Dangerous Women

by Otto Penzler (ed)

  He called again at nine the following morning, explaining that he was interested in the house. “Is the seller after a quick sale, do you think?” he asked.

  “How do you mean, sir?”

  “I just wondered if the price might be negotiable, say if someone came along with a solid offer.”

  “It’s fixed price, sir.”

  “That usually means they’re in a hurry to sell.”

  “Oh, it’ll sell all right. I’d suggest that you arrange a viewing for this week, if you’re interested.”

  “A viewing?” Dennis gnawed his bottom lip. “Maybe that’s an idea, yes.”

  “I’ve got a cancellation this evening, if that suits.”

  “This evening?”

  “Eight o’clock.”

  Dennis hesitated. “Eight o’clock,” he repeated.

  “Excellent. And it’s Mr…”

  He swallowed hard. “Denny. My name’s Frank Denny.”

  “And do you have a contact number, Mr. Denny?”

  Dennis was sweating. He offered his cell phone number.

  “Terrific,” the woman said. “You’ll be shown round by a Mr. Appleby.”

  “Appleby?” Dennis frowned.

  “He works for us,” the woman explained.

  “The owner won’t be there, then?” Dennis asked, starting to relax a little.

  “Some owners prefer it that way.”

  “All right… that’s fine. Eight o’clock, then.”

  “Good-bye, Mr. Denny.”

  “Thanks for all your help…”

  He spent the rest of the day in a daze. In a final effort to clear his head, he went for a walk around the prison-the yard first, and then the halls. Some of the men knew him-he hadn’t always been a censor. Time was, he’d been a lockup, same as the others: working shifts and weekends, having to live with the smells of slopping-out and the kitchens. Some of his colleagues said he was daft for taking the vacant post of censor-it meant no chance of overtime.

  “It suits me,” he’d explained at the time. The Governor had agreed. But now Dennis was beginning to wonder. His head was still swimming as he climbed the metal stairs to the upper level… he knew where he was headed, couldn’t seem to stop himself. Chalmers was resting his considerable weight against a whitewashed brick wall, guarding the open doorway next to him. Inside, Blaine was stretched out on a bed, head lying on his clasped hands.

  “How are you today, Mr. Henshall?” he called, and Dennis realized he had come to a stop in the doorway. He folded his arms, as if there might be some reason for his visit.

  “I’m all right. How about you?”

  “Not feeling too great actually.” Blaine removed one hand slowly and patted his chest with it. “The old ticker isn’t what it used to be. Mind you, whose is?” Blaine smiled, and Dennis tried not to. “Must be nice for you, finishing your shift, getting to walk out of here. Down the pub for a pint… or is it straight home to a nice, warm missus?” Blaine paused. “Sorry, I forgot. Your wife left you, didn’t she? Was it another man?”

  Dennis didn’t answer. Instead, he asked a question of his own: “What about your own wife?”

  “Selina? Good as gold, she is. You know that… you read everything she gets up to.”

  “She doesn’t visit as often as she could.”

  “What’s the point? I’d rather she stayed away. This place clings to you-ever noticed when you go home at night, the way the smell’s still in your nostrils? Would you want a woman you love coming to a place like this?” He rested his head back down, staring at the ceiling of his cell. “Selina likes nothing better than sitting at home with her puzzles. Magazines full of them. Crosswords… that’s what she likes.”

  “Really?” Dennis tried not to smile at this image of Selina.

  “What-d’you-call-thems… acrobatics?”

  “She likes acrobatics?” Dennis was betting she did.

  Blaine shook his head. “A word like that. Good as gold, she is, you mark my words.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  “What about you, Mr. Henshall? Been a while since your wife scarpered-any women in your life?”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  Blaine chuckled. “I’ve never met a man yet who hasn’t had a soft spot for her,” he called out, as Dennis turned to go.

  Dennis thinking: I’ll bet you haven’t. Maybe it wasn’t just Fred. Maybe there were others, fueling her shopping trips. Or she was spending her husband’s loot without his knowledge. And now was about to do a runner, taking it with her. Dennis realized something: He had power over her now, knew things about her she wouldn’t want Blaine to find out. Power over Fred, too, if it came to it. The thought warmed him during the rest of his walk.

  “Mr. Denny?”

  “That’s right,” Dennis said. “And you must be Mr. Appleby?”

  “Come in, come in.”

  Mr. Appleby was a short, overweight man in his late sixties, smartly attired and businesslike. He made Dennis add his name to a list on the table in the narrow hallway, then asked him if he needed a schedule. Dennis replied that he did, and a printed brochure was handed over: four pages of color photos of the house, along with details of the accommodation and grounds.

  “Would you like the tour, or are you happy to look around by yourself?”

  “I’ll be fine,” Dennis replied.

  “Any questions, I’ll be right here.” And Mr. Appleby sat himself down on a chair, while Dennis pretended to be studying the schedule. He made his way into the living room, checked he wasn’t visible from the hall. Then he looked. The furniture was new-looking but gaudy: vivid orange sofa, a large TV and even larger cocktail cabinet. Magazines and newspapers had been crammed into a rack. Dennis noted that some of them were puzzle magazines, so maybe Blaine hadn’t been too wrong about Selina after all. There were no photos on display, no mementoes of foreign holidays. A mixture of ornaments, looking like a job lot from one of the bigger, trendier stores: narrow vases, paperweights, candlesticks. Heading back into the hall, he smiled at Mr. Appleby before making for the kitchen. A wall had been knocked through so that glass doors now led to a dining room with French doors leading out into the back garden. “Fitted kitchen units by Nijinsky,” the brochure said, adding that all appliances, curtains and floor coverings were included in the sale. Wherever Selina was headed, she was taking none of this with her.

  The two final downstairs rooms were a cramped cloak-room/w.c. and what was described as “Bedroom 4” but was currently being used for storage: cardboard boxes, racks of women’s clothes. Dennis ran a hand down one of the dresses, rubbing the hem between finger and thumb. Then he pressed his nose to it, picking up the faintest trace of her perfume.

  Upstairs, there were three bedrooms off the landing, the “master” featuring an “en suite by Ballard.” The master was the largest room by far, and the only one being used as a bedroom. Dennis slid the drawers open, touching her clothes. Pulled open the wardrobe, drank in the sight of her various dresses, skirts and blouses. There were more of Blaine’s clothes, too, of course: a few expensive-looking suits, striped shirts with the cufflinks already attached. Would she dump them before leaving, Dennis wondered?

  The other bedrooms seemed to comprise “his” and “hers” studies. In his: shelves of books-mostly crime and war novels, plus sports biographies-a desk covered in paperwork, and a music center with albums by Glen Campbell, Tony Bennett and others.

  Selina’s study was something else again: more puzzle magazines, but everything kept neat. There was an unused knitting machine in one corner, a rocking chair in another. Dennis pulled a photograph album out from a shelf and flicked through it, stopping at a beach holiday, Selina in a pink bikini, a coy smile for the camera. Dennis glanced out into the hall, heard Mr. Appleby stifle a sneeze downstairs and then removed one of the photos, slipping it into his pocket. As he descended the staircase, he was reading the brochure again.

  “A delightful family home,” Mr.
Appleby told him.

  “Absolutely.”

  “And fixed price. You’ll need to be quick. I’d bet a pound to a penny, this’ll be gone by four o’clock tomorrow.”

  “You think so?”

  “Pound to a penny.”

  “Well, I’ll sleep on it,” Dennis said, realizing that his hand was resting against his jacket pocket.

  “You do that, Mr. Denny,” his guide said, opening the door for him.

  When Dennis woke up next morning, he was surrounded by her.

  He’d stopped at a late-opening shop and used their color copier. Decided not to stint: printed twenty slow copies. He could see that the shopkeeper wanted to ask him about the photo and the quantity, but the man knew better than to pry.

  Pictures of her on his bed, on the sofa, laid out on his dining table. Even one on the floor of the hallway, left there when he’d dropped it. The original, he took to work with him, locking it in his desk. At visiting time that afternoon, there was a knock at his door. He unlocked it. One of the warders stood there, arms folded.

  “You coming for a butcher’s?”

  “I take it Mrs. Blaine is in the building,” Dennis commented, managing to sound calm while his heart pounded.

  The warder spread his hands in front of him. “Showtime,” he said with a grin.

  But, to Dennis’s surprise, Selina was not alone. She’d brought Fred with her. The pair of them sat opposite Blaine, Selina doing most of the talking. Dennis was appalled and impressed in equal measure. You’re about to leave your husband, and the last time you see him, you bring along the man who’s been keeping you warm at nights. But it was a dangerous game she was playing. Blaine would be furious when he found out, and he had plenty of friends on the outside. Dennis doubted he’d want Selina hurt: Blaine obviously loved her to bits. But Fred… Fred was another matter entirely. Killing would be too good for him. Yet there he sat, one arm slung over the back of the chair, casual as anything. Just visiting his old employer, his mate, nodding whenever Blaine deigned to speak to him, managing to keep just enough distance between Selina and him, so Blaine couldn’t read anything into the body language. Maybe he’d been explaining his fictitious jaunt “up north,” his return to Denise.

  Dennis realized that he hated Fred, even without really knowing him. He hated who and what he was, hated the fact that he obviously made money yet drove a clapped-out car. Hated the way he’d put his arm around Selina that time in Glasgow. Hated that he had more money and probably more women than Dennis ever would have.

  What the hell was Selina doing, wasting herself on him? It didn’t make sense. Except… except, she would need someone to take the blame when she fled, someone Blaine could take his anger out on. Dennis allowed himself a smile. Could she be so calculating, so clever? He didn’t doubt it, not for one second. Yes, she was playing with Fred, same as she was with her own, duped husband. It was perfect.

  Apart from the one detail: Dennis himself, who felt he knew everything now. He realized that he had allowed his eyes to drift out of focus. When he blinked them clear, he saw that Selina had turned her head to look at him. Her eyes narrowed as she gave the briefest of smiles.

  “Which one of us was that for?” the warder next to Dennis asked. Dennis himself had no doubt. She’d recognized him, maybe placed him as the man she’d seen driving past her house. She turned to say something to her husband, and Fred snapped round, glaring at the warders.

  “Ooh, I’m scared,” the warder beside Dennis muttered, before starting to chuckle. But it wasn’t him Fred was looking at: It was Dennis.

  Blaine himself just stared at the tabletop, nodding slowly, then said a few words to his wife, who nodded back. When it came time to leave, she gave Blaine a more effusive embrace than usual. It’s called the kiss-off, Dennis thought. She even waved at her husband as she walked away on her noisy two-inch heels. Blew him another kiss, while Fred allowed himself a glance around the room, sizing up the other women on display and rolling his shoulders, as if content that he was leaving with the classiest of the bunch.

  Dennis walked back to his office and made a phone call.

  “I’m afraid you’re too late,” he was told. “That property was sold this morning.”

  He replaced the receiver. She was on her way… he might never see her again. And there was nothing he could do about it, was there?

  Maybe not.

  Half an hour later, he left his room, locking it behind him as usual. His walk through the prison took him right past Blaine’s open cell door. Chalmers was on guard duty as usual.

  “Visitor, boss,” he growled. Blaine had been seated on his bed, but rose to his feet, facing Dennis.

  “What’s this I hear about you, Mr. Henshall? Seems you’ve taken a right shine to Selina. She saw you driving past the house.” Blaine took a step closer, his tone jocular but face set like stone. “Now why would you do a thing like that? Can’t think your employers would be too thrilled…”

  “She must’ve made a mistake.”

  “That right? She got the make of car and the color: green Vauxhall Cavalier. Ring any bells?”

  “She’s made a mistake.”

  “So you keep saying. I know I told you plenty of men come to fancy her, but they don’t all go to your extremes, Mr. Henshall. You been following her? Watching the house? That’s my house, too, you know. How many times you done it? Cruising past… peeking through the curtains…” Blood had risen to Blaine’s cheeks, a tremble entering his voice. Dennis realized that he was sandwiched between these two men, Blaine and Chalmers. No other warders around.

  “You a bit of a perv, Mr. Henshall? Locked in that room of yours, reading all those love letters… give you a hard-on, does it? No wife to go home to, so you start sniffing around other men’s. What’s the Governor going to think about that, eh?”

  Dennis’s face creased. “You thick bastard! Can’t even see what’s under your nose! She’s out there spending all your loot, shacking up with your pal Fred. I’ve seen them. Now she’s sold the house and she’s clearing off. You just had your last conjugal visit, Blaine, only you’re too stupid to see it!”

  “You’re lying.” Beads of sweat had appeared on Blaine’s forehead. His face was almost puce, and his breathing sounded ragged.

  “She’s been conning you from the minute you walked in here,” Dennis rushed on. “Telling you she’s hard up when she spends rolls of cash in every clothes shop in town. Goes shopping with Fred, in case you didn’t know. He carries her bags, carries them all the way into the house. He’s in there for hours.”

  “Liar!”

  “We’ll soon find out, won’t we? You can call home, see if the line’s been disconnected yet. Or wait for her next visit. Trust me, it’ll be a while coming…”

  Blaine’s hands went out, and Dennis flinched. But the man was hanging on to him, not attacking him. All the same, Dennis cried out, just as Blaine slumped to his knees, hands still gripping Dennis’s uniform. Chalmers was yelling for help, running feet approaching. Blaine choking, clutching at his chest now as he fell onto his back, legs writhing. Then Dennis remembered: old ticker isn’t what it used to be. . .

  “I think it’s a coronary,” he said, as the first of the warders rushed in.

  The Governor had asked for Dennis’s version, which he’d had time to think about. Just passing… stopped to chat… next thing, Blaine’s collapsing.

  “Seems to tie in with Chalmers’s version,” the Governor had said, to Dennis’s relief. Of course, Blaine might have other ideas, always supposing he made it.

  “He going to be all right, sir?”

  “The hospital will tell us soon enough.”

  Rushed to the Western General, leaving Chalmers in the doorway of the cell, looking stunned. His only words: “I might not be seeing him again…”

  Dennis retreated to his office, ignoring knocks at the door: other warders, wanting to hear the story. He took out the photograph of Selina in her pink bikini. Maybe she’d get
away with it now, get everything she wanted. And Dennis would have helped.

  And she might never know.

  It was nearly going-home time when another call summoned him to the Governor’s office. Dennis knew it would be bad news, but when his boss spoke, he got the shock of his life.

  “Blaine’s escaped.”

  “Sorry, sir?”

  “He’s fled the hospital. Looks like it was a setup. A man and a woman were waiting for him, one dressed as a nurse, the other an orderly. One of the escort team has a concussion, another’s lost a couple of teeth.” The Governor looked up at Dennis. “He tricked you, tricked all of us. Bastard wasn’t having a heart attack. His wife and another man came visiting today. Probably making final preparations.”

  “But I…”

  “You entered the picture at the wrong moment, Henshall. Because an officer was there at the time, we took it that bit more seriously.” The Governor returned to some paperwork. “Just a bit of bad timing on your part… but a major bloody headache for the rest of us.”