Returning to his car, Stubbs drove it to Cochrane Street and parked it. In his youth when burglary was his game, he’d liked areas like this. Plenty of old ladies with wads of money tucked under their mattresses, nice jewellery and tons of silver. A great many of the big houses had grilles on the windows now, a sign of the times, like safes and alarms. Charity Stratton’s modern block was like Fort Knox too with its intercom and the porter. But when you had keys, had done your homework and found out when the porter went off for his tea, it was a doddle.
Stubbs wasn’t nervous. In his view it raised less suspicion going into a place in broad daylight. Under an umbrella, wearing a suit and carrying a briefcase, he just looked like any other businessman going home.
It took two minutes to reach the front doors of the flats, just one second to slip in the key and turn it. He hesitated momentarily between the lift and the stairs, but took the lift as calmly as if he lived there.
Charity reached Swiss Cottage tube station and paused for a moment, trying to decide if she really wanted to go to Hampstead Heath in such heavy rain.
She would sell the business to Rita. Charity had no heart for it any more. It was time to sweep away the past, maybe take a holiday with Prue, live a little.
A tube map caught her attention and she moved closer to it, looking at the stations which had memories for her.
Hammersmith! She could see it so clearly in the snow that winter of ’62. Hiding her ever-enlarging stomach under layers of baggy clothes, sidestepping the mounds of black ice building up on the kerbs. Her small, cold room, just a hole to crawl into while she waited for spring and her baby.
Piccadilly. Meeting John there for their first lunch date. A thin little waif in rundown shoes and a threadbare coat, frightened because John had suggested taking her to the Ritz.
Earls Court. Memories of Rita and Dorothy. Dolly-birds, that was the word people used then. Charity could see the three of them so clearly in their miniskirts, long boots and fluttering false eyelashes.
Sloane Square, Marble Arch, Bond Street and Oxford Street were where she made her ambitions happen. All those department stores where she worked and later negotiated contracts.
Memories of the fubes ended when she got her first car. Once hurtling through tunnels staring at her own reflection in the dark windows had been a time to dream and plan. She had looked at all those little people scurrying to and from work like ants in a nest and vowed she’d rise beyond that.
Somehow moving away from public transport had removed her from the pulse of London. She forgot that those ants were happy, they had time to live and love, to get married and have children. While Charity was struggling to reach her goal, she’d failed to see that the posts had been moved.
She’d got the home she dreamed of, but it was an empty ivory tower which had never become the family haven she’d intended. There were so few times when all four of them had been together at one time. Now Toby was gone, Prue had a home and a life of her own and James wasn’t the kind to lean on anyone.
It was time to find what she wanted now and she knew it wasn’t riches, clothes with smart labels, or being looked up to as a successful businesswoman.
Charity wanted to love again and be loved. Nothing more.
She looked up and the rain ran down her face. The sky was still black, but over towards Hampstead it was lighter. Tomorrow the sun would be back and however empty she felt now, time could heal her.
Resolutely she turned back. She wasn’t going to walk up Daleham Gardens and brood about Daniel. She’d made the decision to give him up because she loved him. The past was done, she couldn’t change any of it, and it was time to start afresh.
She was soaked right through by the time she got back to Beech House. Charity smiled at her reflection in the lift mirror. The scar on her cheek seemed less livid at last, small wet ringlets framed her face and she had colour back in her cheeks. Her eyes still looked sad, but they’d lost that haunted look.
As she pushed open her door she was thinking of Rob. Tomorrow morning she would phone him and ask him to come to dinner. Her new life would start from there, and he was part of it.
A rustle startled Charity as she shut the door. She wheeled round to see the contents of drawers strewn around the floor. For a moment she was rooted to the spot. Then she saw the man standing beside her drinks cabinet.
A man little taller than herself, but with broad shoulders and a receding hairline. He was wearing a dark business suit and just for a second she thought he was a policeman.
‘How dare you!’ she snapped. ‘Don’t you need a warrant to search someone’s home?’
The man was as startled as she was. As Charity spoke his gloved hand disappeared inside his jacket and came out with a long, thin knife. His eyes had the look of a trapped animal. She knew then he was no policeman and her legs buckled under her.
Charity turned, in panic fumbling with the door catch, but he sprang forward and caught her shoulder.
‘Don’t try to run, lady,’ he snarled, pulling her back against his chest. The knife came up to her throat. ‘Don’t scream, or I’ll cut your throat soon as look at you.’
Charity hadn’t had time to get more than a brief impression of him but his voice bore out what she’d gathered. A man who’d fought his way out of back streets, his broken nose a testimony to many fights. The suit was hand tailored, the kind wealthy businessmen wore, but beneath it was an animal.
All at once she knew this was the man the police were looking for. The man at the top who killed people who got in his way!
Charity’s heart began to thump, terror clutched at her and she felt herself grow wet with sweat as the cold steel pressed against her windpipe.
‘What do you want?’ she stammered out.
‘What’s mine.’ He pushed his face over her shoulder, the knife blade dangerously close. She could smell a distinctive aftershave, mingled with the fetid breath of a heavy smoker. His cheek against hers was close shaven, yet his skin was pitted and coarse. ‘Your brother left some packages here.’
‘No,’ Charity whimpered, so scared she couldn’t even think. ‘Toby’s dead.’
‘D’you think I don’t know that,’ he smirked, catching hold of her wet hair. He pulled her round to face him, forcing her away from the door and back up against the wall. He lifted the knife up to her cheek, holding it like a razor as if to prove how sharp it was.
‘But before he died he stashed the stuff, and I want it.’
Seen in a nightclub the man might pass as ruggedly handsome. His eyes were a pale, cold blue and his cleft chin reminded her of Kirk Douglas. But as close as she was and as terrified, she could focus only on his thin lips and the glint of the knife edge.
She didn’t think Toby had been here – after all, she was only out at lunch with Rob that Sunday for a couple of hours. But maybe by pretending he had, she’d gain a little time.
Even at a glance Charity could tell the man had already searched extensively. Through the door that led to her bedroom and bathroom she saw handbags, belts and an upturned drawer on the floor.
‘If Toby came here I wasn’t aware of it,’ she said, struggling to regain some composure. ‘You can go on searching if you like. I’ll help you.’
Charity didn’t anticipate the blow. The man let go of her hair for a moment, then smashed her across the face with the flat of his hand.
‘That’s just to remind you I’m in charge, scarface,’ he hissed at her. ‘Don’t come that high and mighty manner with me! Your bastard of a brother stitched me up.’
The sting of his slap brought home to Charity that she was in mortal danger. This man hadn’t expected to be caught here, but now he had, there was no way he was going to let her go so she could give his description to the police. Even if she co-operated he would have to silence her permanently.
‘I’m not being high and mighty,’ Charity pleaded. ‘I don’t think there’s anything in here, but I’ll help you look. I’ve been through so muc
h, don’t hurt me.’
The man’s eyes were reptilian, with no trace of humanity. It horrified her that Toby had thrown in his lot with such a brute.
‘Shut it!’ he snapped, grabbing her hair again. Using one of his knees to push her along, he forced her across the lounge towards the bedroom. The room was ransacked: dressing-table pulled away from the wall, books swiped from a shelf under the window. Wardrobe doors hung open, the contents thrown on to her bed and floor after he’d stripped the bed of covers. Kicking aside a drawer he tossed her on the bed on top of the clothes. Before she could attempt to move he had picked up a leather belt and a scarf.
‘First a gag,’ he said with menace, pulling her up by the shoulders, his knee in the small of her back. The knife was still in his hand, and she felt it graze over the collar of her raincoat, then drop as he bent to pick up a pair of knickers. He shoved these into her mouth, then tied the scarf round so tightly she was struggling for breath.
In one desperate move Charity tried to buck away from him, her hand reaching out for the knife. But the man pounced: he picked up the knife and slashed the back of her hand with it.
‘You ain’t quick enough for me,’ he snarled. ‘Now shut up and keep still.’
Charity saw her hand only momentarily before he yanked both arms tightly behind her back. But it was enough to see a gash and blood spurting out. She heard the jingle of the belt buckle and felt him tightening the belt like a noose. He pulled it so tightly it hurt and immediately bent to find something else to secure her feet.
*
Tins rolling to the floor, cutlery rattling as the man ransacked the kitchen mingled with the rain splattering on the patio outside. It sounded like a mad symphony, with her own heart the beat of drums.
Panic robbed Charity of the ability to think. She knew by the state of her flat that he’d almost completed his search and once that was over he’d be back to finish her off.
‘Think!’ she ordered herself, lifting her face from a green chiffon evening dress. ‘You can’t just lie here and wait to die.’
Straining her head up Charity looked around the room for something that would help, but her reflection in the dressing-table mirror showed how helpless she was.
‘God help me,’ she prayed silently, feeling she might choke on the knickers in her mouth. ‘Show me a way!’
A resounding crash of saucepans being knocked to the floor made her jump involuntarily, bending her back like a banana, but in that split second she saw enough of the belt and buckle in the mirror to glimpse a possibility. There was no hole in the belt so close to the buckle! The man had only slipped the leather like a noose through the buckle without securing it with the central prong.
Taking a deep breath, Charity lay still, clenching her wrists closer together, then quickly pushed them back against the leather. Feeling the faintest movement in her bonds, she repeated the action, closing her eyes to concentrate her energy. Again another small movement, and even over the noise of the man scrabbling in her fridge, she heard the rasp of stiff leather.
The cut on her hand stung and the blood made her hands sticky, but as the leather reached the cut, making her want to scream with pain, she knew she was getting there.
One more sharp thrust and the noose slipped off her hands. In one swift movement she rolled over and sat up, reaching down to her ankles to untie them. There was no time to fiddle with the gag. She needed a weapon!
Charity’s eyes swept the room. There were paperback books, hairbrushes, handbags and shoes strewn all over the floor but nothing capable of inflicting a blow strong enough to floor him.
She stood still to listen. The man had moved back into the lounge and was pulling out her records and files from the wall unit. If she ran for the door he could easily catch her.
Charity picked up the bedside lamp, but it weighed too little. She put it down and picked up her briefcase. It was heavy with papers, but too unwieldy.
Then she remembered.
On the floor just inside the lounge doorway was a heavy cast-iron cat doorstop. Charity used it sometimes when the windows were open to stop the door banging. It was eighteen inches high and weighed a ton. The trouble was, the man might see her reaching for it.
Blood was dripping everywhere. Frantically she picked up a scarf and wrapped it round her hand, then, getting down on her hands and knees, she crawled out of the bedroom into the tiny lobby which led to the bathroom.
Charity knew exactly where he was from the sounds: just three feet to the right of the lounge, behind the open door, searching through a small cupboard at the bottom of the wall unit. The cat was two feet away on her left. All she could hope for was that he was facing towards the window and as she reached the doorway her arm snaked round until it touched the cat.
Her fingers closed round it and she held her breath as she gently pulled it towards her.
‘Fuck!’
His exclamation unnerved her for a moment. He was closer than she’d thought – only the open door separated them. She guessed he had caught his hand on the sharp edge of an old toffee tin she kept photographs in, which meant he was almost through with his search. Desperation gave her a surge of new courage and she caught the cat still tighter, slowly pulling it towards her.
The last few inches to the doorpost she didn’t dare to breathe. Slowly she edged back, clasping the cat in both hands, aware that if the man moved across the room now he could see she was no longer on the bed.
Once she was enclosed by the open door of the wardrobe, she stood up, lifting the cat above her head in readiness. It was so heavy it made her arms ache immediately and the cut in her hand was throbbing, but she shut that out of her mind.
All noise from the lounge stopped. Had he found something? Could Toby have been here at some time? What was the man doing? The thick carpet prevented her from hearing footsteps. Was he already creeping towards her with that knife in his hands?
A click told her he was. She knew that sound of her old blue handbag clasp; he’d trodden on it as he passed the bathroom.
Bracing herself she waited, legs apart, the cat poised in her hands, anger wiping out her fear. He wasn’t going to kill her, not after all she’d been through. If she had to dash his brains out she’d do it, never mind that knife and what it might cost her.
She smelt his aftershave. He wasn’t making a sound, but he couldn’t disguise his smell. He was only inches from her, on the other side of the wardrobe door, probably waiting there silently hoping she’d make some movement to show where she was hidden.
Her eyes smarted and her arms ached intolerably. Blood was running from her hand right up the sleeve of her raincoat. She could hear her heart pounding but at last he moved silently forward and she could see first just his shoulder, then his back as he bent down to peer under the bed.
Charity leapt forward, thundering the doorstop down on his skull with every last vestige of strength she could muster. She heard a dull thud, a cry of surprise, and she lifted it to hit him again.
The man half turned as he pitched forward, an expression of outrage on his face, one hand catching the edge of the dressing-table and bringing a china lamp down with him. Charity threw the cat at him and leapt from her hiding place and out into the lounge.
Her fingers fumbled at the lock on her front door and she didn’t dare to look round to see if he was following. At last it opened and she ran for the stairs.
She rushed headlong down, taking them two at a time. Every step she fully expected to be grabbed, convinced the man was right behind her, but at last she was in the foyer.
The porter wasn’t there. She looked at the phone but then realised she was still gagged. Opening the front door she ran like the wind out into the drive, her fingers grappling with the gag.
She ran straight into a man on the pavement. A sedate businessman with a dark suit, under an umbrella. He stared at her in astonishment as she caught hold of his arms, gesticulating wildly up at her flat and her gag.
‘Po
lice!’ she shouted, but her voice was just a grunt. She snatched his umbrella and put his hands on to the tightly knotted scarf to undo it.
As it came free, she pulled the knickers from her mouth.
‘Get the police!’ she yelled at him. ‘There’s a man in my flat. He wants to kill me.’
Charity was shaking so badly she couldn’t hold the cup of tea offered to her.
‘It’s all right, you’re quite safe now,’ a soothing voice was saying as if from a great way off. ‘They’ll have him out of there in no time. Let me hold the cup for you.’
Charity was in a ground-floor flat identical in shape to hers, overlooking the road. The events that had led her there were hazy, but she remembered the man putting his arm round her and half carrying her across the lawn at the front of the building.
Presumably he’d used the phone here. One moment the only sound was her sobbing and the murmur of traffic from the main road, then suddenly car tyres were screeching on to the gravel drive, doors banging, men shouting and heavy feet charging up the stairs in the adjoining block.
‘Why don’t you lie down, dear?’ the soothing voice asked. ‘Let’s take off that raincoat, it’s soaking.’
Charity came to enough to see it was the middle-aged widow Mrs Andrews with a blue rinse who was always complaining about people making too much noise.
‘I’m so sorry,’ Charity managed to say. Mrs Andrews’s flat was all creams and beige and she saw spots of blood on the carpet.
‘Don’t you worry about anything.’ The woman took Charity’s arm to help her out of the coat. ‘You’ve had a terrible shock from what I gather, and a few spots of blood are easily cleaned. Now let me get a towel to wrap that poor hand in.’
A siren blared suddenly, making Charity jump and an ambulance joined the two police cars in the drive.
Mrs Andrews moved quickly to the window.
‘Looks like you hurt him,’ she said gleefully. ‘Let’s hope you finished him off!’
Charity shuddered, suddenly aware of her own aching body, how cold and wet she was and how badly her hand hurt.
Charity Page 60
