The bedroom that she shared with Tom was the last room left. It was a big room with a walk-in cupboard. She would have to search it carefully, perhaps get very close to a would-be assailant. Her fear was acute. She was terrified by what she might find on the other side of this door.
Unlike the dining-room’s, its door it was loose-fitting; someone had removed it from its hinges decades ago, and re-hung it so that it opened inwards. It had a small panel of frosted glass let into it in the centre, high up, presumably to allow a glimmer of natural light to filter through to the landing. Alex stretched up and tried to look through the small opaque window. She could discern the outline of the bed and her cheval mirror. There seemed to be no movement in the room.
She opened the door slowly, inadvertently rattling the round brass doorknob, and stood, framed, in the doorway.
The bed had been made. This was certainly not her doing – she knew that she had left the quilt furled at the bed’s foot – but it was possible that Tom had taken into his head to neaten it when he had left the note.
Alex dropped to her hands and knees and looked under the bed. There was nothing but dust and discarded novels.
She got up, and moved across to the closet, pulling its door open suddenly as she had the sitting-room door downstairs. She put her hand into each of the two rails of dresses and suits, parted them and searched the floor beneath them. There was no evidence that they had been tampered with.
Unless there was someone cowering in the tiny bathroom next to the kitchen, she had established that she was alone in the flat. Perhaps there had been no intruder; perhaps her alarm had been caused by Tom himself. Could he have been so preoccupied with the Padgett case that he had left both the gate and the flat door not only unlocked but wide open? Alex was doubtful, but she had to acknowledge that it was possible.
She walked slowly back to the top of the stairs. She was about to descend them when the outside door banged loudly. Alex caught her breath and ran towards the sound. If there was an intruder and he or she had either succeeded in hiding from her or had returned, she had no option but to confront them now.
She burst into the kitchen. The outside door that led into it had banged shut. The kitchen itself was empty. Alex flung open the only other door that led from it: the bathroom, too, was unoccupied.
Cautiously, she moved to the outside door and opened it. She took a few steps outside. The flat roof was deserted save for the few shrubs that she grew in tubs and the ornate wrought iron table at which she and Tom sat and drank coffee on warm weekends. She peered over the staircase railings, but could see no-one.
Someone had slammed the door, though; she was convinced of it. It was dark now, but the evening was still, with no hint of a breeze. The door had closed like a thunderclap. Someone had pulled it hard; they had deliberately slammed it shut to frighten her.
The phone started ringing again. She reached it much more quickly this time. It was still ringing when she lifted the receiver. She said ‘Hello?’ There was a click, then nothing. The caller had hung up, though it had rung only three times.
Alex turned to rest her back against the work-bench.
“Oh, Tom,” she thought. “Come home soon.”
Then she raised her eyes and screamed.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Alex had never met her neighbours. The top floors of the eighteenth-century town-house to the right of theirs were not inhabited, but used as the storeroom for the Chinese restaurant below them. The top floors of the building to the left had been converted to a maisonette similar to theirs; there was a solicitor’s office on the ground floor below it. Access to this maisonette was via a small private door next to the solicitor’s solid portal in the Sheep Market. As Tom and Alex’s entrance was in Chapel Lane, they had never bumped into the people who lived next door.
Alex had forgotten that, like the putative intruder, she had left the yard gate open. When her screams brought footsteps hurrying up the outside steps, she did not hear them. It was with renewed terror that she suddenly became aware that someone was pounding on the kitchen door. Pulling herself together a little, she realised that no adversary would be likely to knock.
She opened the door. A tall, stout young man was standing there, his florid complexion glowing with the effort of the sprint he had just made. He was wearing chef’s whites. Now that he had arrived he seemed abashed, uncertain of what to do next.
“Are you all right?” he asked. “Only I thought that I heard screaming.”
Alex nodded, and then burst into tears.
“What’s going on?” asked another voice. Alex became aware of the vague shape of a woman standing on the rooftop courtyard, someone who had positioned herself well behind the figure in white.
“Who are you?” asked Alex. This couple may genuinely have been trying to help, but she felt that she could trust no-one.
“We live next door,” said the woman, stepping forward. Alex saw that she was heavily pregnant. She wore jeans and a large black jumper stretched tightly over her bump. “Steve was just on his way to work and I said I’d walk round with him, for some fresh air. He cooks at the Pied Calf. We heard screams and saw that the gate was open. I’ve never seen that gate open before,” she added.
“No, it is usually kept locked,” Alex agreed.
“But are you all right? Is there someone in there giving you a hard time?” asked Steve.
Alex realised that he was insinuating that she might be a battered wife. The idea would have been amusing if she had not felt so fragile.
“No-one else is here,” she said. “I’ve just had a bad fright, that’s all. It’s all right – I’m over it now. I’m really grateful to you for taking the trouble to come, though. I apologise for the screaming: I feel embarrassed by it.”
“Can we help?”
“I’m not sure that you can. I just need my husband to come home.”
“Well,” said the girl, advancing a little, “Steve’s got to go to work now, but I can stay with you until your husband comes, if you like. My name’s Wendy.” She held out her hand. Alex took it briefly.
“That’s very nice of you . . .” she said. She was going to refuse the offer, but she paused. She would give a great deal not to be left alone at the moment, even though this small rotund young woman was no stronger than she. Wendy misinterpreted her hesitation for diffidence and clambered down the kitchen steps to give her a hug.
“Don’t . . .” Alex began. At the same moment, Wendy turned round to face the kitchen window.
She did not scream, but the colour drained from her face. She held her hand to her forehead, shielding her eyes with her fingers.
“God!” she said.
“What is it?” demanded Steve sharply. He was over the threshold and standing in the middle of the kitchen floor in a single stride. He turned to follow Wendy’s line of vision. He did not have to search for what had sickened her.
“Jesus!” he said. “Is that real?”
“It looks it,” said Alex.
A thick smear of blood arced its way across the kitchen wall from the window to the door.
“If it is blood, whose is it? Where is your husband?” asked Steve suspiciously. It took Alex a moment to understand his line of reasoning: in a heartbeat she had morphed from potential victim to potential murderer.
“He’s working late. He’s a social worker and he’s dealing with a difficult case at the moment.” Alex drew in her breath sharply and clapped her own hand over her mouth. “Surely it can’t be his blood?” She said to herself, her horror returning. “He left me a note. Oh, Tom, I hope you’re all right.”
“Can I sit down somewhere?” said Wendy.
“Yes, of course – go through into the sitting-room,” said Alex.
“Just there on that step will be fine,” said Steve, gesturing towards the hall door. He put his arm round Wend
y’s shoulder, and led her across the room. She heaved herself on to the step, her legs splayed.
“Does your husband have a mobile? Can we call him?”
“Yes – thank you.” Alex realised that she was still clutching her own mobile in her hand. “Here – I can never remember the number, but it’s saved under ‘Tom’.”
Steve pressed the speed dial. Alex waited anxiously. There was no reply.
“What now?” she said. She felt powerless to do anything, all energy and even the power of any but the most basic thinking leached out of her.
“I think that we should call the police right away,” said Steve grimly.
Alex’s phone began to ring. She held out her hand to take it from Steve, but he answered it himself.
“Hello?”
“Who is that?” Alex could just make out that it was Tom’s voice. He sounded truculent and worried.
“Tom! Thank God,” she said.
“I’m a neighbour, though I don’t think that we’ve met,” said Steve. “There’s been an . . . I suppose you’d call it an accident . . . in your flat.”
“An accident? Is my wife there? Could you let her speak to me?” Tom was shouting now. Alex could hear him clearly. She held out her hand for the phone.
“Tom? I’m so glad that you’re all right!”
“Why wouldn’t I be all right? What about you? The guy who took the call said that there’s been an accident. Is he really a neighbour?”
“Yes, I think so,” said Alex, trying to smile at Steve. “He’s been trying to help.”
“What’s happened?”
“When I came home, I found both the yard gate and the flat door unlocked and open. I assume you didn’t leave them like that?”
“Don’t be stupid – of course not. Have we been burgled?”
“Not as far as I can see. I’ve looked in every room.”
“You shouldn’t have done that on your own. You should have called the police. Is that all?”
“Almost. Nothing appears to have been taken, but something has been left. There’s a . . . there’s what seems to be a big smear of blood across the kitchen wall, near the door. Did you see it, when you came home to write your note?”
“Of course I didn’t! And I’m quite certain that it wasn’t there then. I would have noticed it.”
“What time did you leave?”
“I don’t know – about five-thirty, I think. But that’s irrelevant. Alex, you’ve got to call the police – get them to come round straight away. I’ve no idea what’s going on, but it seems to me that there are only two possible explanations: either someone broke into the flat and in the process got hurt, or else someone is trying to frighten us. Either way, the police have got to know. Do you still have the number of that detective that you told me about – the one who came to see you when that woman archaeologist went missing?”
“Yes. Yes, I’m sure I do. Can’t you come home, Tom? I’m afraid. I’m really upset about this.”
“Yes, I’ll come home now – but I’m in Sleaford again, so it will take me a while to get there. You must call the police before I get there – as soon as I’ve rung off, OK? Could you put that – the neighbour – on again?”
“His name’s Steve. Yes, here he is.” Alex handed back the mobile.
“Hello, Steve, this is Tom Tarrant again. Listen, I’m sorry that I was a bit abrupt with you just now – it was because I was worried. I hope you understand. Steve, I’ve told my wife to call the police. Can you stay with her until they arrive?”
“I’m a chef at the Pied Calf. I should have started work five minutes ago. They’ll be stuck without me.”
“Just until the police get there. They should come pretty quickly – the police station’s so close. Please, Steve. If you lose any pay through this, I’ll be glad to make it up. Can you call them and explain? Not the details, but say that a neighbour is in trouble and needs help.”
“OK,” said Steve, doubtfully.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Tim was in trouble. It was nearly two weeks since Claudia McRae had disappeared and police attempts to find her had made no significant progress. Today he had been berated by Superintendent Thornton after a sharply critical phone call that the Superintendent had himself received from Superintendent Little. Guy Maichment had apparently complained that the police investigation was being conducted in an incompetent manner. He had hinted that Tim himself had displayed prejudice towards his aunt because of her sexual orientation; the sub-text of his comment was that Tim was not particularly committed to finding her. Superintendent Thornton had given him until the end of the week to make a breakthrough. After that, he said, they would have to ‘review the situation’. Tim knew that this was Thornton-speak for relieving him of his leadership of the case. He was desperate for this not to happen, although the irony of it was not lost on him. He had not wanted the case at first and now he did not want to lose it.
Alex Tarrant’s call was an added complication and one that he barely had time for. Tim remembered her with the vivid clarity with which a man remembers a woman to whom, in a fictional time and place, he might have allowed himself to feel attracted. When they had first met, her appearance at that gloomy and strange hotel and their subsequent conversation had enabled him to perceive the thread of logic that ran through the arcane and eccentric world which she inhabited. Oliver Sparham had also made sense, but he was still a fully paid-up member of the archaeological crew. Alex had seemed to stand at right angles between them and the rest of the world, occupying a role somewhere between that of protector and servant. It was not just her beauty and her efficiency that had impressed him; he had also admired her openness and evident integrity.
Under any other circumstance, therefore, he would have been delighted to have received a call from her, but this evening he cursed his luck that she had managed to catch him before he had left the office for the day. He wanted to take home all the notes from the McRae case and review them methodically. He had also resolved that tonight he would confront Katrin. He – and she – had pussyfooted around her malaise for too long. He was determined to make her tell him the truth about it, however unpalatable that might be for him. He was aware that forcing it into the open might create a catastrophe; he had already considered the unthinkable, that whatever it was might spell the end of his marriage. But he could no longer bear to pretend that the huge gulf that now yawned between them did not exist. Knowledge of it tore daily into his mood. Still he could neither guess its cause nor fathom whether he himself shared the responsibility for creating it. He thought that Katrin’s behaviour indicated that he was to blame in some way. It could be something that he had said or done or, more probably, not said or not done.
He contemplated the alternative explanation: that Katrin herself was guilty of some fault that she could not or would not discuss and had become sullen with a transgressor’s resentment. But he could not believe this to be the truth. He was certain that she would not have betrayed their relationship in an overt way – by taking a lover, for example. No, their estrangement must have been caused by something that had passed between them. He racked his brains. If this were so, it was something that had escaped his attention entirely; some stupid blunder of his own, perhaps, which he had failed even to register because, as usual, he had been preoccupied with his job.
He had always tried not to be smug when other policemen confided in him their difficulties with wives and girlfriends and he had believed that he would never share the same fate. Katrin was an insider who understood the pressures of his work. He had felt secure in the knowledge that she did not have the kind of dependent personality that required a partner always to show up for meals, always to share joint plans for the evenings and weekends. Now he was not so sure. For the first time since he had become a policeman, he felt resentful of the price that his career exacted. It was not just that it demande
d the use of his every waking hour; it was the claim that it laid on his character. It made him intolerant, self-centred and, he feared, at times unreasonable. He knew that it was an age since he had put Katrin first when work had called. Even someone as flexible and forgiving as she would be likely to become disillusioned at some point.
And now there was this SOS from Alex Tarrant. The call she had made to his mobile was not especially coherent. At first he had thought that she was merely reporting a random break-in. He had been about to transfer her to the duty desk at the police station when, hesitantly, she had mentioned the blood stain. Immediately he knew that there must be a link to the Claudia McRae case. It followed that Alex Tarrant was at risk, even if he did not have enough information to understand where the danger lay. She must be protected; she might also be able to provide him with the break-through that he so desperately needed.
She had clearly been very shaken. She said that she feared that the person who had been in her flat would return, but she obviously did not have the knowledge to make the connection with Dame Claudia’s disappearance. Immediately he arranged for Juliet Armstrong to go and sit with her and sent a message that he would be with them himself in less than an hour. First he would call in at home to see Katrin. The showdown for which he had steeled himself would have to be postponed, but at least he could demonstrate to Katrin that he cared.
He let himself in through the front door, calling out ‘Hi!’ in a voice which to himself sounded falsely cheerful. He was gratified to receive a subdued but not hostile response: ‘Tim?’
Katrin was in the kitchen. He hoped against hope that she was not in the process of preparing an elaborate meal which he would be unable to stay to consume. Katrin when well was an enthusiastic cook.
The kitchen was typical of that of many houses built just after the war and therefore not its home’s best feature. It was square but small, with a north-facing window that let in little light. It was necessary to cook by artificial light on all but the brightest days of the year, when the rays of the sun, welcome intruders, would sometimes manage to slant obliquely through the panes. There was no sunshine now. The dull yellow of the strip light failed to penetrate to the corners of the room, but it managed to cast a subdued glow over Katrin’s bent head, drawing out the glints of auburn which threaded through her dark-brown hair. She was seated at the tiny table which, together with two modest wheelback chairs, was all the furniture that the room could accommodate. An untouched cup of tea stood in front of her, the dark tan surface of the liquid already coagulated.
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