Upon A Dark Night

by Peter Lovesey

  ‘Oh. Tuesday or Wednesday.’

  Rose wondered if she could hold out so long. ‘Wouldn’t it be simpler all round if I took a train home this afternoon? You wouldn’t have to pay for the flat and you two could enjoy your holiday without bothering about me.’

  ‘I thought we’d been through that,’ Doreen said in her brisk, assertive way. ‘We couldn’t possibly enjoy ourselves in the knowledge that you’ve gone off again. You’re in no state to cope on your own. Besides, you don’t know where you live.’

  ‘Hounslow, you said.’

  She gave a smile that said she could trump anything. ‘Yes, but I didn’t tell you the address, did I? And I won’t, just in case you get ideas of wandering off.’

  ‘Don’t bother,’ Rose said with a glare. ‘I haven’t got enough for a train ticket.’

  They toiled right up to Lansdown Crescent by way of Somerset Place. The panorama of the city, the limestone walls gleaming in the thin autumnal sunshine, was worth the climb. Against all her inclinations, Rose had to concede that you could do worse than pass a few days here.

  Doreen took a wallet from her handbag and handed across two ten-pound notes. ‘Take it. Really. You may want to do some shopping. Tomorrow we’ll go into town together and get some more food in. Make a note of anything you need. Would it suit you better if I came in the afternoon?’

  She came alone again. Jerry, she said, sent his apologies. He was still quite poorly. Rose found herself unkindly wondering if Jerry’s upset stomach might bring a premature end to the holiday.

  The possibility didn’t seem to have crossed Doreen’s mind, because she insisted on buying Rose a set of towels and three days’ supply of groceries. They had tea and pastries in Jolly’s department store.

  ‘How did you spend yesterday evening?’

  ‘Reading.’

  ‘One of those books in the flat?’

  ‘An old Georgette Heyer. I don’t want anything more demanding.’

  ‘You’re still blocked – your memory, I mean?’

  ‘Unfortunately.’

  They were so laden with shopping that Doreen suggested a taxi. She was less bossy today, and Rose quite enjoyed her company. They emerged into Milsom Street to discover that this was the Bath version of a rush hour and all the cabs coming down from George Street were occupied. They stood uncertainly, watching the steady one-way flow of traffic.

  ‘Perhaps we should start walking.’

  ‘There are buses. We’d better find out if any of them go up to the Square,’ said Doreen.

  Unexpectedly, a driver flashed his headlights.

  ‘Look, someone’s seen us,’ Rose said elatedly. She lifted a bag in salute and started towards the car. He had braked and was holding up the traffic.

  Behind her, blocked by other people, Doreen shouted her name. Urgently. It came out almost as a scream. At the same time, Rose got a clear sight of the driver, and she knew him.

  He was the man who had tried to grab her outside Harmer House. She recognised his wide, fixed, unfriendly grin, and it petrified her. He was flapping his hand, beckoning to her.

  She felt her coat grabbed from behind and for a moment she thought she was about to be forced into that car again, but it was Doreen tugging her away, shouting, ‘What’s wrong with you? Come on!’

  The man swung open his door and stepped out.

  Rose dropped her shopping, shattering something in the bag and spreading a stream of liquid across the pavement. She turned and let Doreen force her through the door of the nearest shop, which was Jolly’s. They dashed through the cosmetics section, rattling the merchandise. Rose glanced fearfully behind her and a display of perfumes on a glass-topped table narrowly escaped destruction. She veered left, past bemused shoppers, and was confronted by the theatrical-looking double staircase that dominates the centre of the store.

  Behind her, Doreen said, ‘Not the stairs.’

  They cut to the right, around the staircase and into the menswear department, all jackets on hangers, up a few steps and into an area enclosed on three sides which turned out to be the suit-room. Down more steps to the level they’d just left, past a jigging blur of socks and shorts, and back to where they had just come from. A silver-haired shop assistant snatched up a phone and spoke into it, his alarmed eyes on them.

  Rose was losing all confidence. The place was a maze. She fully expected to come out at Milsom Street again. The only untried way ahead was to the left and up a different staircase, with the risk of getting trapped on a floor that led nowhere.

  Doreen spoke the obvious. ‘We’ve got no choice.’

  The stairs had two right-angled turns and brought them up to the household section, which looked depressingly like another dead end until they turned left and saw a way through.

  ‘The restaurant’s up here somewhere,’ Doreen confidently claimed. ‘There are some back stairs if we can only find them.’

  Finding the restaurant was not so simple, and that was not the only problem. They started along one aisle, only to be confronted by a uniformed security man hunched like a wrestler. But their immediate about-turn brought them face to face with the exit sign and the stairs Doreen had spotted earlier.

  Through the door they dashed, and down what felt like far too many stairs, but with promising glimpses through the windows of a narrow road that was definitely not Milsom Street. Expecting to find a way out at the bottom, they found themselves instead among displays of women’s raincoats and hats.

  But Doreen pointed to a door at the end.

  They emerged in the street at the back of the store. It was narrow and quiet, with antique shops of the sort you never see anybody go into.

  ‘This way. Don’t slow up now.’

  ‘It was him,’ Rose said. ‘That thug who tried to grab me the other day. I nearly got in his car before I saw who it was.’

  ‘You prat. After all the warnings I gave you.’

  ‘I thought it was some bloke being helpful.’

  ‘Didn’t I warn you to be on your guard? Didn’t I?’

  ‘I’m bloody scared, Doreen.’

  ’You ‘re scared? How do you think I feel?’

  They had stopped running. They were both short of breath, but nobody was in sight behind them.

  ‘Did he follow us into the store?’ Rose asked.

  ‘If he did, we shook him off.’

  The road came out at the corner of a vast square with a grotesque obelisk at the centre partially hidden by some mighty plane trees. The two women looked nervously at the traffic moving clockwise around the margin.

  ‘Over there,’ said Doreen.

  Rose’s heart thumped again. ‘What?’

  ‘Taxis. Outside the hotel.’

  One taxi moved away from the entrance to the Francis just as another with a passenger drew up. Doreen made a reckless beeline across the road, shouting, ‘Taxi!’

  Rose was on the point of following. She looked at the flow of cars, trying to spot a gap. One flashed its lights and she nearly had heart failure, but the driver was a woman, and she was signaling that it would be safe to cross.

  She made it to the other side. Doreen had already secured the cab. They collapsed into the rear seat. The taxi moved off.

  She grasped Doreen’s arm. ‘Thank God for that.’

  Doreen did not respond. She had turned and was staring out of the rear window.

  ‘What is it?’ Rose asked, alarmed again.

  ‘Nothing.’ Doreen turned to face the front, flicking the loose hair from her face. ‘Just my nerves.’

  Not entirely believing her, Rose took a look herself. There was only a blue mini behind them, followed by a white van. It was a red car she dreaded seeing. A big red Toyota.

  ‘The way he looked at me,’ she said aloud, with a shudder.

  When they drew up outside the house in St James’s Square, there was no other car behind them.

  ‘You’ll come in, won’t you?’ Rose insisted.

  Doreen nodded whilst f
inding her money for the fare.

  Rose waited, looking sharply left and right. Just then a red Toyota saloon nosed into the Square from the St James’s Street side.

  ‘Doreen!’

  Doreen heard the shout and guessed what it meant. She didn’t wait for change from the note she’d given the driver. Without even a glance along the street, she stepped to the front door, unlocked and ushered Rose inside and slammed the door.

  ‘I think it was him.’

  ‘Darling, red cars are two a penny.’

  They went down the stairs to the basement. ‘How are you doing? I’m shattered,’ said Rose.

  ‘Me, too. I’ll make tea. Calm our nerves.’

  ‘Don’t you dare put anything in it. He’s out there somewhere and I want to be alert.’

  ‘Now cut the crap, Rose. You’re safe with me.’ For the normally demure Doreen, this was strong talk.

  Over tea, they assessed the position. Rose insisted she had seen the red car entering the Square as they were getting out of the taxi. Doreen pointed out that even if it were the same car – which was unlikely – and even if the driver had spotted them going into the building – which she doubted – he had no way of entering without a key and he didn’t know which flat they were using. There was someone else’s name against the doorbell, two names, in fact, left by the previous tenants.

  ‘Could I move in to your boarding house?’

  ‘Not possible,’ said Doreen. ‘All the other rooms are booked.’

  ‘Is it nearby?’

  ‘Of course. Just round the corner, in Marlborough Street. I was going to show you, wasn’t I, but we missed the chance.’

  ‘It isn’t safe here any more. I’m going back to Hounslow.’

  ‘We’ve been through that, Rose. You’re not going anywhere without us, and Jerry’s in no state to travel. I’ll tell you what I’ll do. In the morning, I’ll ask at the tourist office. They may have another flat on their list. But you’ll be lucky to get a place as nice as this.’

  To her credit, she stayed for over an hour.

  ‘Got a grip on your nerves?’ Doreen asked.

  ‘I’m not nervous,’ Rose retorted. ‘I can assess my situation, can’t I?’

  ‘You still want to move out?’ Doreen enquired before leaving.

  ‘Definitely.’

  Left alone, she admitted to some qualms, putting out the living-room light in case it could be seen through the high, barred windows at the front. After fixing the safety-chain, she went into the bedroom and tried to interest herself in Georgette Heyer’s regency romance. Another night in this regency basement exercised her imagination much more.

  A few times she heard other tenants use the front door of the building and hoped that they closed it properly behind them. There seemed to be people living in the two top flats, but she’d heard nothing from the ground floor above her.

  After an hour or so, more to occupy herself than because she fancied food, she went into the kitchen and selected a meal from the packets Doreen had stacked in the fridge. The yogurts, the apple juice and half a dozen eggs hadn’t made it back to the flat; they must have been in the bag she had dropped outside Jolly’s. A happy find for someone, or a nice gooey mess, she thought, trying to smile.

  In the twenty minutes it took to heat a quiche, she prepared a salad, taking her time, washing each leaf and chopping everything finely, humming to drown the silence. She had no liking for television, but if the flat had contained a set, it would have provided some background sound.

  When it was ready she had only a little of the food, sitting on a stool facing the window over the draining-board. She could be reasonably confident that the grinning man wouldn’t appear on that side of the house. The kitchen was at the rear of the terrace, overlooking an enclosed yard. And since the house was built on a sloping site, the window was a good ten feet above the ground outside. Even so, she glanced at it from time to time.

  She threw most of the meal away, washed up and returned to the bedroom to read the book. The evening was passing. In a while she would change into her night clothes. I slept here last night, she told herself, and I can do it again. But you were given a sedative last night, another inner voice reminded her.

  She made a pledge with herself that she would read one more chapter before undressing. The clock showed 9.45.

  She turned the page and her doorbell rang.

  She went rigid.

  Be sensible. Think this through. Doreen is the only person who knows you’re here. It’s not that late. Very likely she’s had her evening meal and decided to call in and make sure you’re all right.

  She got off the bed and went into the living-room without switching on the light.

  But Doreen has the keys, her panicky inner voice reminded her, so she has no need to ring. She could let herself in through the front door.

  On the other hand, Doreen may have rung as a kindness to me, just once, to let me know she’s out there, and coming in.

  It rang again. Rose’s heart gave such a thump it was painful.

  Not Doreen, then. It has to be a mistake, someone pressing the wrong button in the dark. Ignore it. They’ll find the right bell in a moment. Or they’ll give up and go away.

  They did neither. There was a pause of about half a minute and then she heard a new sound, of footsteps crossing the pavement. Heavy steps. Surely a man. The visitor had given up ringing and was walking off.

  Or was he?

  Instead of getting fainter, the steps increased in strength, coming closer. Then she realised why the sound appeared so close. Level with the top pane of the living-room window was a section of the street. Against the railings right outside the window she could see his shoes and the part of his trousers below the knees, caught in the street light. And as she watched, petrified, the legs bent like a drawbridge. First a hand appeared, dangling below the level of the knees, and then a face, at an angle, straining to see into the room.

  The grinning man.

  She reacted by taking a step backwards. The back of her leg touched a chair and she cried out in terror. The light was off, so it was unlikely he could see her, but she could see him. She dared not move again.

  He shone a torch into the room.

  The beam picked out the bits of furniture, flicking up and down. Then it found her feet and moved up her body, dazzling her.

  She bolted through the door.

  He had seen her for sure.

  There were iron bars across the living-room window, so he could not possibly get into the flat that way, she told herself, standing in the kitchen, shaking, her hands clasped in front of her.

  The bell rang again.

  Some chance.

  Then she heard a sound like an echo, a fainter ringing, somewhere else in the house. He must have pressed someone else’s doorbell.

  It sounded again, faintly, higher in the house.

  Then there were footsteps on the stairs. One of the other tenants was coming down to open the door. This was a danger that hadn’t crossed her mind. She had to stop them. They were quick, light steps, still descending.

  She ran to the door of the flat and felt for the handle. The door would open only a fraction because the safety chain was in place. She fumbled with the chain in the darkness, wasting precious seconds. When she managed to release it and look out, she was too late. The person from upstairs was at the front door, opening it. She heard him say, ‘Yes?’

  She tried slamming her door, but it came to a grating stop – the dangling safety chain caught between the edge and the frame. With a cry of terror, she abandoned it and ran through the flat to the kitchen. There was no back door to this basement. The only means of escape was through the window over the draining board. She didn’t hesitate. The fastening was stiff, but her strength was superhuman at this minute. She thrust the window open, climbed on the draining board and jumped into the dark back yard.

  Part Two… Either by Suicide…

  Fifteen

  Ten days
after his hypertension due to underwork was diagnosed, Diamond did something about it. He went to work on a Sunday morning. The average Sunday in a police station is busier than outsiders realise. The rowdies and the drunks emerge from a night in the cells and Saturday night’s alarms and indiscretions are sorted out. Occasionally a serious incident needs investigating. On the other hand, the phone rings less and the top brass are not around. Or not expected to be. Diamond was surprised, not to say shocked, to have the new Assistant Chief Constable walk into his office. On a Sunday morning a man of his rank ought to be sitting in the Conservative Club knocking back malt whisky.

  The ACC parked himself in the armchair and said as if he had just discovered the origin of the universe, ‘Have you ever noticed that people here get depressed?’

  Diamond frowned. ‘Can’t say I have.’ In case the question was meant personally, he stopped frowning and put on a cheerful front.

  ‘It’s something to do with the air quality,’ the ACC explained, ‘the fact that we’re surrounded by hills. The air gets trapped. People get listless. Lethargic. Haven’t you ever felt that you needed to get away?’

  ‘Every day around four-thirty.’

  ‘Because of the air, I mean.’

  There was a thoughtful silence.

  Diamond then asked, ‘Are we going to get air-conditioning?’

  ‘Lord, no.’

  The ACC was pussyfooting. Diamond could guess what was coming. His best efforts to occupy the murder squad on a couple of unsolved killings from four years ago were not succeeding. Too many of the stupid gumbos were being seen at the snooker table in the canteen.

  The ACC tried again. ‘It would be fascinating to know if the suicide rate is higher here than in other parts of the country.’

  It might fascinate you, matey, but I’d rather watch my toe-nails growing, thought Diamond as he said a faint, ‘Yes?’

  ‘Mind you, other factors play a part. The papers are full of gloom and doom. People being laid off work, businesses failing, the homeless on the streets.’

  ‘So it’s not the air,’ said Diamond. ‘It’s the press.’

  ‘That isn’t what I’m saying, Peter.’