The Girl at My Door: An utterly gripping mystery thriller based on a true crime

by Rebecca Griffiths

  Hurrying along behind with his dog through the assault of car horns and burn of exhaust, he saw the girl take the next right into Queen’s Gate, where the sonorous throb of a cello found them through the crowd. Drawn by its plaintive, almost human sound, he watched as she looked up to where a first-floor window had been thrown open to allow music to spill onto the street. To the bowing arm behind chiffon curtains. Bach. He identified the melody and, humming along, watched the girl close her eyes to it and sway a little. What a sensitive soul she was, the realisation stirring something dark inside him.

  Then someone barged past her. Rudely bumping her off the pavement. With her hat tipped forwards into her eyes, the girl almost lost her footing.

  ‘Out of the way… out of the way.’ A sharp voice, the accent not unlike the girl’s. Obviously stunned by the discourtesy, she stood mouth agape, waiting for the woman – chic, with a blonde chignon, towing two fair-haired boys – to turn the corner before threading her way along Kensington Gore.

  It had been raining, and a bright spangle of light flooded the city and hung on everything. Voices rang out in the fresh air that smelled of the earth. He watched the girl moving ahead of him, avoiding puddles and pedestrians and, with the Royal Albert Hall at her back, she slipped between a gateway in the railings and into Hyde Park, where she opted for a bench, sat down and pulled a book from her bag.

  Continuing to observe her through the railings, his dog sniffing around his ankles, he fondled the silk stocking filched from Beryl Evans’ washing line that he kept in his pocket. His thoughts becoming black and deadly and coated in the heavy dark loam of his back garden where the rotting bodies of Ruth Fuerst and Muriel Eady lay buried. He smiled. Killing them had been easier than imagined, and the fact he’d got clean away with it gave him the confidence to think he could do it again. His method of rendering them unconscious with the gas he’d persuaded them to inhale – he’d expected them to struggle when he’d positioned the mask over their faces and pressed it down. But to his wonderment and awe, neither Ruth nor Muriel had moved, such was their trust in him.

  He wondered when he should try to gain the trust of this one. And with a thought occurring, he pushed his glasses up his nose and strolled into the park, his face growing hot with excitement.

  8

  Joy arrived at the bench where she’d arranged to meet Queenie and sat down to monitor the steady progress of dog walkers and families pushing prams along the network of paths. In a break in the rain, the park gleamed under the pale May sky. A couple ambled past, deep in conversation as they folded away their umbrellas. Their sense of togetherness heightened her feelings of estrangement and her mind swam back to her lonely bedsit. To the weekend stretching ahead that, apart from her breakfast out with Amy and the few hours with Queenie this afternoon, meant a formless time with nowhere to go.

  Another sudden shower and umbrellas bounced open. But over before it began, the umbrellas were put away again. She checked her wristwatch, saw there was time to kill and pulled her copy of Primo Levi’s Se questo è un uomo from her bag. Found where she’d read to with her bookmark and, despite the horrific nature of the events described, lost herself in the calm sobriety of Levi’s prose.

  The bench shifted. Jerking her out of the brutal world of barbed wire and hunger. A bespectacled man in a raincoat and brown trilby had joined her.

  ‘’Ow do, lass.’ He doffed his hat and gave her an unwanted glimpse of the bald domed head beneath.

  His voice was little more than a pious whisper and reminded her of the priest at her mother’s old church. Not that she trusted it. The malevolence held in the narrow skull made her suck back her breath in alarm.

  ‘Lovely morning to be out and about.’

  She nodded without smiling and returned to her book. Shrinking beneath her hat and turning the pages, she didn’t want to engage in conversation. But reading was impossible; the sentences careered into one another and she couldn’t take anything in. The man had an unsettling effect. Sneaking a downward look at his feet, to check he was still there, she sensed his veined eyes wander the length of her. Her coat had fallen open beyond the last button. Exposing her knees where her skirt had risen up. She gathered it together and gripped it in her fist so he couldn’t see her legs. It was odd: despite his gentlemanly conduct and neat appearance, there was something sleazy about him. Something of the murky underbelly of London held in the unlit alleyways and seedy bars she knew to avoid. The canvas shoes were a curious choice for a damp day in the park. She would say they were tennis shoes, except they were black. Creepy somehow, the rubber soles were why she hadn’t heard his approach. And what was that thing he was playing with? Coiling it over his hands like a string of rosary beads. It looked suspiciously like a woman’s stocking.

  The stranger’s hands, working as a source of fluidity on the rim of her vision, delivered an unwanted memory of the maiden aunts who’d towered over her as a child. As inaccessible and durable as lighthouses, these women were nervous with their virginity and their only enjoyment was the wagging disapproval of their ringless fingers – when the fingers weren’t worrying the rosary beads that hung in the ravines of their long black skirts.

  A wire-haired terrier bounded over and snuffled around Joy’s feet.

  ‘Ah, mon chérie.’ She bent forward over her knees to pet it. Forgetting, for a moment, the man sitting beside her. Joy loved all animals and stroked the topknot between the dog’s ears, melting into its button brown eyes.

  ‘Judy, come. Come ’ere. Sorry if she’s a nuisance to you, lass.’

  The man tapped his thigh and summoned his dog. He was English, but he didn’t have an accent she associated with London – it was more melodic. She wondered if the stocking was some kind of crude leash, but no, he stowed it away in a pocket and pulled out a leather strap that he clipped to the collar.

  ‘Ah, well. Best be off. Good day to you, lass. Mind how you go.’

  A doff of the hat and the man and dog were gone. But not the unpleasant feeling. A feeling that lingered along with his peculiar, almost disinfectanty smell.

  ‘Dear me, whatever’s the matter with you? You’re white as a sheet.’

  It was Queenie. Glamorous under the trembling green light pushing through the canopy of leaves.

  ‘There was this man… he was odd.’ Joy flapped a hand at the space beside her. ‘He was sitting right there.’

  ‘Did he say something to upset you?’ Queenie twisted to look for the offending stranger.

  ‘No, nothing like that.’ She stood up to kiss Queenie’s cheek. ‘He was polite, actually… he just gave me a horrible feeling.’

  ‘You and your feelings.’ Queenie sighed. ‘It’s those books you read. They’ve given you an imagination. What are you reading about now? It’s not even written in English.’ She pointed at the paperback Joy was still holding.

  ‘It’s Italian. A memoir by a man who survived Auschwitz.’

  ‘Dreary, isn’t it? Not surprised you’re feeling horrible.’

  ‘I don’t agree.’ Joy tucked the Primo Levi away in her bag. ‘I’d say it was necessary reading.’

  ‘Come on, let’s go; you won’t come to any harm with me.’

  ‘How was your lesson with Mrs Fricker?’ She had clocked Queenie’s dance shoes in their drawstring bag.

  ‘Good, thanks. Oh, I am glad to see you’re wearing my gloves.’

  ‘I love them.’ Joy grinned and shared nothing of her mother’s silly superstition that giving gloves as a present was unlucky.

  Linking arms, they fell into step. Queenie, done up to the nines in heels and fur collar, her hair styled beneath a perky red hat; Joy, in her old school coat and panama. The slow slop of the Serpentine when it found the concrete bank had them stopping to watch the bob of moorhens and swans, the geese clustering the path.

  ‘When do rehearsals start? It’s so exciting.’ Joy, pleased with herself for remembering to ask. ‘When do you go?’

  ‘To New York?’
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br />   ‘Well, yes.’ As they walked, Joy looked down at her feet inside their clumpy shoes. She didn’t mean to be despondent, but when was life going to dish up something for her to look forward to? It was always Queenie riding the crest of a wave.

  ‘January. It hasn’t sunk in yet.’

  ‘I don’t know why, with a talent like yours.’

  ‘You’re a love.’ Queenie, gripping her tight, swung them both along. ‘Now, where should we try first?’

  ‘First?’

  ‘To get ideas for outfits.’

  ‘For your father’s wedding. I nearly forgot. I don’t know, you’re the one who’s good with clothes.’

  ‘I bought some fabulous crêpe de Chine from the market. I’ll make you something, too, if you like? I’ve some shot silk going spare. Red.’ A sharp glance at Joy. ‘Maybe not. But I’ve some taffeta in a soft grey, that would be perfect. Just think.’ Queenie giggled, still holding Joy’s arm. ‘The two of us there together, we’ll knock this Norma right off her perch.’

  ‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea. She is the bride, Queenie.’

  ‘Serves her right.’

  ‘You are naughty. You haven’t even met her and you’ve decided you don’t like her.’

  ‘I know, but if she thinks she can replace my mother…’ Queenie ran out of steam.

  ‘I’m sure she’s not thinking that. Give her a chance if she’s good for your dad.’

  ‘I’m worried about what’ll happen to me. I don’t know if I can keep the house going on my own.’

  ‘But you’ll be off to America?’

  A beggar reached out to them like a child. The sight of his pleading eyes grasped Joy’s core and uncurled her spinal cord. Too close, she sniffed the sourness of him and saw what looked like the tattered remains of his army coat. She always felt rotten when she was safe and others were in danger. Sometimes she would go without lunch and put the money in the poor box. Not that she shared this with Queenie, but she would give away the clothes on her back if she thought it would make a difference.

  ‘Anything you can spare, miss.’ He shook his tin cup at their feet.

  Joy hunted his face for the human beneath the dirt.

  ‘Anything… anything you can spare.’

  She reached for her purse.

  ‘Are you mad?’ Queenie smacked her hand away. ‘Don’t give them money, it only encourages them. He’ll be moved along in a minute. These people, they’re nothing but scroungers. Look, those two will sort him out.’ She pointed to a pair of policemen in black capes parading the opposite side.

  ‘But I want to give him something.’ Joy ignored her and wriggled the last two farthings from her purse. Dropped them into his cup. ‘What was the war for if it wasn’t to make us all one?’ She gave him her best smile. This man had fought for them, kept them safe from Hitler. She wanted to remind Queenie but knew it wouldn’t change her mind.

  ‘Thank you, sweet lady.’ The beggar gave Joy the hard, flat blue of his eye: a startling gem shining amid the grime.

  * * *

  The young friends were unaware of the man who had followed them through the park. With his trilby pulled down over his eyebrows, he moved stealthily through the trees; his white terrier, tail aloft, pulling him along like a sail. He was careful and kept to the shadows; it would be silly to alert them to him if he didn’t need to. He worried it might not have been his wisest move to join the girl on the bench but hadn’t been able to resist seeing her sitting alone like that. But he had his dog with him; Judy was useful when he came scouting around in the daylight. Walking dogs in parks was what members of civilised society did.

  When he witnessed the girl’s tenderness towards the beggar – someone he would have kicked sideways into the gutter – it boosted his confidence that he would one day have his way with this delicate little flower. Someone in possession of such sensitivities would be easy to manipulate and bend to his will, unlike her painted friend. A raven-haired beauty she may be, she looked too much of a handful and more than capable of looking after herself. No good setting his cap at her, unless she came to him, of course… then he might have a chance.

  * * *

  ‘Would you look at that. It’s Charles Gilchrist.’ The down-and-out forgotten, Queenie pointed to a man in a black overcoat and fedora, leaning on a cane. ‘He’s a member of the Mockin’. He was there the other night; didn’t you see him?’

  Joy shook her head.

  ‘Really? Oh, you do live in a dreamworld. You want to open your eyes.’ Queenie swished her head. ‘He’d be a difficult one to miss. Nice bit of homework. I call him Captain Blood.’

  Joy pulled a face, not understanding.

  ‘Errol Flynn? He’s the ringer of him.’ Queenie laughed. Too loud for Joy, who was fearful Charles would be alerted to them. Although, she suspected this was precisely what Queenie wanted. ‘I wouldn’t kick him out of bed.’

  ‘Oh, Queenie.’ Joy shrank under her hat, wanting to make herself invisible for the second time that morning.

  ‘Don’t “oh, Queenie” me… you think he’s as lovely as I do. I’ll call him over.’

  About to raise her hand, Joy stopped her. ‘Don’t. He’s waiting for someone; he keeps checking his pocket watch.’

  ‘He noticed you at the club. He was asking me about you.’

  ‘Why would he do that?’

  ‘Because he likes you, silly.’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘Are you crazy?’

  ‘He’s married, look…’ Joy saw the same stylish blonde woman who’d knocked her off the pavement earlier sashay up to him and plant a kiss on his cheek.

  ‘So he is, the sly fox. And he’s got kiddies,’ Queenie muttered as they strolled past. ‘You dark horse, Charlie boy. His wife looks a bit old for him, no wonder he’s got his eye on you, dearie.’ She squeezed Joy’s arm to reinforce the point. ‘You’ve no idea how pretty you are. It’s part of your charm. I told you Buster’s mad for you, didn’t I?’

  ‘Yes, you said.’ Joy sighed. She wished Queenie would stop going on about it. She didn’t like Buster; he frightened her with his mad-eyed stare.

  ‘You’ve made such a hit at the club. Don’t worry about Captain Blood. We’ll fix you up with someone nice soon.’ Queenie twisted away for one last look at Charles who, cane abandoned, was scampering through the trees with the children. ‘God, he really is the ringer of Errol Flynn.’

  ‘Can we please stop talking about him?’ Joy, her voice small. As well as thinking about the beggar, she still hadn’t shaken off the bad feeling the man in the trilby had left her with – a man she was convinced had been shadowing them through the park.

  9

  ‘Ah, there you are. Good of you to be on time. Come in, lass, come in. Mind you don’t trip over rug.’

  ‘Dear me!’ The young woman slapped a hand to her nose. ‘What’s that dreadful smell?’

  ‘Had a bit of trouble with drains, nowt for you to fret about. Landlord’s sorting it. That’s it, you hang your coat up, then go into kitchen. I’ll put kettle on, we’ll have a nice cup of tea. Just ignore dog… ooo, Judy, you’re forever under my feet. Off you go, go on, out… out.’

  ‘Is the kitchen through here?’

  ‘Aye, end of passageway, go and make yourself comfy… We’ve house to ourselves today.’

  ‘Oh, I thought you said Mrs Christie was going to be here. Isn’t she home?’

  ‘No, lass, my wife’s visiting family in Sheffield. Right then, you have a little sit down. That’s it, rope chair’s comfy. No need to be nervous, I’ve helped out many a young lass like you in past. Now, just to ask… d’you know how many weeks it is? You know, that you’ve gone?’

  ‘About nine.’

  ‘Ah, that’s fine. Should be straightforward enough. There you go, you drink your tea. Nice, is it? Good, that’s good. Don’t look so worried, it’s a tricky procedure but you’re in safe hands with me. Like I told you, I’m medically trained, I know what I’m doing.’


  ‘I’m afraid it’s going to hurt. It’s not going to hurt, is it, Mr Christie?’

  ‘No, you’ll be fine so long as you relax. But you’ve to trust me. Right, have you finished your tea? Good lass. Now lean back in chair, that’s it. Relax… relax. Now you’re not to go minding when I pop this mask over your face. I’ve to give you a little gas to help dull pain of this procedure. All you need do is breathe it in, that’s it… breathe… breathe. Nice and deep for me. Are you feeling sleepy yet? I’d like you to be sleepy.’

  10

  ‘Are you always reading?’

  Joy looked up at the man whose eyes were as blue as the lido in Kensington where she occasionally swam. ‘I suppose I must be. I seem to prefer fictional worlds to mine.’

  ‘French… you’re French.’

  ‘Guilty as charged.’ She giggled, suddenly shy.

  ‘Whereabouts?’

  ‘Arras.’

  Tugging on his moustache, the man eyed her with interest. ‘Robespierre’s home town.’

  ‘How clever of you,’ she congratulated him.

  ‘My mother’s French. She’s from Arcis-sur-Aube, not a million miles away from you.’

  ‘That’s Danton country.’

  ‘Indeed.’ A mock frown. ‘Let’s hope we get along better than those two gentlemen… I’m Charles, by the way. Charles Gilchrist.’

  She shook the hand he offered her. It felt warm and she held on to it for longer than necessary.

  ‘You’re Joy, aren’t you? Queenie told me.’ He unbuttoned his overcoat. Something that looked too warm for the bright spring day. ‘I’ve seen you around.’

  ‘Y-you have?’ she stammered, closing her paperback. A blush travelled up her neck and she slapped a hand over it; felt the heat through her fingers.

  ‘At the club. Here in the park, too, sometimes.’

  But you’re a married man, you shouldn’t be noticing me… Her thoughts tumbling over themselves.