway of the lounge, as if he was viewing a mildly entertaining scuffle in the street. When it seemed to be over, he came further into the room, passed in front of her and drew the curtains across the patio doors. Then he went through into the dining room and she heard him do the same thing; no-one would be able to see in from outside even if they did manage to get into the back garden. After that, she heard him moving about the house, no doubt making certain that nobody else was home.

  The hatchet-faced man, finally satisfied that her resistance was at an end, straightened up and waved his fist at her. He said, ‘See that? That was me being nice. This,’ now slicing the blade through the air a couple of times, ‘is me being nasty. If neither of them works, you can have a chat with my friend through there. He don’t say a lot, don’t need to. He can crush the bones in your withered old hand just by shaking it.’

  She looked down at her hands, spread either side of her on the sofa. They were not withered at all and she still did pretty well on the pinch test; she knew what was going on – this was the psychological beating, designed to bruise her inside as well as out. She said nothing in reply.

  ‘So, first of all, I need to get a couple of things straight. Just to be clear – you’re Mrs Emily Willows, yes?’

  She nodded.

  ‘And Robert Willows is your son?’

  Another nod but try as she might she could not keep all the fear out of her eyes then. Robert? What had this to do with him?

  ‘We have to be certain, don’t want no mistakes. The second thing is this – if you do as you’re told, you won’t get hurt any more than you have been, and neither will your son. Got that? Do what I tell you, and this will be over in a couple of hours. Something to tell your grandchildren! Except you don’t have any yet, do you? Let’s hope Robert behaves himself as well, otherwise you might never hear the patter of tiny feet. You getting all this?’

  She nodded for a third time, looking him directly in the eye. Her mind was working surprisingly well despite the pain in her cheek and nose, and it had already come to a number of conclusions: this was not a robbery, though she was beginning to wish that it was; she was to be some sort of hostage; Robert was involved in something awful and dangerous; these men had a plan because he had just said “over in a couple of hours”, and they knew things about her family which was almost the worst thing of all. How?

  ‘Good, we’re getting somewhere. Got a downstairs bathroom? Through there? Go in and wash the blood off your face, clean yourself up. Don’t want you looking a mess. Leave the door open. Sixty seconds – go on.’

  In the mirror she could see that there would be a bruise on her cheek and the right side of her nose was painfully sore. She eased it around gingerly but there was no click or grating of bone – probably not broken. She had bled onto her upper lip, so she took the chance to wash her whole face in cold water and gather her senses. Fighting them was out of the question, and she had little in the house she could use as a weapon; if she managed to stab one with a kitchen knife, the other would exact a terrible revenge. She might be able to escape – they had already let her out of their direct line of sight for a minute but they would be watching the windows and doors. Call someone. The landline was on the tiny table in the hallway, and her mobile phone was in her handbag, on the work-surface in the kitchen. If she could call Robert and warn him…

&nb
sp; Hatchet-face was in the bathroom doorway, watching her and scowling – ‘That’s two minutes. You do exactly as you’re told, remember. Back on the sofa.’

  He followed her through the hall, and she heard him rip the plug out of the landline socket. When she was seated again, he said, ‘Where’s your mobile?’

  ‘I cannot remember. I often lose it anyway, and with all this… Shout all you like, I’ll only get more confused.’

  She could see him considering whether this was resistance worth dealing with or simply the truth. After a moment, he said, ‘Do your best to remember. It might not be me asking you next time.’

  The round-shouldered giant of a man came into the lounge and was asked whether it was all clear – apparently it was.

  ‘OK, then. You watch her and I’ll make the call. Let’s have the family snap, first.’

  He took out a phone. The younger man stepped in behind her and put one of those huge, shovel-like hands on her shoulder – an act of violation that made her grit her teeth. She caught the faint odours of stale sweat and greasy food. The phone clicked and its owner said, ‘There we are, all done.’

  So that was the proof that she was held hostage, and the chances were that Robert would see the picture soon. She could only imagine how he would feel, and the imagining frightened her. What on earth was he involved in? ‘Let’s hope Robert behaves himself’ the man had said. The sickly, yellow face was watching her own closely and he saw the fear; she knew then that this was his specialist subject, fear and its uses.

  He looked at the image on his phone and said, ‘You don’t take a bad picture for an old dear. Anyway, I’m off to have a word with my people. You just sit there and make yourself comfortable, and then when I come back you can make us a nice cup of tea. Milk and two sugars.’

  He made the two-fingered gesture that means ‘eyes’ to the man behind her and left the room. The remaining man had let go of her shoulder and stood in silence; at that point she was too afraid to turn around and look at him. The yellow man was thoroughly unpleasant and smug with his own knowledge of that fact, but the impassive, impersonal threat emanating from his partner was somehow more alarming.

  The call was made from just inside the front door, where he imagined that she would hear nothing. Not so. She heard distinctly at the beginning ‘Just a little slap, all quiet now…’ and then some monosyllabic responses – someone was questioning him about what he had done and said. Then she picked out ‘Yeah, Jami’s in place but we don’t need him, I told you-’ before he was silenced again by whoever was on the other end. Jami – an odd name, not Jamie but sounding more like the word some people use for lucky. But remember it, it could be important when this comes to trial, for she had no doubt that it would do so, no doubt that Robert would not let them get away with this. Then, at the end, she heard, ‘Yeah, the photo’s ready to go. Just let me know when.’

  Emily Willows took down three mugs from the glass-fronted cabinet and put a little milk in each one, though she could not imagine that she would take even a sip for herself; not because she was too upset but because she would not engage in the parody of drinking tea with friends. Without turning around, she moved the teapot a few inches to the left and then a few more. The sharp-faced man had positioned himself in the one chair in the lounge that gave him a partial view through into the kitchen but the work surface extended further round than he could see – and that’s where she had left her handbag. The kettle was about to boil, giving three or four minutes before it might seem to be taking too long. If she could reach the phone and send a message to someone, anyone, there would be a chance of rescue, though quite how that might be accomplished she had no idea. But she could not sit and do nothing – that was not in her nature.

  So she poured the water into the pot, all the while feeling around in the bag – and there it was, the phone. It would be switched on and all she needed to do was swipe across, there was no lock and no passcode. She stirred the tea in the pot with her right hand, her eyes looking left at the screen. Messages, new message…

  To whom, and what do you write without it sounding like a joke? Not Robert, of course, now that she thought about it, because he was involved and she did not know how – getting a message from her might put him in more danger. The same for Marie. Can one text the police? She had no idea. In the end she found Stephanie’s number – Stephanie was very sensible and would never assume that Emily was playing any sort of prank.

  She had managed to type Help I’m- when a hand, a massive hand, reached down over her shoulder and took the phone and the handbag in a single grasp. She flinched and turned to see the oval, expressionless face of the big man, the brown eyes reading what was on the screen before handing it to the other, who had come in behind him.

  ‘I like a bit of spirit, I do,’ said the yellow-faced one. Then he dropped the phone onto the tiled floor and stamped three times with his heel until there was a splintering sound. She thought then that he would hit her again but instead he simply took the handbag with him back into the lounge and sat down in the same seat as he began to go through the contents. After a few seconds he shouted through to her, ‘And I don’t like it too strong. Hurry up and pour the tea, mother!’ The younger man remained in the kitchen, watching her.

  She sat back down on the sofa, the tea on the coffee table in front of her. The big man had disappeared once more, going around the house again, and the other was back on his phone, the contents of her handbag on the seat beside him. His phone buzzed in his hand – he opened and read the message.

  ‘Bit of a hold-up. Never mind. This is all very cosy, ain’t it?’

  She said nothing, and thought about whether anyone else might raise the alarm. She wasn’t expected anywhere today – like most days – and so it was unlikely. This could go on for hours and no-one would know. What did he mean about a hold-up? How much longer could this go on? And what about Marie – had she also been taken hostage? She should be at work in Truro but who knows?

  And then the front doorbell rang.

  The younger man appeared as silently as ever and the two of them looked at each other before a nod of the head sent him towards the hallway. She could see him peering from behind the curtain that covered the side pane of the door, and then he tiptoed back into the lounge.

  ‘It’s the tart from next door.’

  How did they know that? How long had they been watching her house?

  ‘Friend of yours?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Instinct told her that was the better answer.

  ‘You’re going to answer it and send her packing. Don’t open the door all the way – make some excuse. I’ll be behind you with this’ – he waved the blade – ‘and don’t forget, your son’s in a lot of bother if you don’t behave yourself. Get rid of her.’

  Chapter Three

  Emily Willows opened the door to forty five degrees, enough to show herself but not much of the inside of the house behind her. Ms Lane stood a couple of feet back from the welcome mat, holding a clear Pyrex oven dish in her hands, and when she saw Emily, she smiled brightly.

  ‘Hello. I thought it was time that I returned this. It was weeks ago I made that apple pie – when my sister came down. I’m very sorry that I’ve hung onto it so long!’

  She held it out towards Emily, and for just a moment Emily failed to understand because it was not her dish and there never had been such an exchange of ovenware or intimacy between them. She almost said, ‘I think you’ve made a mistake’, and then she caught the look in her neighbour’s eye and understood. Those eyes darted past her momentarily, into the hallway and through to the segment of the lounge that was visible from the front door.

  Emily said, ‘Oh, yes, thank you. Very good of you to…’ and took the dish.

  ‘Hot again, isn’t it? I know you’re not keen on it. How are you this afternoon?’

  The hands that now held the dish were shaking a little, and Emily wondered whether that would be enough to warn her neighbour, b
ut she ought to say something in reply. She had the bizarre sensation that she had somehow stepped into an improvised performance by the South East Cornwall Amateur Dramatics Society.

  ‘Yes dear, you’re right. I’ll be glad when it cools down. I’d invite you in but I am feeling a little under the weather. Maybe tomorrow…’

  She thought about the men behind her, hiding and listening. The one with the knife was several feet back; she could easily step into the outside and pull the door to, but there was Robert, and maybe Marie. They had warned her and she had no idea what the situation was for them. She had been hit, threatened and photographed in the past half an hour. At least one of the men was armed – they were serious.

  But Miss Lane had surely seen enough – she would see the puffy redness on her face, and the whole game with the dish was very clever, wasn’t it? It was just a pretence, to check on her neighbour… The fact that she, Emily, had accepted the dish and gone along with the charade was a clear signal that she was in some sort of trouble. Their eyes met briefly then, and sure enough, there was a nod that conveyed something as the young woman spoke.

  ‘Yes, of course, Emily – I’ll call round again tomorrow. Goodbye.’

  And Emily didn’t want her to go, even though this was a most unexpected chance of salvation, and even though she had no idea how her name had been discovered. Ms Lane turned away and then became very still. From the left-hand side, Emily saw the big man appear. He stepped behind her neighbour onto the path that led to the wicker gate, blocking her escape. In his right hand he held a gun, close to his own body, pointing it at Ms Lane. Then there was a movement behind Emily and a hand pulled her back into the house.