The Bright Face of Danger
Roger Ormerod
© Roger Ormerod 1979
Roger Ormerod has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published in 1979 by Robert Hale Ltd
This edition published in 2015 by Endeavour Press Ltd.
Table of Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Extract from A Death to Remember by Roger Ormerod
CHAPTER ONE
I shall always believe that I hounded him to his death. It’s no good trying to convince myself that it was a normal interrogation, and there’s no point in pleading that I did not understand what I was doing. I should have known. The evidence was there. Simply, I had failed to organise it in my mind.
All right, so there was some excuse. I was distracted. George — that’s George Coe, my partner — had not been himself right from the beginning. Or perhaps he had been too much his normal self. That was something else I should have taken into consideration.
I assumed that George knew what we had taken on, but George reads only the sports pages. When he said: ‘Dave, what the hell’ve you got us into?’ it would perhaps have been better to explain the background, and allow him to walk away from it.
But George is inscrutable. During the whole of that initial interview I could read nothing in his expression. But after all, I was concentrating on Adrian Collis, with odd glances at his wife.
We had driven up on the Tuesday afternoon, the 7th February it would be, using my Porsche. George is never happy having to squeeze his bulk into the little car. We got out, he stiffly, to look at the bungalow. Collis had been released a week before.
Firbelow, he called it. I understand that being an architect he designed it himself, having acquired the plot of land and planning permission some years before. Some people have that sort of influence. The sprawled bungalow sat in about two acres of ground, seeming, from the road, to have a Spanish influence. There was a hint of an inner courtyard, a patio. Apart from the relief of one shallow gable-end, the roofing was flat. There was a lot of cedar cladding; the sloping roof was tiled with cedar shingles. All this was intended to harmonise with the surroundings, because the bungalow stood on the high rise to the east of the Chase, looking from its rear over the valley. The sun was lowering, the air crisp, with only a hint of mist developing in the far distance. Already the town lights were glowing blood red and blue, down there on the dark floor of the valley, like a ruby and amethyst necklace tossed away negligently.
The town! We had driven through it before sweeping on up the hill. It was a dour and friendless place, harsh in its planning and soulless in its concentricity. The streets flowed down to the centre like long sinuous spokes, lines of terraced houses marching up and down the slopes with no relief from nerveless conformity. Fifty years before, this had been a prosperous mining area. But the seams had run out. It had left the town to live as it might, and still the strain of survival rested harshly on the community. They were not people who easily forgot or forgave. You could almost feel the enmity seeping up towards the bungalow, rising with the shadows in the valley like the mists above the trees.
George shivered. The car had been warm. We were standing at a five-barred gate painted white, the railing effect being carried on all the way round the perimeter of the site as a four foot high fence. Behind us the sky was purple-black. There were lights on in the bungalow, many lights, like a boy whistling in the dark. From somewhere behind the building came the deep, heart-catching baying of a large dog. I guessed a Great Dane. I think they call it its bell. A strange word; bells are supposed to beckon. I felt like turning and running as fast as I could.
We saw it burst round from the side, a shadow on which a window light briefly fell. He was moving with that long, effortless stride they have, occasionally lifting his head to warn us he was in no mood for discussion.
I said: ‘Have you got any cheese, George?’
‘Not on me.’
‘All dogs love cheese. The smellier the better. Don’t let him think you’re scared.’
The dog could have taken the fence in his stride.
‘He can smell I’m scared,’ said George.
We waited. The dog came up to the gate and swerved himself to a halt, then put his rear end on the ground, curled his tail round, and sat grinning at us, saliva dripping from as nice a set of teeth as I’ve ever seen.
I think we were hypnotised. When Collis spoke, neither George nor I had noticed his approach.
‘Who are you?’
He was standing with his back to the last of the light, his face shadowed. He was tall, with slim shoulders and a lot of fair hair that caught the fading red of the sunset. There was a shape under his arm that looked very like a shotgun.
‘My name is David Mallin,’ I said. ‘And this is my partner, George Coe.’
‘Identification?’
I slid my hand into a pocket to produce my wallet, and extracted one of our cards. Mallin & Coe — Confidential Enquiries.
His torch stabbed at my hand. He did not move closer; his eyes must have been keen.
‘You’d better come in,’ he said. ‘Bring the car up the drive, or you’re likely to get it damaged.’
‘The dog...’
He laughed. ‘He knows you’re friends. I told him so.’
He was unlocking a huge padlock on the gate. George looked round desperately as I turned to the car. He was too late. The dog gave a yip of delight and bounded at him, put two huge paws on his shoulders, and tried to lick the flesh from his face. Perhaps George’s fear smelt of cheese.
I bubbled the car along quietly behind them as they walked up the straight drive. The plot had been landscaped no more than a year before. The lawn was immature, and there was no character in the layout. There was an air of neglect. They had planted a row of cypresses along the front, but they were barely six feet high. Cupressus Leylandii, I think, the fast-growing strain. But we couldn’t wait for their protection.
To one side of the building there was a two-car garage with its doors up, and inside one large car and a smaller one. Beyond that, a car-port. I left the Porsche under its protection. Adrian Collis and George were standing in the entrance porch in front of the open front door. It was light oak, studded with square-headed nails. Collis was looking out across the road, where the massed conifers and silver birch stood like black lace against the slightly lighter sky.
‘They’ll be here in a little while,’ he said softly. ‘They come up the hill, leave their cars in the trees, and then they just lurk around, watching. Always watching. My dog, Major, patrols all night.’
Major! The dog panted at my elbow. He was grey and white; not military colours in this country.
‘Is that safe?’ I asked. ‘He could be over that fence in a flash.’
There was a smile in his voice. ‘He’s a fully-trained guard dog. I had him from the best kennels in the country. You simply show him the boundaries, and leave it all to him.’
‘I hope he knows them. How long has he been here?’
‘Since Saturday. The Chief Warden was good enough to give me the address of the kennels. Major’s been a great comfort. Isn’t that so, dear?’
He turned quickly. I had not been aware of the woman standing just behind us in the hall.
She wou
ld have been a little under thirty, I thought, a trim, small woman with chestnut hair and those clear blue compelling eyes you sometimes get with that colouring. She had been silent, with the tight containment of patience. Her fingers were locked together in front of her. There was a nobleness to her brow and a quiet, comfortable dependence in her attitude.
‘With Major here,’ he said, ‘there’s absolutely nothing to be frightened of, is there Delia?’
She smiled, her lips moving into the prescribed shape. ‘Nothing,’ she said throatily. The blue eyes were vacant with fear.
‘Send ‘em off, boy,’ he said gently, and he clicked his tongue with pleasure when the dog bounded away.
George met my gaze. He shook his head slightly, as though I had been about to say something. Behind us, Delia Collis slammed the door vigorously, and when I turned she was smoothing her skirt with her fingertips; or cleansing them perhaps.
The hall was square, wood-block tiled and highly polished. I avoided carefully the four small scarlet carpets. Four doors opened from the hall, and two corridors, the effect of soft and graded shadows being achieved by carefully-spaced wall lights. Collis led the way, as though he had invited us in for a drink and a listen to his hi-fi. Delia Collis, although I tried to dawdle, hung behind.
‘The terms we discussed over the phone are acceptable,’ Collis was saying. ‘Of course, I couldn’t afford to let it go on too long, but I don’t anticipate it will.’
The room was magnificent. He had probably designed the whole building around this room, somehow managing to convey spaciousness without the emptiness that usually goes with it, yet achieving the effect without cramming it with furniture. What there was seemed to glow with light — sheeny oak and red coverings — a low three-seater settee against the back wall, two easy chairs and three not-so-easy ones. An end wall was completely devoted to the speakers and music centre, the racked discs and decked tapes of a comprehensive stereo system. Central above it was a single glowing painting of Notre Dame, softly in the distance between the sun-drenched, rain-soaked buildings of a Parisian street.
The one longest wall was a complete window. He touched a button, I think, and the curtains slid aside, and then he turned off the light switch. The moon had risen. The mist lay gently billowing beneath us, flooding the valley. In the far distance the opposite slopes, grey and brown and black with massed firs, were etched white where the moon caught the frost.
‘I find I prefer it with the town obscured,’ he said tonelessly.
Then the lights were on again and the curtains sliding shut. I looked at my feet. George cleared his throat. Delia spoke in a conversational voice, asking what we would like to drink.
I had lager, George a short whisky. We stood awkwardly, watching Collis prowling. Even Delia remained on her feet, her back against the stereo cupboard, which had proved to hide the bottles.
‘It must be clear to you that I need protection,’ Collis was saying. ‘You’ve seen.’ Actually, we had seen nothing threatening. He caught my expression and grimaced. ‘But you will. Oh, I can assure you you will, before you leave.’
‘We’re leaving, then?’ George said abruptly.
Something gave his voice a tone of challenge. But he seemed relaxed; the only one in the room. He was searching round for a chair large enough for his behind. ‘We got the impression you want protection. Am I right? You’ve got a dog and a gun, but you want more. Me and Dave. Toughies, to guard the place. So what’s this leaving business?’
It sounded ungracious, very unlike George. He sat, moving his free hand in a dismissive way. Collis walked towards him jerkily. He had an aquiline face, which he pushed forward as he moved, and long, elegant hands, white and clean, thrusting from snow-white cuffs. George looked up at him, his eyes wide, and cut in before Collis could speak.
‘So what the hell is this?’
Collis stopped. He moved his hands apart in a small gesture of defeat. Strangely, Delia laughed, a flat sound with a catch to it.
‘So you’re not so famous, Adrian.’
I had been certain George would have known the name. I felt I should explain for him.
‘George reads only the sports page.’
George looked at me. ‘And the letters,’ he murmured, hurt. I nodded placatingly. ‘And the horoscopes.’
I sat down quickly where I could watch him, then looked round for Delia. She was circling the room, came to a halt behind George’s chair, and stood with one hand on its back. She approved of the great oaf, simply because of his ignorance. I saw amusement in George’s eyes.
I said: ‘Let me explain.’ And Collis gave a gesture of mock defeat, turning away to allow me to get on with it. I supposed his stooped shoulders came from bending over a drawing board. I chose my words carefully, committing myself to nothing.
‘A summary. I could have a fact or two wrong. Adrian Collis, arrested nine months ago for the rape and murder of three young women, eighteen, seventeen and twenty years old, in that order.’
‘Madge Goldwater,’ said Delia over George’s head. Her eyes were dark. ‘Little Tina, and Marilyn Partridge.’
‘I hadn’t memorised their names.’
‘I knew Tina.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Not very well. She was a strange, startled sort of girl. I’d never managed to get more than a few words out of her…’
‘Delia!’
She lifted her chin to him, then she relaxed. ‘But do carry on, Mr. Mallin.’
‘Three young women,’ I carried on, avoiding George’s eyes. ‘Two single, the third married. All strangled within ten miles of here, one in December, I think, one about January—’
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake!’ burst out Collis. I saw he had made himself a drink, but none for Delia. ‘If you don’t know the facts...’
George rumbled. ‘David was trying not to hurt your feelings.’
‘Do you think I’ve got any left? Use your imagination, man. If you’ve stood in a box and listened to the whole sordid story being laid out in detail, felt the eyes on you, hating you, waited for the verdict...You can’t afford feelings if you want to keep your sanity.’
I waited politely. High on his prominent cheekbones were twin patches of colour. Delia watched him with subdued concern. He was abruptly calm.
‘Madge Goldwater,’ he said, ‘aged eighteen, killed on Tuesday the 4th January, last year. Tina Fletcher, not quite seventeen — Wednesday the 23rd February, and Marilyn Partridge, married two years, nearly twenty-one, on Wednesday the 18th May. Each one late in the evening, after dark, in a quiet stretch of the Chase. On each night I was late home. I’d been to see constructions in Peterborough and Stoke-on-Trent. That was confirmed. I had no alibis. There were car tracks very like my own, but I had new tyres and couldn’t remember when, or prove it. The blood groups matched, but mine is not uncommon. The evidence was circumstantial — odd reported sightings of a car like mine, but none agreeing as to colour. It was pitiful.’
‘The evidence?’ asked George, dangerously polite.
‘That,’ agreed Collis, ‘...too.’
‘Then they had a confession,’ George suggested.
‘They did not.’
George nodded at me knowingly. I tried not to respond.
‘And what does that mean?’ burst out Collis. George shrugged. Delia was looking down at him in awe.
‘We’re both ex-policemen,’ George explained. ‘We’ve come across similar cases — it happens all the time. There’s nothing to hang a hat on, but you know. There’s a feeling to it. Dozens of tiny things coming together, but not evidence to parade in Court. It’s how a lot of people get a not guilty verdict. Try persuading a jury. Just you try.’
‘You’ve got it wrong, George,’ I told him, gently chiding, aware that he was deliberately needling. ‘Mr. Collis was found guilty. He was convicted, and sentenced to life imprisonment.’
‘Then what...’
‘The seven months!’ Collis cried in triumph. ‘Their
barrister was too clever. One month and nineteen days between the first two deaths, two months and twenty-five days between the second and the third. And at the time of the trial I’d been in custody for seven months. And the prosecuting counsel tripped up. I reckon he knew he’d got a rotten case. He pointed out — and this was in his closing address — that I’d been out of circulation for all of seven months, and there hadn’t been any more. Now...wasn’t that stupid of him! I got sentenced, but it was splendid grounds for appeal. On appeal, the conviction was quashed. That was a week ago. And here I am.’
‘It would’ve been a good idea to be somewhere else,’ George suggested.
‘Oh no! No, no. Leave here? Be driven away? Not ever. This is my home. I designed and built it. They’re not driving me out.’
‘It could be unpleasant,’ I said. ‘Dangerous, even.’
‘That’s why I need you.’
‘It can’t have been pleasant for your wife, the past year.’
She looked at me in surprise. Collis glanced away. ‘I have been terrified,’ she admitted. ‘For a while I went to my sister’s, but I was afraid to leave the house empty. It all made me quite ill.’ She spoke with quiet dignity.
‘But it’s over now,’ Collis said with impatience.
Her voice was empty. ‘Now that you’re home, dear.’
‘Over?’ George demanded. ‘How can it be over? Ever. Unless you go clear away and start a new life.’
‘No,’ Collis snapped.
‘I was talking to your wife.’
‘This is ridiculous. Did I ask you here to break up my marriage!’
‘Don’t be foolish, Adrian.’
‘The man said...’
‘He can see I don’t intend to leave you.’
They looked at each other. She was calm, holding him, bolstering him. He was smiling when he turned to me, ignoring George.
‘You can see I can’t leave, and I desperately need your help.’
‘You’re safe here. You’ve got your dog and the police are legally bound to give you protection.’
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