by John Creasey
Two minutes later, there was a tap at the door. A constable in uniform, except that he was hatless, came in.
“Photograph and description from 7Q Division, sir.”
“Okay, I’ll have ‘em,” Lemaitre said. He stretched out a hand, and a moment later looked down at the glossy photograph of a man. “So that’s the brute, is it? Okay, ta.”
Lemaitre picked up a telephone and started to put out the general call for a certain Arthur Sayer, who was believed to have murdered the nine-year-old girl. As he talked into the telephone he skimmed the report of the murder, and his eyes frosted, even his tone changed, because it was a very, very ugly killing.
“… and get a move on,” he said. “Once that kind’s tasted blood you never know where they’ll stop.”
The door opened, and Gideon came in, eyes bright, manner brisk, as if he were beginning to relish life,
“Seen her?” Lemaitre asked needlessly.
“Nice little kid, a bit scared, but reliable. There was no squeak of brakes; there’s the pointer we want Lem. Was probably intentional. Anything else in?”
That was like a refrain.
“No,” said Lemaitre, “but that poor kid …” He was brief but graphic in his description of the mutilations on a child’s body.
Gideon stood in the middle of the office, like a statue roughhewn out of granite.
“Schools are closed for the Easter holidays,” he said abruptly. “Sayer knew this child, and she trusted him. Better check on other children he knows, fast. All right. I’ll talk to Ealing.”
He almost threw himself at the telephone on his desk.
5. The Child Killer
Children swarmed over Clapham Common. Every square yard of grass was worn bare; every yard of the children’s gravelled playground, with its swings and seesaws, sliding chutes and vaulting horses, had a pair of feet – well shod, rough shod, badly shod, even three children who were barefooted and wearing such rags that others looked at them askance, and some refused to play.
Clapham Common was one of the places where London breathed.
Now, at the tail end of the Easter holidays, mothers were only too glad to shoo their offspring out. The morning had echoed with the same refrains in a thousand doorways and kitchens: ‘Be careful crossing the road’. ‘Don’t go getting yourself dirty’. ‘No fighting, mind’. ‘Don’t speak to any strange man, understand?’ ‘Look both ways’. The children had listened with half an ear, and found their way safely toward this breathing ground, soon racing, rushing, running, sprawling, giggling, laughing, crying, climbing, shouting, shrieking in the warm air of late spring.
Here, youths of recognized local renown chose sides at cricket or at football; coats went down for goal posts or wickets; bats came out after a winter’s storage; footballs looked flat and flabby and gave off a dull sound when kicked, and stubbed strong toes.
On the seats round the edges of the common, the old folks sat, mostly nice, pleasant, sleepy and indulgent, some with a packet of peppermints or toffees, most of the men with pipe and a little tobacco, all drowsy in the sun and the din. There were a few nasty old men, but each of them was known by the common keepers, the local police, and by a few self-appointed guardians of the children.
“Nothing,” each harassed mother had said or thought when the children had gone flying down the road, “can happen to them once they’re on the common.” And most watched until the first roads were crossed and then went to washtub, sink, floor or bedrooms, or dressed hastily to go out shopping, gradually forgetting fears which would return only if the children were back late for the midday meal.
Some knew that their children might be late; most knew that hunger would bring them clattering home a few minutes before one o’clock or before half-past one, whichever was the regular mealtime.
Of these, Mrs. Lucy Saparelli was one.
Mrs. Saparelli, at thirty-seven, was a red-cheeked bright-eyed, wholesome-looking woman with a spruce figure and a seductive walk, although she had no idea that a few of the louts of the district called her Marilyn. Her husband was a commercial traveller, away three or four nights out of the week’s seven. He had only a vague notion that his forebears had been Spanish or Italian, and wasn’t quite sure which. He could go back four generations of solid English ancestry, but was oddly proud of his unusual name: Sap-ar-elli.
He loved and trusted his wife and he was fiercely fond of Michael, his eldest child and as fond of Dorothy, his youngest – aged nine – although for some reason, Victor, the eleven-year-old who came in between, always managed to irritate him.
Victor did not irritate his mother, but if one of the apples of her eyes was brighter than the others, it was Dorothy. Boys drew away from their mother as the years passed, but Dorothy would always be with her. At nine, she was—just lovely. She had the looks, the plumpness, the naïveté and the natural gaiety which could make a child win approval from everyone. The hug that Lucy Saparelli gave Dorothy each night and each morning was born of the little extra delight the child gave her. “Delight” was the word which mattered, was the thing the girl child brought to Lucy, to Jim Saparelli, to the two boys.
Everyone loved Dorothy.
Arthur Sayer loved Dorothy.
Arthur Sayer knew the Saparellis well, because he had lodged with them some years ago, a schooldays acquaintance of Jim’s who had been welcome when money had been short. It had soon become apparent that he was ever so nice, except for one thing: betting was his folly. Lucy had been heard to say, almost in tones of wonder, that he never said a word or put a finger out of place. He was rather odd, in some ways, a bit sissy, with long, silky, brown hair and a love of bright colours, but—well, nice.
Lucy was in her bedroom, scurrying round to make the beds and dust before going to the shops, when the front-door bell rang.
“Damn!” she said, and looked out of the window, but saw no van; so it wasn’t a tradesman. She peeked at herself in the mirror and straightened her hair as she hurried down the stairs, her skirt riding up over her pretty legs. The dress was a little too tight and one she wore only when doing the housework. She went quickly along the stained boards of the hall, seeing the dark shadow of a man against the coloured glass panels in the top of the door. She knew it was a man because of the shape of his hat.
It was then ten o’clock on Gideon’s day; when Gideon was still at the Yard looking at reports.
Lucy opened the door.
“Why, Arthur!” she exclaimed, and annoyance faded into pleasure. “Fancy seeing you at this hour of the morning. Come in, do.”
Arthur Sayer hesitated, and she stared at him intently.
He was almost one of the family, and more welcome than most of her in-laws. He looked pale, and his eyes glittered, as if his head ached badly; she remembered that he had often had severe headaches, needing absolute quiet to recover from them. He needed a shave, now, and his coat collar was turned up, although it was already warm.
“You look as if you’ve been up all night,” said Lucy forthrightly. “You’d better let me make you a cup of tea and give you some aspirins.”
He moved forward.
“Thanks—thanks, Lucy. I’ve got one of my awful headaches.”
“Why on earth didn’t you stay at home?”
He moistened his lips.
“I—I had a row with someone,” he said. “Never mind about that now. I—I knew you’d let me rest here for a bit.”
“So I should think!” said Lucy. “Look, you go in the front room, draw the blinds, and sit quiet until I bring you a cuppa.” She thrust open the door of the parlour. “The only things in there are Dorothy’s dolls; she’s having her friends in to an exhibition. That child and her dolls! Now, sit you down, I won’t be a couple of jiffs.”
She left him in the darkened room.
She frowned as she walked to the kitchen, every movement touched with throbbing vitality. She filled the kettle, put it on the gas, washed two cups and saucers from the pile waiting from br
eakfast, and then shook her head with a quick little gesture.
“The rest’ll have to wait until after lunch. I can do all the washing up together. Now he’s come I can’t get everything finished before I go out.” A pause. “I suppose I must go out?”
She put the question aloud, but answered it silently. She gave Arthur very little thought as a person, just accepted him as she accepted the ups and downs of family life, the aches and pains of her children. Had Arthur been one of hers, she would have felt worried because he didn’t look well; but she’d seen him almost as bad, it wasn’t very important.
Jim would be home tonight, and she liked to have a good dinner for him, so she must go to the butcher’s. If she had to go out, she might just as well do all the week-end shopping and get it over. She would finish the bedrooms before she left… .
If Dorothy came back while she was out, Arthur could let her in; she wouldn’t have to play in the street.
She bustled round, easy in her mind.
Arthur said very little when she took in the tea, but swallowed three aspirins obediently. His eyes were glittery, and she wondered if he was running a temperature. Dorothy always went pale when she had a temperature, and the boys were usually flushed.
“Sure you’ll be all right on your own, Arthur?”
“Yes—yes, thank you.”
“Wouldn’t like to see a doctor?”
“No!” He almost shouted the word. “No, don’t—don’t tell anyone I’m here.”
“Look here,” said Lucy flatly, “what’s upset you, Art? You can confide in me, you know. What’s the trouble?”
“Nothing! I—well, I—I owe some money, Lucy, I can get it back, but—”
“Why didn’t you say so? It isn’t as if it’s the first time.” Lucy sniffed. “I won’t tell anyone you’re here, and Jim’s coming home tonight, perhaps he can suggest something to help. Now I’ve got to go to the shops. You needn’t answer the door if you don’t want to, but if Dorothy comes back I don’t like her playing out in the street. Let her in, won’t you?”
Arthur Sayer didn’t answer.
“Art, you might at least answer me!”
“Oh,” said Sayer. “What did—oh, yes. Yes, I’ll let Dorothy in. Don’t worry, Lucy.”
She left him alone, but was uneasy in her mind – although not because of Dorothy. That did not occur to her. He had helped to nurse Dorothy, was Uncle Art to her and would be for the rest of her life. She sensed that he was in serious trouble, and came of stock which was easily embarrassed by thought of any trouble which might warrant the interest of the police. Arthur had always been silly with money and gambling, but—
She saw a bus coming along the main road as soon as she reached it, and rushed across to catch it. Some drivers would wait, some were devils.
She caught the bus. The only spare seat was next to a girl with a horse’s tail tied with pink ribbon, who was reading the Daily Mirror…
Dorothy Saparelli stumbled away from the swing, and the hard wooden edge caught her a slight glancing blow on the shoulder. She turned and shook her fist at the bigger girl who had just grabbed the chain, and had made her get off. Nine years is not the age when one admits the justice of accusations of wrong-doing. She had used that swing for fifteen minutes and wanted it for another fifteen.
She brushed back some hair which had somehow escaped from one of the sleek wings which seemed to sweep from a centre parting. It was black, glossy hair, tied with scarlet ribbon. She wore a white blouse and a navy-blue gym suit; her plimsolls were dusty but not dirty or torn.
“Mean pig!” she called shrilly, and looked disconsolate.
Three children were clinging to every place where there was room for one; in this playground Dorothy hadn’t a chance of another toy. She sauntered over to a group of girls playing rounders, but they were in the early teens, and one snapped her fingers and ordered:
“You sheer off.”
Further afield, Victor was playing football. She couldn’t see Michael, who was probably messing about at cricket. Disgruntled, a little tired and very thirsty, Dorothy made her way along a tarred path toward the roads leading to Micklem Street, where she lived. There was only one main road to worry about, but she could cope with that; when in doubt, wait until grownups were going to cross, and cross with them. That was so much part of training that a child’s pride was never challenged; it simply wasn’t safe to cross on one’s own.
An old man, carrying a walking stick, was coming toward her.
She didn’t like him, and moved off the path, but he stood and watched, raising his stick and smiling invitingly. He had no teeth, and a funny, straggly kind of moustache and beard. She saw him take a bag of peppermints out of his pocket, and it seemed as if her mother’s voice was actually sounding in her ears.
“Never stop and talk to strange men, even if they do offer you sweets.”
She skipped past this old man. She wasn’t really troubled, and the moment she was past him, he was forgotten, as a dog safely behind a gate would be. It did not occur to her that the uniformed policeman who started to hurry in the wake of the old man was doing so because of that little interlude.
One word of early warning could save a lot of distress.
Dorothy crossed the main road safely behind a woman with a push chair.
She loitered on her way to the house.
She was happier here, her troubles quite forgotten, when a black-and-white spaniel puppy frisked up. She was almost outside her own house, Number 24, when she saw a sixpence glistening on the pavement.
A tanner!
She pounced.
Her delight, as she looked at it on the palm of her hand, was the absolute delight of a young child. Her whole world had changed; she held a fortune because this was money she had not dreamed she would have. There was a corner sweetshop, not far off.
She hesitated, wondering whether to go and spend it now, or whether to tell her mother. Mum would let her keep it, she was sure of that: findings keepings, if you really had found it. Seeing a few dirty marks on it, she began to rub the sixpence with the forefinger of her left hand. She looked at the front room window. The curtains were drawn, but there was a little gap in the middle.
She did not see Arthur Sayer looking at her.
She was very thirsty.
She went to the front door, at a hop-skip-and-jump pace, and banged on the iron knocker. She hoped Mum was in because she was so thirsty, but if she wasn’t Mrs. Pommery next door would let her have a drink of water, or—should she buy a lemonade?? Excitement came again. She imagined the sharp sweetness of aerated lemonade on her cloyed mouth, and the temptation was so great that she wished she hadn’t knocked. If Mum was out—
The door opened.
Arthur Sayer opened the door.
Dorothy stared, and then her eyes glowed.
“Why, Uncle Arthur!”
She went in, gaily, and he closed the door behind her, heard her chattering, heard the story of the sixpence, followed her to the kitchen, watched her turn on the tap and put a cup under it.
She screamed three times.
Mercifully, that was all.
No one heard her, except Arthur Sayer.
Lucy Saparelli got off the bus with Mrs. Pommery, who lived next door, and was the only neighbour likely to have heard a sound from the Saparellis’ kitchen. Each woman carried laden baskets: Lucy Saparelli had one in each hand. Yet they walked briskly, and a spotty youth, a night worker, lounging against the porch of his home, watched Lucy’s swaying hips and gave a silent whistle, then a whispered: “Hi, Marilyn!” Lucy was talking, about the price of food, about Victor, about her Jim being a bit hard on Victor sometimes, about Dorothy’s plan to have an exhibition of dolls, a kind of dolls’ party, and wasn’t it wonderful for a nine-year-old girl to think of such an idea on her own?
They turned the corner.
Lucy changed hands with the baskets, and wriggled her shoulders because of the strain.
Then she
saw Victor and Michael, talking to another boy outside their home. She didn’t give a thought to the possibility of—horror. Michael had torn his trousers, and Victor had a nasty scratch on the side of his face, but they looked clear-eyed and happy.
‘”Lo, Mum!”
“Gosh, I’m hungry.”
“We’ll have something to eat as soon as I’ve had time to look round,” said Lucy. “Micky, take this bag for me, there’s a dear. Victor, you can open the door for me, take the key out of my bag – oh, silly ass! Just knock, and Uncle Arthur will let us in.”
“What?” Michael took the laden bag. “No one’s in, Mum. I’ve knocked half a dozen times.”
“Well, that’s funny,” said Lucy. “Where’s Dorothy, then?”
She didn’t speak again, but opened her bag, took out the front-door key, and went straight to the front door. She could not have told the others what had happened to her in that moment; she probably did not realize it herself. It was as if a shadow had fallen; a darkness, hiding something she wanted to see. She did not consciously think of Dorothy. Afterward, to her husband, she said in a stony voice that she thought Arthur might have done himself in.
She pushed the door open, strode in, and called: “Arthur!”
There was no reply.
She looked inside the parlour, which was empty but for the dolls. She went briskly along the passage high heels tapping on the stained boards, with Michael behind her and Victor just stepping across the front-door mat.
Then she saw …
Then she screamed.
6. Manhunt
Gideon sat at his desk, in his shirt sleeves, the big, blue-and-red-spotted tie undone and ends hanging down, hair ruffled, face pale but forehead damp with sweat. He had a telephone at his ear, and was waving his left hand at Lemaitre, who came across.
“Someone saw him leave on foot, just before half-past twelve, so he didn’t get far. Concentrate everything we’ve got on the south and southwest London area. Right.” He waved Lemaitre away, and grunted into the telephone: “Yes, I’ve got all that, thanks.” He rang off, and plucked up another telephone. “Back Room,” he demanded, and stretched his shoulders, leaning back so that his head touched the wall. Then, with his free hand, he picked up the first telephone again. “Is Sergeant Miller back yet? … Yes, I’ll hold on.”
