by John Creasey
She cooked breakfast and got the children ready; another neighbour took them to school. A third carried off three year old Tim, as she had yesterday. Mrs Bryant was to sleep in as long as she could, and May must rest. As soon as either of them was awake, they must send for the neighbour next door, across the road, anywhere.
Let Kath Bryant sleep.
Let Micky sleep.
And May must get some sleep herself – why not use the girls’ room?
It sounded heavenly. If only Derek –
May went to bed, secure with Rosa Trentham’s promise to call her if any word came from Derek.
When she did wake, everything was different There was no sense of shock or surprise, and she lay for a few minutes, comfortably warm except for her right shoulder. She shrugged the clothes over it and lay on her back. Then, like a heavy blow, came realization that there could have been no word from Derek.
The sickening anxiety came back.
She glanced at the old fashioned alarm clock on the mantelpiece; it said five minutes to two. Slowly, she sat up. It was colder than she had realised, and she flung the bedclothes back and grabbed the green coat, which would serve as a dressing gown; the lining struck cold on her bare arms and shoulders.
Someone was moving about up here.
It might be Mum Bryant or one of the neighbours, or, she supposed, the police.
She opened her door and went on to the landing.
Mrs Bryant’s door was closed. May turned the handle cautiously, and opened it a shade. The blinds were still drawn. She fancied that she heard the sound of even breathing; certainly she didn’t hear a whisper. She closed the door as softly as she had opened it, and then turned towards the head of the stairs. She heard something squeak, followed by a muttered exclamation, and fancied that it was a man’s voice.
The police? Who else could it be?
May supposed Rosa Trentham’s husband might have come.
Derek?
She hurried downstairs, quite wide awake; it did not even occur to her that there might be anything to fear.
The movements were in the room immediately below the main bedroom – a tiny middle room used for all kinds of purposes. Ironing, packing, storing, and ‘office’. Tom Bryant had done a great deal of voluntary work, for the chapel and for two of his clubs, and he always used a small roll-top desk in that room.
The door was ajar.
Who would be in that room?
The police probably felt that they had to search everywhere, but –
May opened the door wide.
A man was standing at the desk, and turning round towards the door. He wore a scarf over his face, and a peaked cap pulled low over his forehead; it was like a scene out of a film.
In his right hand he held a big iron bar.
May stood with her hands raised and her mouth wide open, but she didn’t scream; she couldn’t make a sound. Something told her that the man was as scared as she. It was impossible to be sure how long they stayed like that, how long it was before she managed to gasp: “What are you doing here?”
As she spoke, she swung round, to run. The man leaped at her. She began to scream, but before a sound came out, his hand clapped over her mouth. She felt the pressure first of his hand, then of his body against her. She could see the iron bar, in her mind’s eye, and remembered vividly what had happened to Tom Bryant. She kicked and struck out, and plucked at the scarf, but it was useless; she couldn’t push the man away. She felt herself being pressed tighter against the wall, and a hand tightened round her throat. Then she felt something drop on her right foot, and the next moment the other hand closed round her throat, throttling her. She writhed and tried to scream and kicked out helplessly; the felt slippers made no impression, and she couldn’t breathe. Her lungs seemed to be getting fuller, with a band round them, gripping as tightly as the fingers gripped her throat. She felt her strength ebbing.
She could hear herself pleading: “Don’t kill me, please don’t kill me. Please don’t kill me!” She hardly knew the measure of her own despair, or the certainty that death was coming. There were shimmery figures in front of her eyes; bright lights, white and yellow and flashes of red. Red, yellow, white. Dots and dashes. There was worse pain at her throat and at her lungs, and she felt the strength oozing out of her legs and arms. She knew that her arms hung limp by her sides now, and felt her legs sagging.
She was just conscious of the fact that only the man’s grip on her throat was holding her up.
In hopeless, helpless horror, she was still pleading to him with her own inward voice, the voice which only she could hear.
“Please don’t kill me, please don’t kill me.”
She was losing consciousness.
“Oh, God, don’t let him kill me, don’t let me die.”
The light vanished, and there was only blackness, until she ceased to be aware of pain.
The man drew back.
He was gasping for breath, and sweat beaded his forehead and his upper lip. His mouth was open, and his teeth showed. He looked down at the heap that was May Harrison. She had fallen on her left side, and her face was turned away from him, but he could see the slackness at her lips, and the puffiness at her throat. The coat gaped open. She wore a white slip underneath, of some shimmery kind of stuff, and some frilly lace at the top and the bottom. She didn’t move, didn’t seem to breathe.
He gulped.
Slowly, he went towards the door and listened intently, but he heard no sound.
He picked up the iron bar.
It was just a crowbar; a jimmy. He weighed it in his right hand, while he looked down on the girl. His breath was rasping between his lips now.
“She didn’t—she couldn’t have seen me,” he muttered.
His hand went to his face. The scarf was down about his neck, and if anyone saw him now they would see him clearly. He didn’t know whether the girl had seen him properly or not.
“She couldn’t have,” he said aloud, and then after a pause:
“Could she?”
He went down on one knee, felt for her hand, then for her wrist. He couldn’t feel the pulse beating; he didn’t think he could, anyhow, but his own heart was racing so fast that he couldn’t be sure. Her arm was limp enough; she looked dead. He glanced at the jimmy.
He raised it.
He shuddered, and then thrust the jimmy in between his shirt and his trousers, and turned to Tom Bryant’s desk. He had searched everything except two drawers, and now started to look again, with feverish haste. Every few seconds he glanced round at May, and she didn’t move.
If she was dead, he was a killer.
She couldn’t have seen his face, could she?
He finished searching, and felt sure that he wouldn’t find what he had come for; what he had been sent for. He shivered again. He had two fears: that he might be trapped here, and that the girl might have caught a glimpse of his face before he had closed with her.
She couldn’t have.
Anyhow, she was dead.
And if she wasn’t dead, she damned soon would be.
He eased his collar, touched the handle of the jimmy again, and began to draw it from his waistband. Then as he did so, he heard a sound. It was as if an electric current had been switched on inside him; fear came in a single, searing flash.
A key was in the lock. He could hear it turning. He heard a man say: “Well, no one’s come out.”
“You’re not coming in,” a woman said brusquely. “You newspaper people ought to be ashamed of yourselves, pestering the lives out of someone who’s had such a terrible loss.”
“Now be a friend,” the man began. “Let’s have a word or two from you, Mrs Trentham, and we won’t worry you any more.”
The door slammed.
The woman who had let herself in with the key came walking briskly from the front door; and she would have to pass this door, which was ajar. She would be within a foot or two of the crouching man and the girl who lay so still.
Chapter Nine
May
Mrs Rosa Trentham, friend and neighbour of the Bryants for twenty years, closed the front door on the newspaper reporter and then walked quickly and angrily towards the kitchen. As she neared the foot of the stairs and the little room close by, she bit her lips in vexation. The slamming door might wake Kath, May, or Micky. She stopped just outside the door of the little room, listening for any indication that any of the three were awake. It was after two, and she consoled herself that it wouldn’t be too serious if they did wake up; they’d had a good rest.
There was the problem of Kath Bryant, and how best to help her.
Rosa Trentham heard no sound from upstairs, and began to smile and to relax. She actually took a step towards the kitchen door, which was wide open, when she saw the door of the little room move slightly; then a sound came, a sharp hissing noise which scared her.
“What—” she began.
The door was pulled open. She saw a man with a scarf over his face, his left hand level with the handle of the door and his right hand raised and holding an iron bar.
She screamed.
She turned and rushed towards the front door, shouting, “Help, help!” The man struck at her once, and she felt a blow on her shoulder, but it didn’t stop her. “Help, help!” she screeched and touched the catch of the door with her outstretched hand. “Help, murder!”
For all she knew, a second, murderous blow would fall. She couldn’t shout again, but pulled at the catch desperately. For the next few seconds she knew only terror; but the man didn’t strike again.
He was at the back of the house, climbing out of the kitchen window, preparing to race towards the service alley, his motorcycle, and another street.
Cyril Dawson, of the Globe, had almost given up his vigil at the Bryants’ house, and that was not simply because he was out of patience. He didn’t think he would get anywhere if he stayed all day. He knew that neighbours went in and out every hour or so, and so waited for the next visit. It was Mrs Trentham, and she was a few minutes late. He wasn’t surprised at her response to his plea, and in fact was amused by her pretended indignation. He shrugged and turned away, smiling knowingly at the middle aged policeman who was near the edge of the pavement A dozen people, mostly women, were standing around to catch a glimpse of the family whose pictures and names were in the papers.
“I’ll call it a day,” Dawson said.
“Can’t understand why they pay you to hang around like this,” the policeman said.
“Who said they pay me?” Dawson asked, and turned towards the corner.
As he did so, he heard a scream.
He swung round towards the little crowd; the women suddenly went tense, and all listlessness vanished. The policeman winced, as if he’d been hurt, then launched himself forward. He snatched and blew his whistle, and the blast echoed up and down the street.
He flung himself at the door.
“Help, help!” the scream kept coming. “Murder! Help!”
The constable swung from the door towards the window, and cracked the glass with his truncheon. Ignoring the splinters, he put his head down and ploughed a way through, his helmet pushing the longest splinters aside.
As the noise died down, a car turned into the street, and another policeman came running from the corner.
The door opened.
Rosa Trentham came stumbling out, mouth wide open and hands raised, grey hair pulled out of its neat bun and straggling round her neck, her face distorted. Dawson was just in front of her, and she fell into his arms. He could hear her sobbing breath and feel the shuddering tension of her body. From the doorway, he saw nothing but the open door of the kitchen and the stairs leading upward, but the policeman appeared from a room at one side, truncheon in hand, massive and swift moving. He turned and raced towards the kitchen door.
“What was it?” Dawson asked shrilly. “What was it?”
Mrs Trentham just gasped and sobbed.
Dawson eased the woman aside and, as others came up, said hastily: “Look after her,” and ran into the house.
Three things seemed to happen at once. There was another blast of a police whistle, a long way off. There was a black haired youth in battle dress standing at the head of the stairs, looking scared and unsteady; and there was the open door of the little room, and a girl’s hair.
The Harrison girl’s.
“My God!” breathed Dawson. He thrust the door wider open, and stepped inside, and saw May Harrison. He took one look, then put his head round the door and shouted: “Send for a doctor! Get a move on, send for a doctor!” He went back to the girl, who was lying in an odd position on the floor, and now he was torn between helping her and rushing to a telephone.
Her neck was red and puffy. There were scratches at her cheeks. He felt her pulse, holding his breath as he did so. It was beating, but was very, very faint. She needed artificial respiration, now.
“What about the doctor?” he shouted.
Two women had come in from the street, with another policeman. The boy in battledress was saying urgently: “He says we ought to get a doctor, please hurry.” One of the women said brusquely: “Now don’t take on, Micky, I’m as good as any doctor, any day.” It was one of the neighbours, and what she said wasn’t even remotely true, but it steadied Micky. Then, the policeman started to take command, telling them what to do, and began artificial respiration expertly. That took the responsibility from Dawson, and within three minutes he was at a telephone. The Globe had the story before the Yard, but within a few minutes of its reaching the Yard, Turnbull was told.
And he told Roger.
Roger saw Dawson of the Globe, the man who had been at the Mansion House, among the crowd now fifty or sixty strong which had gathered outside the Bryants’ house. There was a tall policeman, too, who didn’t recognise Roger and who stood at the open doorway as if he meant to make sure that no one passed.
Dawson would tell the story best.
“How long have you been here?” Roger asked.
“Three hours,” said Dawson promptly. He had a boyish face and wispy hair which was so fair that the grey in it wasn’t noticed. He told what he knew, and added that he had telephoned the Globe, and just come back to pick up the rest of the story. “I think I’ve earned my special interview,” he added, and grinned.
“How’s Miss Harrison?”
“The doctor’s with her now,” Dawson said, and his grin vanished. “If you ask me—”
“Not dead, is she?”
“No, I shouldn’t think so.”
Roger felt the knifelike stab at his heart; the fear above all fears that a murder which should have been prevented had been committed. If that girl – well, she wasn’t dead yet, was she? He forced himself to speak sarcastically.
“So you’ve made a hero of yourself for the sake of an exclusive interview?”
“If you want a hero, take the copper,” Dawson said. “I’ve never seen a chap take a header into a glass window before. He doesn’t know it, but he’ll be on the front page of the Globe in the morning, and if you could add a caption—”
“Make your own; it’ll be much better,” Roger said. “But if I can fix you something later, I will. Don’t crowd me or the Bryant family, though.”
“Handsome,” said Dawson, “I was in the house, I was the first to find the girl, I was with the brother who didn’t know whether he was coming or going, and I didn’t ask him a single question, just calmed him down. There’s restraint for you.”
Roger said: “Thanks. I hope your editor doesn’t sack you.”
He moved towards the open front door, where Kilby was standing with the constable on guard; a constable now eager to please. Kilby looked big and burly and tense; he wasn’t a tense man by nature.
“Hallo,” Roger said to the constable. “Crowd’s not being too much of a nuisance. I hope.”
“Oh, no, sir.”
“Good.”
Young Micky was standing on the second or third stair and looking into the room where May Harrison lay. An ambulance bell rang outside. Roger went nearer to the door. A woman he didn’t recognise was bending over the girl, and applying artificial respiration. Another stood with her arm round Mrs Bryant. A doctor was standing up, a little man, elderly, harassed looking.
Kilby muttered: “If that girl’s dead—”
“Shut up.”
“Sorry.”
Kath Bryant was looking at the doctor, as if she was looking at the judgment seat. Her heart, her very life, was in her eyes. Her hands were held forward in silent supplication. It lasted only for a few seconds, yet the silence and the poignancy would be hard to forget.
The doctor said: “She’s coming round. I’m going to get her to the hospital as soon as I can, and make sure she’s all right. Didn’t I hear the ambulance bell?”
There was a bustle at the doorway. Kilby should have been making sure that the ambulance men could come straight in, but instead he was peering over the heads of the women, looking towards May Harrison. Her lips were moving now, and she was gasping for breath, Roger beckoned the men, and pushed Kilby aside. May’s face looked swollen, and her neck was very red and angry looking. The blood which had welled up from the scratches was vivid.
“See them out when the doctor gives the word,” Roger said to Kilby.
“Eh? Oh, yes. See them out.” Kilby threw off his preoccupation, and went to the door to make sure that there was no crushing. More people had come along at the sound of the ambulance bell. Kilby bellowed at them, as if to relieve his feelings.
Soon, the doctor gave the word to move the girl.
The ambulance men were quick and gentle. As they lifted May on to the stretcher, Roger watched Kath Bryant in her agony. Young Micky Bryant was still on the stairs, and when May was taken out, he said in a strangled voice: “She—she isn’t dead?”
“No, she isn’t,” Roger said, deliberately sharp. “Don’t make things out to be worse than they are. Do you know what happened?”
“No. I—I heard someone screaming, came rushing down and—and there was May on the floor, and—”
