by John Creasey
“They’ll be throwing stones at the windows next.”
“Why on earth should that matter?”
He swung round on her and gripped her arms, fiercely, painfully. He had never stood so close, never looked at her so intently.
“I can’t stay here. I can’t let you be smeared by this dirt. Not you, of all people. My God, I’d rather kill myself. I love you, do you understand, I love you. You’re the most precious thing I’ve ever known, the most—” He broke off, then suddenly drew her close, almost savagely, and crushed her lips to his. Their bodies seemed to melt together, so great was his passion and the passion he stirred in her; they were oblivious of the cartoon, the house, the world.
At last, Cecil drew back, still holding her but their bodies no longer touching.
“I—I’m sorry.”
“Sorry. Oh, my darling—”
“Listen,” Cecil said roughly. “I’m no good to you. I can never be any good to you. I shouldn’t have kissed you. I’ve no right.”
“Don’t say that.” Her voice rose. “You’ve every right, we each have a right, Oh, darling, I love you so much,” she cried in glorious certainty. “I love you. I do. I love you so very much.”
When she stopped, filled with such wonder as she had never known before, Cecil drew her close to him again. Then suddenly he thrust her abruptly away.
“I shall never be any good to you. I’ll be hounded for the rest of my life. You mustn’t waste yourself on me, Understand? You mustn’t do it.” When Julie stood silent, still wondering, marvelling, he went on harshly: “This is the second of these drawings. And I’ve had two telephone calls, telling me I should have been hanged. Anyone who has anything to do with me is bound to be involved, bound to be smeared. I can’t let it happen to you.”
“Cecil,” Julie said. “Oh, Cecil.” She had never felt such warmth of love and now of compassion, and the very harshness of his voice only heightened her longing to help him, to ease the burden. “Wait just a minute, don’t—don’t go out now. Please don’t go out now. Please. Come and talk to me.”
She took his hand …
And for the first time, he began to talk. Words came out in a torrent, a flood of remorse, of self-hatred, of fear, of guilt, of sensitivity, of hatred for the years in prison and the penance he had done, the way he had subdued his feelings and emotions, had submitted to every prison indignity, every rule, every regulation.
“And it did no good,” he was almost sobbing. “No one’s forgotten—no one’s forgiven me. I’ve had these bloody drawings, these telephone calls, and—who knows where they’ll stop? You’ll get them soon, so will Paul. You might stand up to the persecution for a while, but Paul wouldn’t. He couldn’t – I know that much about him. I’ll have to go before he throws me out.”
“He won’t throw you out,” Julie said. “I won’t let him.”
“Julie, it won’t be any good. This hounding will go on and on.”
“It won’t go on if you do the right thing,” Julie told him quietly. “And there’s only one right thing – go to the police. It’s criminal to hound you like this. The police will have to find who’s doing it, and stop them.”
“The police would never help me,” Cecil said bitterly.
“Of course they would. Cecil, listen. You’re a citizen with the same rights as anyone else. You’ve expiated your crime, you don’t owe society anything any longer. And you’re more vulnerable than most of us to a beastly campaign like this. If you’ve had other cards, it is a campaign.”
She knew that Cecil was watching her with new awareness, but he didn’t speak. She tried to keep her voice steady, as she went on: “Don’t you realise that you need help from the police for the very reason that you’re less able than most to suffer such a thing as this. You must have help, you can’t fight it alone.”
Gruffly, he said: “Yes, I need help. Julie—” he broke off.
“Yes?”
“You’re a different person when you’re with me and not with Paul.”
“With Paul I have to put on an act,” she said, her stark words born of bitterness. “With you, I’m myself. That’s all it is. Cecil, will you go to the police?”
He hesitated.
“Cecil, please.”
“I’ll think about it.” Knowing in his heart she was right, he yet dreaded taking her advice for it would be like reopening an old wound. “I’ll think about it.”
She knew that, for the moment, she would have to be satisfied with this, but at the back of her mind she was aware that he would never approach the police unless he were pushed, and she was the only person likely to be both willing and able to push him. She would have to; but she must be very careful, for he was far more sensitive than he outwardly appeared to be. The years in prison had left a deep and ugly wound which even time might never heal.
“I think I’ll go for a walk,” he said flatly.
“Sure you wouldn’t like me to come?”
“I’ll be better on my own.”
“I know,” she said. “Don’t be too long.”
He opened the front door, and their hands touched. Then as the door closed she hurried upstairs to the front bedroom, and ran to the window. She looked down on to a long narrow road, flanked with pale red brick houses, mostly terraced. A dozen people were in sight as well as Cecil. He was walking briskly on the far side of Link Street, shoulders squared, body erect. Facing his future, thought Julie, and hating it.
She saw two women pause when he had passed them, and turn and stare. Anger shook her.
Only one man was walking in the same direction as Cecil, an ordinary-looking man in a belted raincoat. He glanced at each house in turn as if seeking a particular number. Julie took no notice of him, except to wonder whether just such a man had been responsible for the drawings.
Once again, her mind seethed with resentment.
Suddenly, two thoughts struck her simultaneously, each startling in its way, each frightening.
Would Cecil come back? Or would this persecution drive him away for good, perhaps even to suicide?
And while she was feeling the shock of that thought, the other was imposed upon it.
She had virtually forgotten that Cecil had killed the woman. The girl’s relatives might well hate him as much now as they had done twenty years before; and how could one blame them?
At that moment Cecil disappeared.
Julie turned away towards the landing, and as she reached it, the telephone bell rang. There was an extension in the bedroom, so she went back to it, stepped between the twin beds, sat on her own, and picked up the telephone.
“This is Mrs. Chayter.”
A man spoke in a harsh, angry voice: “You’re as bad as he is. Every bit as bad. He ought to have been hanged.” There was a pause, but this new shock was so great that Julie could not find words, and the speaker went on with a more vicious note in his voice: “And you’d better look out – once a killer always a killer. I wouldn’t like to be in your shoes.”
The line went dead.
The call came at half past eleven. Between then and one o’clock, Julie Chayter did what had to be done in the house mechanically, trying not to think yet obsessed by the situation and haunted by the caller’s words. “And you’d better look out – once a killer always a killer. I wouldn’t like to be in your shoes.” It was wicked nonsense, she mustn’t give it another thought; and yet the words and all they implied stabbed in and out of her mind, like poisoned darts.
By half past one she began to worry about Cecil’s continued absence. She forced herself to eat an egg and some bread and butter, made herself some coffee, and was half-way through it when the telephone bell rang again. It brought the previous call to her mind so vividly that she sat with the cup half-way to her lips while the ringing went on and on. At last she moved towards the sitting-room, lifted the receiver and said stiffly: “This is Mrs. Chayter.”
“Hallo, Julie.” It was Cecil, a little uncertainly.
; “Oh, thank goodness!” she cried.
“I thought you might be worried,” Cecil sounded subdued but composed. “I’m sorry if you were. I’m on the other side of the Heath, and I’ll get a snack here.”
“What time will you be back?”
“Not—too early. I want to think.”
“I have to go out this afternoon,” Julie said carefully. “I’ve a Save the Children Fund committee meeting and jumble sale. I won’t be back until after five.”
“Nor will I then.”
“Cecil, the more I think about it, the more sure I am that you must go to the police.”
“We’ll see,” Cecil said, and added more strongly: “Thank you, Julie. Thank you for everything. Goodbye.”
He rang off.
Julie went downstairs almost light-heartedly, cheered by the sound of his voice, reassured by his manner and the fact that he had troubled to telephone, but still disquieted by the memory of that hate-filled voice, whose words were like a refrain in her mind.
“I wouldn’t like to be in your shoes—your shoes—your shoes …”
She was so busy during the afternoon that she had little time to think, and it was nearly six o’clock before she arrived home. Opening the front door, she was relieved to hear Cecil and Paul talking in the sitting-room. She went straight through to the kitchen and switched on the oven – supper would practically cook itself, by half past seven – then went upstairs to take off her coat. She sat for a few moments, combing her hair and letting thoughts drift through her mind. It was strange to think of the two brothers in the room below, the one she had come to love, and the one she hated.
The downstairs door opened, the footsteps sounded very loud. Paul’s. He came hurrying up the stairs, and for Paul to hurry was remarkable. She twisted round on the dressing-table stool to look at him as he appeared in the doorway.
“What’s all this about sending for the police?” he demanded abruptly.
“Don’t you think it’s a good idea?” she asked.
“I think it’s a bloody silly idea!”
“You’re in a particularly unpleasant mood tonight, aren’t you?”
“I’ve got plenty to be unpleasant about. My God, do you think I want the police in and out of this house, watching it day and night? Aren’t things bad enough as they are?”
“Bad enough for Cecil,” said Julie.
“Bad enough for you and me,” barked Paul.
“It must be hell for Cecil!”
“What do you think he’s made of? Cardboard? He’s bound to get this kind of thing for a few weeks, but if he doesn’t make a fuss about it, it will soon die down. If he sends for the police—my God, what are you trying to do? Crucify him?”
Julie caught her breath.
“What do you mean?”
“If the polite start questioning him, he’ll be driven back twenty years. It will be as if he were put on trial again – everything would be brought back. And what about the relations of the girl he killed? They’ll be under suspicion because some crank has taken leave of his senses. If you ask me, you’ve taken leave of yours.”
A few moments earlier, Julie had been raging with anger, but the phrase ‘crucify him’ first numbed her, then filled her with a gnawing pain. She had a startling thought: perhaps Cecil had been right, perhaps there was more goodwill in Paul than she had been ready to believe.
But was Paul entirely disinterested in his passionate declamation against bringing the police into it?
Chapter Seven
Conflict
Roger West turned into his office at half past eight the next morning, and saw a note: Please ring the Commander on top of the pile of papers waiting for him. Coppell probably wanted a briefing on the Chayter inquiry, Roger thought, glancing through the reports of the man who had been on duty the previous day. He rang for Frisby, who came in so promptly that he must have been waiting for the call. “Good morning, sir.”
“’Morning. Who’s this man Kane?”
“A divisional detective officer, sir.”
“He’s new to me,” Roger said, “but his report’s either very imaginative or very acute. Do you know him?”
“I’ve seen everyone on the case,” said Frisby.
“What do you think of Kane?”
“He’s very observant and perceptive, sir.”
“So you think Chayter was badly upset when he left his brother’s house yesterday?”
“I’d say so, yes.”
Roger was scanning Kane’s report, which was typewritten and very precise.
“He says Chayter walked out of the house as if he’d had a quarrel or some kind of emotional disturbance, that he twice took something out of his pocket and looked at it, then put it back. He walked aimlessly about Hampstead Heath for over two hours, seemed to calm down, made a telephone call, then went to a café and had coffee and scrambled eggs. While he was there, another man took over from Kane.”
“That’s right,” said Frisby. “Chayter went on to the pictures – alone – and got back to his brother’s house at 5.30 p.m. He didn’t go out again.”
“The chap who took over from Kane doesn’t say what mood he seemed to be in,” Roger remarked, almost sourly. “How often has Kane been on this job?”
“This was his first session.”
Roger glanced at his watch.
“I may go over and have a word with him at the Division,” he said. “Make sure he’ll be there between eleven and twelve o’clock.”
“Yes, sir.”
Roger lifted the internal telephone, and said: “Mr. Coppell, please.” He had to hold on for some time. “The rest of the reports seem mere routine statements. Anything about them strike you?” he asked Frisby, while waiting for Coppell.
“Chayter spends a lot of time indoors while his sister-in-law is there,” replied Frisby.
Roger grunted.
“Commander’s office,” a man said brightly.
“West,” said Roger.
“Can you come over right away, sir?” It was the fair-haired assistant, very bright indeed.
“Yes,” said Roger. “Anything special?”
“I still haven’t had time to learn how to read the Commander’s mind!” There was flippancy in the reply of which Roger disapproved, but he made no comment as he rang off.
“One other thing,” said Frisby.
“What’s that?”
“There’s some interesting facts about Joseph Grey, the father of the girl whom Chayter murdered,” Frisby said. “Can’t cover everyone but I’ve had him and all his relations watched, in case they have a go at Chayter. The father wrote an angry letter to the papers when the death sentence was commuted.”
“Can’t say I blame him,” Roger said. “What’s so interesting?”
“He’s been along to see Solomon Medlake, twice in the past week.”
“Medlake, has he? Why didn’t I know about this before?” demanded Roger, He was thinking that he could easily have gone to see the Commander with only half a story.
“It’s just come in from Division,” Frisby said, hurriedly. “I telephoned to find out if there was anything in about the relatives, and they told me this.”
Roger grinned.
“You win,” he said. “What else?”
“A few odds and ends sir. Over the past year a lot of reprieved murderers have been released, all of them men. I can’t be sure yet, but it wouldn’t surprise me if they’ve all had anonymous spiteful letters – I’ve phoned three, and they won’t talk about it.”
“We need to find out pretty quickly,” Roger said.
It was only ten minutes to nine when he entered Coppell’s office, by no means certain that the Commander wanted him about the Chayter case. Coppell was alone, massive, hard-faced as he listened to someone on the telephone. He did not wave Roger to a chair.
“… I’ll see to it,” he barked, and rang off; then he glared at Roger. “I thought I asked for a weekly report on Chayter.”
“The third one’s due in two days, sir,” Roger said formally.
“I’d better have a daily one in future.”
“Just as you wish.”
“Don’t you approve?”
“I’d prefer to report whenever anything seems worth your attention,” Roger said flatly.
“Don’t you think anything Solomon Medlake does in this connection is worth my attention?” Coppell made no attempt to hide his annoyance.
“I would certainly think so,” Roger said, “You would have had a note about it today. I heard ten minutes ago.”
“You should have heard yesterday.”
Coppell was obviously waiting for a retort, and when it didn’t come, he growled out: “Medlake could make a damned nuisance of himself.”
“By annoying the Government, you mean,”
“I mean by annoying us.”
“In what way?”
“He could start a lot of agitation over the Abolition, and begin another of his major campaigns in the newspapers and in the House of Commons.”
“I don’t see how we could stop him.”
“We could if we discovered he was doing something illegal,” Coppell said aggressively.
“Yes, but would he?”
“I want you to find that out.” Coppell opened a folder on his desk, picked up a sketch and handed it to Roger, who turned it round, and looked down, at a drawing of a man, obviously in agony, clutching at his chest. In the top left corner was a drawing of a knife with red smears on the blade, and the word BLOOD in big red letters. “Michael Leep had two of these last week. I want to find out who drew the picture, and whether any other released murderers are getting this kind of thing through the post.”
Roger was staring down.
“Well?” barked Coppell.
“What makes you think Medlake might be involved?” Roger asked slowly.
“The husband of the woman Leep lives with knows he’s seen Medlake recently,” said Coppell. “A neighbour told one of our chaps when he was checking on Leep.”
Roger laid the picture on the desk and looked at the Commander. The annoyance which had been in him earlier was now back in full strength; it wasn’t far from anger. The temptation to tell Coppell what he thought was almost irresistible, but he simply said: “I see.”