Footsteps in the Blood

by Jennie Melville

  Nella’s room smelled of disinfectant and kitchen soap as if someone had scrubbed it throughout. Poor Nella, not even a ghost could make headway against the smell of carbolic.

  But there was no sense of a ghost here, Nella hadn’t hung around. Her spirit, if she had left one behind, was probably back in the library at the local polytechnic, trying to locate a way forward in life. It was what she had always been trying for, only life itself had failed to co-operate.

  The room was empty. Darker, too, than it need have been because a blind was drawn down over one window. Charmian raised it to let the light from the street outside reach the table by the bed.

  The bed itself had been stripped and the mattress rolled up, but a few books and papers lay on the table.

  Charmian flipped through the collection. A couple of blue Penguins of the sort familiar to all hard-up would-be intellectuals: one on withcraft, one on sleep, and another on the early Celts. All old, all second-hand, all well read. Underneath them were notes of some of the lectures Nella had attended.

  Charmian read them quickly; they attested that Nella had not been a good notetaker.

  Something fluttered out. A bit of newspaper. She picked it up, seeing at once that it was another copy of the photograph of herself. The one that had interested Nella so much that she had stuck it on the wall.

  She took the cutting over to the window to look at it again. Wait a minute. Not just her photograph. Unconsciously, you always put yourself in the centre, the great old ego push, but there were other people in this picture too.

  That was Jake Henley’s profile, walking offstage. Quite right, he’d been involved in that case, been in court, walked out, free and pleased with himself, even if she had stung him with some of her comments. He’d got away with it again. You could see that in the cocky tilt of his head.

  But in the background, staring straight at the camera, was the blurred face of another character.

  I know that face, thought Charmian. By God, I do.

  She tucked it in her pocket and made her way out to the car.

  As she travelled through the streets, threading her way neatly through the traffic, the policeman whose duty it had been to protect her, and who had lost her, reported this loss to Sergeant Vander.

  The news was transmitted to the Incident Room in River Walk, Merrywick, where an evening conference was taking place. They were all there: Chief Inspector Father, Inspector Elman, George Rewley and Dolly Barstow. Only Sergeant Vander had not yet arrived; he had many important responsibilities – Charmian was only one of them – and he delegated where he could. But he was in his car and travelling in a hurry towards River Walk. He no longer seemed so cheerful.

  Elman groaned. ‘What’s she up to? Oh hell, she ought to be able to look after herself. We’ll have to pray she can. Oh, we’ll get Henley, I’m not worried about that. He can’t get away far. Or for long.’

  ‘About the bones,’ said George Rewley. ‘I think they might be helpful …

  The telephone rang, and Elman picked it up. He listened carefully, then replaced the receiver. ‘Forget the bones for the moment. We’ve got something. There was a fingerprint on the bloody cape. And it matches a print found in Fisher’s room. And it seems that under pressure DC Richards, our dear Red Rick, has come up with a suggestion.’ He looked at them. ‘ We have a name.’

  Charmian had a name, and an address also. She drove towards Merrywick, avoiding the street where Dolly Barstow and Kate Cooper lived, and passing the house where Marg Foggerty had died and the grassy, bloodstained stretch where the bones had been found.

  She stopped outside the parade of shops in Merrywick. There was the house agents which had been involved in an earlier murder that had interested her. It had changed hands once again and had a new name, but it was open for business on this autumn evening although few people were buying houses this season. The Indian restaurant next door was also open, but the dress shop further down was closed. The library had lighted windows and was doing a brisk business. The Keyright Employment Agency was open too. A woman was just leaving.

  Charmian recognised her as Mrs Beadle, that well-known local inhabitant.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Beadle,’ she said as they passed. ‘Looking for a job?’

  ‘Not likely, not with him,’ she tossed her head back to Edward Dick’s establishment. ‘Used to help his mother out sometimes, just as a friend, but he doesn’t want me. Keeps half the place locked up. Always did, even when the old lady was alive. Not that she was herself for a long time before that. Bit senile, you know.’ She was carrying a black plastic bag that was clearly too bulky for comfort. ‘ No, but I do his washing. Once a month.’

  ‘It’s too heavy for you.’

  ‘Don’t I know it. And I’m off to play bingo in Slough. Didn’t want to take it but he insisted.’

  ‘Put it in my car, I’ll drop it in tomorrow,’ said Charmian, She walked towards Keyright, and pushed open the door. The spaniel, Henry, who was crouched by the reception desk, where no receptionist sat, stood up nervously. He seemed to be the only one on duty.

  ‘Mr Dick?’

  Edward Dick, who had seen her coming and been waiting behind the door, hit her hard on the head; she fell forward.

  When she came out of the darkness into the light again, bright, bright light was shining directly into her eyes. She closed her eyes. Then opened them again, memory flooding back.

  She was looking at a white ceiling, she was flat on her back and she could not move. Her hands were crossed at the wrist and tied in front of her, her feet were tied together at the ankle.

  She moved her head to study the room. She saw bleak, white walls, with two upright chairs against them the couch on which she lay, and a long table across the room. Nothing on the table. Blinds covered the one window and the bright lighting came from several spots, one focused directly and cruelly on her face. It was getting very hot. She was sweating. Then she became aware of her state.

  She was naked, stripped bare.

  A shudder started inside her and rippled outwards up and down her skin.

  Edward Dick’s face appeared from behind and hung over her. ‘Well, here we are. Don’t worry, we’re quite private here. No one will see us.’

  She answered something, but what it was did not seem to make sense. There was the word fool but whether she was the fool, or Eddie Dick, was not clear. She tried to sit up.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Edward Dick again. ‘I’m not going to rape you.’ His face was quite serious, not a grin anywhere, but she was conscious he was laughing inside. ‘That silly girl Fisher thought I was after sex with you. She didn’t know me, but she deserved what she got. Nasty spying pig. Blackmail, if you please,’ he laughed. ‘It was a pleasure to shoot her. I’m a good shot. She hadn’t got anything on me, though. I got into that house through a back window and took her papers. Such as they were. I needn’t have killed her, really, and then Marg wouldn’t have seen us together and I wouldn’t have had to kill her either. Still, I don’t know, it was coming on as a good idea, You couldn’t trust her. Can’t trust any woman.’

  His breath smelled, Charmian thought. Anger gave her the strength to raise her head and shoulders. Eddie Dick moved round and appeared in front of her. He was carrying a camera towards a tripod.

  ‘No, you’re not to my taste at all. Dear old Marg was more my sort of girl, but I couldn’t let her go on, more’s the pity. She was unreliable, couldn’t keep a still tongue in her head. She was a danger, poor cow.’ He pushed Charmian back. ‘I’m not going to eat you, either.’

  But she had found her tongue. ‘ You’re a fool.’

  ‘Name me no names now.’ He sounded blithe, as if nothing could touch him. With returning alertness, she wondered if he was high on something. Not alcohol, she could smell sourness but no drink, and he had certainly put his face close enough. ‘Not exactly eat, just photograph, humiliate you …’ he liked that word so much he said it twice. ‘Then kill you. I might put you in the river
then. Or drive you out to the sea. I’ve got a little dinghy down at Shore ham. You might be in bits by that time, dear, but you won’t mind. Not then. Earlier, perhaps it may hurt a bit. Hope so.’

  He put his face almost against hers. ‘ I’ve wanted to hurt you for a long long time. I thought I had knocked your head off that night, but it was some other poor cow.’ He was breathing heavily and gustily. ‘Forget the fire, you ought to have burned in it, but you didn’t. That was nothing, this is it.’

  And you walked into it yourself, said a voice inside Charmian. You’re the fool. She could feel the sweat running down her back.

  ‘I’ve watched you strut around,’ he said, ‘and I’ve hated you and wanted … Got my phone calls, did you? So you knew it was coming …’ His own words seemed to confuse him, so he stopped and started again. ‘I thought, I’ll get you, you’re the one. All women are the same, but you are the worst sort. You came into court and talked about porn and how evil it was and how people like me and Jake Henley were not men, not men at all,’ He leaned forward and hammered on her shoulder. ‘And I am a man, I am a man.’

  Charmian kept quiet. A murderer and a porn merchant. He had dealt in porn from the Keyright Employment Agency. What better cover for people corning and going? Not only had he been well placed to deal in it at a high level, but placed as he was, with young people coming in all the time, he had probably been able to recruit subjects as well. Had he tried with Nella? She didn’t have to ask why he had killed Nella: the girl had had a shot at blackmail and threats, poor child.

  Charmian thought she understood about Marg Foggerty, too, now. Marg (had he admitted to some sexual relationship there? Better remember, just in case) had been going to tell what she knew about Nella’s death and the whole dirty business with him and Jake Henley and the porn ring before clearing out herself.

  Had Henley recruited Edward Dick? Or had they just naturally come each other’s way as two dirty customers interested in the same trade?

  Judging by the look of the room she was in, some of the artwork had been done here too. The more clinical variety, not the sort that needed a homelike atmosphere.

  She tried to relax, the thing was to calm him down, not to inflame him more. She seemed to have done a bit too much of that in her life already.

  ‘Put your legs up. From the knee, Yes, like that.’

  Let him photograph her in any position he liked. What the hell! If she survived, then she’d see to it that those pictures did not circulate. Do her no good at all. Even in this extremity, she could visualise the reaction of her male colleagues.

  ‘Open them up. Wider now.’

  And if she didn’t survive? Well, she wouldn’t be worrying about pictures then, either.

  Wordlessly, she did what he asked. She could smell the thick odour of cigar smoke on his hands and in his hair. He had untied her legs so that she could part them, now he untied her wrists. She took a deep breath, but was careful to let her body stay limp like a doll. She closed her eyes, but inside, she was ready, waiting for the moment. I’ve got your laundry outside, Eddie Dick. There will be traces of blood on the clothes. I’ll get you for Nella and Marg if I get out of here.

  She was determined to get out.

  ‘Let’s do this,’ he was muttering. ‘Let’s do this and this.’ He was sinking deeper and deeper into his own fantasy, still photographing.

  Then, from beneath the bench on which she was lying, a noise. A groan, a retching sound, and a sound of heaving sickness.

  Edward Dick was checked. He stood still for a second. ‘Trix!’ he said. And in that second, Charmian threw herself at him.

  She hit the bridge of his nose so that he screamed, and before the scream was fully out, she had kneed him in the groin. He grabbed at her but naked bodies have their own built-in slipperiness, and she had been sweating under the lights.

  There was only one possible weapon in the room, and that was his camera. Charmian grabbed it and hit him on the temple with it, hard.

  His foot slipped in the dog’s sick and he fell to the ground, striking his head hard on the edge of the bench.

  From underneath the bench, a furry ginger-and-white snout stuck out, and two anxious eyes looked at her. A great bandage covered the fur where a glancing bullet wound had bitten deep, but the dog had manged to work it loose so that it trailed from her like a train. She had been wounded when her master fired a shot at a woman she had seen but did not know, she had worms, and she was in pup. Of course she felt sick.

  He’s got two dogs, thought Charmian. Two bloody dogs and this is the one that got wounded when he killed Marg. Why didn’t we realise you could have more than one dog?

  It had been Trixie’s blood on the grass, Trixie’s blood he had used for the word WOMAN. She had been hit by a bullet meant for Marg Foggerty, going as his sad furry chaperone on that visit.

  Perhaps one of the dogs always went with him when he visited Foggerty dressed up in his gear. What a relationship.

  He must have taken Trixie home over the grass because dogs need grass, not realising how profusely she had bled until he came out again with Henry.

  Or perhaps he had thought that Marg had crawled out on to the grass, bleeding. No wonder he had looked upset that night. Charmian’s stomach gave a heave of revulsion. She was in danger of being sick like the bitch.

  ‘All right, Trixie,’ she said. ‘ I might find a use for that bandage.’ She looked round for her clothes.

  She tied Edward Dick’s hands and feet with the stained bandage and had just got herself into her dress when the first police car sent out by Inspector Elman drew up in the street outside.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Thursday, October 26, and afterwards

  She had some clothes on as the police team crowded in. Yes, that was good, but unfortunately the photographs had survived. There must be half-a-dozen or so, damn it. They had been collected and would be developed and produced as evidence.

  She knew in her heart that, evidence or not, unprofessional conduct or not, she would have destroyed the photographs if she could have got to them in time. Any woman would.

  But I am not ashamed of my body, she told herself fiercely. I will not let them force that kind of shame upon me.

  ‘I wish I could have killed him.’ She had not done so. Eddie Dick was unconscious but not dead. Not her fault, as it turned out. He had hit his head on the side of the bench as he fell to the ground. The police sturgeon had pointed out the trianglar shape of the wound, and Forensics had found blood and skin on the corner of the bench. They would be able to tell the order of the blows too, no doubt, and work out which was the important one. Not that it mattered to her. He was laid out, and she was glad of it.

  An animated group had assembled in the River Walk Incident Room. There was Sergeant Vander, newly arrived, who was angry. Charmian should not have been out on her own, ‘on the loose’ as he put it. Someone was going to be in trouble and it wouldn’t be him if he could help it. Inspector Elman was on the telephone to Chief Inspector Father who had been called from an official dinner to hear the news of the arrest of Eddie Dick. Those two were quietly happy. The information about the photographs, so far undeveloped, was being discreetly handed over by Elman with an expressionless face that told all.

  George Rewley was on another telephone talking to Dolly Barstow. She had news for him from Cheasey. He had asked her to ask some question for him, which she had done. She had then taken Mrs Henley, mother of Jake, to look at some remains.

  In one corner of the room was the vet who had treated Dick’s mongrel bitch. The animal had been brought round to the Incident Room by Charmian who felt she owed the creature something.

  ‘Poor bitch.’ The vet gave her patient a gentle pat on the head. ‘Of course she felt sick, she’s in pup. Fair-sized litter tucked away inside there. I’ll take her with me. Come on, Trix.’

  ‘What about the puppies?’ asked Charmian nervously.

  ‘Let you know,’ the vet said as she l
eft, the mongrel trotting happily by her side. Sanity had at last entered the dog’s life and no animal had ever welcomed it more.

  Charmian drank some coffee. She had tidied her hair, put on some fresh makeup and felt better, but what she wanted to do was go home and have a long hot bath in scented water. She needed cleaning.

  But that was a wrong thought and she pushed it from her. I will not wear shame, she told herself.

  Elman came over to her. ‘Glad you picked up Dick’s dirty clothes for the month. Forensics might get something from them. Traces to link him with Foggerty and Fisher. And there’s the house, bound to be something there. His staff in the agency might have something to offer too. Must have noticed a bit.’

  He was carefully not mentioning the photographs. But the news was out and running. It would spread through the masculine-oriented police world with the speed of light. Perhaps Charmian Daniels world turn down the offer of a job here? Maybe even resign and get out of police work altogether? There were certain things women could not take.

  Elman went on: ‘Dick belonged to a society that dresses up in World War Two uniform and acts out battles. He was sometimes General Eisenhower and sometimes Patton, old Blood and Guts himself. He fancied himself as the Americans, if seems. That’s where he got the uniform cape. You buy them in special stores, the secretary of the society has just told me.’ He was unsurprised at the variety and strangeness of human tastes. ‘People,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘You off, ma’am?’

  ‘I will be, when I’ve made my peace with Sergeant Vander. I’m afraid it’s going to take some time for him to forgive me for shaking off his man.’

  ‘Feels a fool,’ said Elman blandly. ‘No one likes that.’

  ‘No.’ Charmian met his gaze bravely. ‘ By the way, I am accepting an offer I’ve had to head a new unit in this Force. I shall be working here as one of you. Thought you’d like to know.’ She knew the subtle damage the story of the photographs could do her, but her determination had hardened. She could fight for herself. And for the sake of the young ones coming up behind her, those like Dolly Barstow, she must do it.