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

by Rebecca Griffiths

  The shadows cast by the blustery trees threw stirring patterns over the ceiling. She watched them. Lost herself to them until she remembered the thing she must do. The Higginson syringe was ready and waiting on the edge of the bath. She eyed it warily. Spurred on by Heloise’s threat, Queenie had nipped into the chemist along the Bayswater Road while Joy waited outside. Risky, it had her questioning whether she had wanted her to find out and for the pain that came with carrying a secret as deadly as this to end. The chemist wasn’t one she expected to be recognised in, but she expected people to be suspicious. But no one was. No one blinked an eye when she went up to the counter to pay. The syringe was an everyday household gadget that anyone could purchase. Obvious, from the amount available on the shelf. Used by women to self-douche, she’d heard. Used by men and women to cleanse and regulate the digestive system through enemas. Mad, wasn’t it? When Queenie considered the illicitness surrounding abortion, that this innocuous tube, when used with water containing carbolic soap and liquid disinfectant, as she intended to do, could be converted into a dangerous killing device.

  Right, she steeled herself for what had to be done. Her hands, wet as fish, seized the syringe with a kind of baulked ferocity. She stared at it. Unsure how to use it, or what to do, she compressed the rubber bulb and filled it with the warm, soapy mixture she had set by in a bowl. Stand up or sit down? She didn’t know. The thing hadn’t come with an instruction manual. She stood up. Shaky. Naked. Needing to use both hands, she guided one end up between her legs. With a deep breath, she squeezed the ball-like bulb. But not with any conviction, so the warm, soapy water seeped down the inside of her thighs. She tried again. Refilling the syringe from the bowl with Heloise’s warning whirling in her head. She directed one end of the tube up between her legs again and squashed the bulb at its centre. This time a spurt of the carbolic mixture surged inside her. She gasped in shock. Doubled over in sudden pain. Enough. She put the syringe down. It hurt too much, she couldn’t do it. She wasn’t brave enough.

  ‘You coward.’ She began to cry. Hating herself for failing before she’d even begun. What the hell was she going to do? She had to get rid of this baby.

  A knock on the kitchen door and a voice rang out through the turgid air. She recognised it and shivered. Dropped down into the bathwater.

  ‘Queenie, it’s me.’ Joy had stepped inside; the air changed when the door was opened then shut.

  Why didn’t I lock it? Today of all days. Bloody fool.

  ‘Golly, it’s like a Turkish bath in here.’ An ebullient giggle. ‘Queenie? Where are you?’

  ‘I’m here.’ She splashed the water.

  ‘I’m disturbing you, I’m sorry. D’you want me to leave?’ Queenie would have loved to tell her that now wasn’t the best time, but before she could Joy added, ‘Well, well. Since when did you get a cat?’

  ‘A cat? What are you on about?’

  ‘A black cat’s having a warm on your stove.’ The scrape of a chair and she imagined Joy going over to it. ‘Curled up, happy as you like. He’s purring his head off.’

  ‘I don’t think I want a cat.’ Queenie wiped away her tears.

  ‘Not sure you’ve a choice. Cats go where they want.’

  ‘How did he get in?’

  ‘A window, the door? Oh, he’s handsome…’ Joy’s voice trailed off. ‘I reckon he’s turned up at just the right time.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He knows you’re on your own. Cats are such spiritual creatures.’

  ‘But I don’t have the first idea how to look after a cat.’

  ‘I wouldn’t worry, this one looks able to take care of himself. Shall I make us tea? Yes, I’ll make tea,’ Joy answered herself and Queenie sat with her knees up to her chin, listening as drawers were opened to the accompanying rattle of cutlery, the chink of porcelain. The rush of water as the kettle was filled and set on the stove. ‘I only called over to tell you I won’t be at the club Monday.’ Joy talked to her through the screen of drying clothes. ‘Charles is taking me to Dorset again.’

  Determined not to cry, Queenie shoved a wet fist against her mouth. ‘I hope you have a good time.’

  ‘We’ve started calling it Snuggler’s Cove.’ Another giggle. ‘Can you believe it’s only weeks away before we’re married? I’m going to burst with excitement,’ Joy prattled on. ‘I wanted to ask you about me giving up my bedsit. Do you think I should wait? Heloise wants me to move to Bayswater, but I’m not sure. Oh, I’m all in a quandary…’

  The kettle sang when it came to the boil and filled the kitchen with its steamy breath. It saved Queenie from the need to comment. More rattling and stirring, then Joy’s hand appeared between the end of the clothes horse and windowsill, holding a cup of tea.

  ‘Ta.’ Queenie whipped the syringe out of sight then took the cup in both hands. Noticed her fingers had puckered like the skin on a cooling milk pudding. Grateful for the warmth of the tea, with the bathwater steadily losing its heat, she wasn’t sure how much longer she would be able to sit in it.

  ‘I’m thinking I should invite your grandparents to the wedding.’

  ‘I don’t know, Joy. They’ve been weird since Mum died. Refusing to come to Dad and Norma’s.’

  ‘I wondered where they were. Never mind… I’ll invite them, they might come. I’d love them to meet Charles.’ Joy was talking nineteen to the dozen. ‘He’s the most wonderful man. I’m so happy.’ Her friend’s cheerfulness, finding her between the layers of damp laundry.

  Queenie struggled to hold it together and was grateful Joy couldn’t see her face. If she hated herself for her part in this, what kind of man was Charles? He was lying to Joy too. He didn’t know Queenie was pregnant, but he couldn’t have forgotten what they had done together that night at the Mockin’? So much of her wanted to warn Joy about him because he wasn’t the man any of them thought he was.

  Another scrape of a chair and the tap was turned on. ‘I’ve been wondering how you’ll manage the garden, but you’re not going to be here, are you? Hang on, that reminds me…’ Queenie listened to Joy take a breath. ‘When Heloise asked you about New York, you said something about not being sure. What did you mean? Aren’t you going?’

  Queenie couldn’t answer. She sipped her tea. The unforgivable thing she’d done tasted sour in her mouth and she clamped her jaw together to stop her teeth from chattering. However uncomfortable it was to sit in tepid water, it was better than facing Joy, especially with what she’d just tried to do to herself. She eyed the orange tube.

  ‘Has something happened? You can tell me.’

  ‘There’s nothing to tell.’ The lie burnt like hot embers in Queenie’s mouth.

  ‘If you say so.’ Joy didn’t sound convinced. ‘But I’ve been worrying about you. Terry’s worried about you too.’

  ‘Terry?’ He wouldn’t say anything, would he? He wouldn’t squeal on her to Joy?

  ‘He was going on about Buster too. He was in a bad way again the other night.’

  ‘Buster!’ Queenie, sharper than she meant to be. ‘I’m sick of hearing about him. Terry had the chance; we went to the Blue Note to check that drummer out… but he didn’t show up.’

  ‘Terry wasn’t there?’ Joy’s voice faded to a whisper. ‘Charles never said.’

  Queenie swallowed the last of her tea. Why did I have to go saying that? Stupid, stupid. ‘He probably just forgot.’

  ‘So, it was just you and Charles that night?’ Joy had worked it out and Queenie needed to be careful.

  ‘That’s right.’ Her tone light. ‘Just us.’

  ‘Oh.’ A rustling of something and the sound of a drawer being shut. ‘You never said whether he was any good.’

  ‘If who was any good?’ Her heart thumped in her mouth and she put the cup down.

  ‘The drummer.’

  Queenie splashed around, pretending to wash. She was freezing, her teeth chattering. ‘He was great. It’s why I’m cross with Terry; he should’ve been there to si
gn him up.’ Queenie needed to get into the warm. ‘Anyway, it is sweet of you but there’s no need to worry about me.’

  ‘You’re chilly. D’you want to get out? Let me fetch your towel. It feels odd, us talking without being able to see each other.’

  ‘I’m not chilly, I haven’t been in the bath long.’ Another lie, but she couldn’t bear to look Joy in the face.

  ‘Oh, dear, is that the time? I’d better dash.’

  ‘Have fun in Dorset. The weather’s supposed to cheer up tomorrow.’

  ‘We will. See you soon.’

  Queenie hugged herself, her skin bobbly from the cold. She waited for the door to close and Joy to go before stepping free of the bathtub. She looked at the grey-green water and the Higginson syringe and had never felt so wretched and miserable and alone. Shivering, she found her towel and wrapped it around herself for the comfort that wasn’t there.

  ‘Hello, matey. Where did you come from?’ She padded over to see the cat. Her wet feet cold against the flagstones. ‘Cor, I wish I had a fur coat like yours to keep me warm.’ She dried herself off while the yellow stripe of his eyes observed her with a steady resolve. ‘I suppose you can stay.’ She stroked him with her wrinkled fingers. ‘Was Joy right, do you think I need a pal?’ His purring was strangely comforting. ‘I’ll call you Dizzy,’ she said to him. ‘In honour of the great Dizzy Gillespie. How d’you like that?’

  She added a couple of lumps of coal to the fire and repositioned the clothes horses in front of it. She would empty the bath when she was dressed but, halfway up the stairs, a loud banging on the kitchen door forced her to turn back.

  Who the hell is it now?

  More banging.

  Dizzy scarpered.

  ‘All right… I’m coming.’ She adjusted her towel and tiptoed down through her shadow to answer it. With wet hair trickling into her eyes, Queenie opened the door a crack and felt the chilly wind curl over her toes. ‘Oh, it’s you.’

  Terrence – urbane and elegant in dark coat and hat – on her back step. ‘I waited until Joy left,’ he rushed headlong into his explanation. ‘You didn’t tell her, did you?’

  ‘Don’t be stupid. Are you coming in or not?’ She opened the door to him. ‘Messing about… you’re letting all the cold air in.’

  The wind against her skin was almost human. She listened to it nudge through the dry-stalked honeysuckle.

  ‘I think you’ve got one of your admirers outside.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’ She frowned and closed the door.

  ‘Some bloke. Hanging around, watching the house. Hoping for a glimpse of the glamorous Queenie.’

  ‘What bloke? What’s he look like?’

  ‘I don’t know. Ordinary enough, trilby… glasses. Just standing there smoking, he is.’

  ‘Where?’ Queenie, clutching her towel around her, dashed into the front parlour and lifted the net to peer out to the empty street. ‘I can’t see anyone.’

  ‘Oh, he was there a minute ago. He must’ve gone. Strange, he was sort of familiar. It’s why I thought he was from the club. Not that I like the idea of men following you home. Let’s hope he was waiting for someone else, eh?’

  She gave him a funny look and padded back to the kitchen.

  ‘I’m sorry, Queenie, darling, did I interrupt you?’ Terrence had noticed the bath.

  She crushed the edge of her damp towel into a ball. ‘I’d finished.’ She didn’t know why, but seeing Terrence’s kind face made her want to cry.

  ‘Dear me, that’s not what I think it is, is it?’ He had seen the orange tube. ‘Oh, Queenie, no. Please don’t tell me you’ve been using that thing!’ His face communicating his horror. ‘My darling, you can’t, it’s too dangerous. I know you’re desperate, but you’ll end up poisoning yourself.’

  She sat down at the table. Wondered about telling him what Heloise had said, then changed her mind. ‘I tried to use it, but I couldn’t go through with it. I lost my nerve.’

  ‘Thank God for that.’ He pulled up a chair beside hers. ‘Come on, darling girl.’ Terrence lifted her hand and pressed it between his own. At this small show of kindness, Queenie burst into tears. ‘Oh, dear, you are in a bad way.’

  ‘One minute I’m teary, the next I’m furious.’ She gulped through her sobs. ‘It’s like I don’t know my own mind.’

  ‘Hormones, darling.’ He put a brotherly arm around her. ‘One of my sisters was the same. But it’ll be all right, I promise.’

  ‘How will it?’ She sniffed and wiped her nose on the back of her hand. ‘How will anything be right again? Joy’s so happy, Terry. She can’t ever find out what I’ve done.’ She echoed Heloise. ‘It would kill her.’

  ‘You still want to go through with it?’ His eyes searching hers.

  ‘What choice is there? I can’t have a baby… Charles’s baby. How would I support myself? I couldn’t keep a roof over our heads, never mind feed us.’ She wrung her hands.

  ‘Look…’ He paused. ‘I’ve been giving it a lot of thought, and you don’t have to say anything right away, just promise me you’ll think about it.’

  ‘Think about what?’

  His eyes were swimming with tears too. ‘I could marry you. Say the baby’s mine.’ Terrence tightened his arm around her.

  ‘Marry me?’

  ‘Queenie, think about it. We could help each other out.’

  ‘You’re such a sweetheart.’ She kissed his cheek. ‘But wouldn’t people smell a rat?’ She was thinking of Heloise again. ‘No, Terry, I’ve just got to get rid of it.’

  ‘I said not to answer straight away. Why don’t you think about it? You don’t want to go rushing into anything you might regret.’

  ‘I’ve thought of nothing else. But marry you? No, Terry.’ She shook her head and water droplets showered her shoulders. ‘Sweet of you to offer, but it would never work. You know,’ she paused to rub her eyes, ‘I always thought I’d be something wonderful in the world. How stupid was I? I’m not different, or special at all. I’ve ruined everything.’

  ‘Come on, now. You’re just feeling sorry for yourself.’

  ‘Maybe. But it’s true. I’m not fit for anything; I never deserved to have Joy as a friend.’

  Terrence pulled away and the warmth of him was replaced by the chilly air.

  ‘Right.’ He held her in his gaze. ‘Just so we’re straight, the me-and-you-getting-married thing – you’re saying that’s never going to happen?’

  ‘I can see it’s a solution of sorts, but it’s not what I want. I don’t want a baby; I’m not cut out to be a mother.’

  At this, he flopped back into his chair, head down.

  ‘Terry?’ She prodded him. ‘Say something.’

  ‘Well, if that’s what you’ve decided. Oh, here… I did some asking around.’ He pulled a square of folded paper from his coat pocket. ‘It’s the name of someone who should be able to help you out. I’ve written it down for you.’

  ‘Help me out, what d’you mean?’ Her insides cartwheeling with dread as she lifted the scrap of paper from his fingers. She didn’t unfold it; unfolding it would make it real.

  ‘They call him the Doc.’

  ‘He’s a doctor?’

  ‘They say he was training to be a doctor before the war but had to give it up. An accident or something. Was hit by a car, so they say. But it’s what they call him.’

  ‘So, he’s had some sort of medical training?’ Queenie was encouraged by this.

  ‘Apparently so. And they say he’s clever… intelligent.’

  ‘I see. And dare I ask who they are?’ She hadn’t expected an answer. Not because Terrence was secretive, but because of the shadowy underworld of sex and forbidden love he needed to exist in. Not that you’d know it to look at him: tall and suave; her well-spoken, gentle friend couldn’t have liked living the way he did, mixing with the types he mixed with just to keep his secret safe.

  ‘Apparently,’ Terrence sidestepped her question as she thought he would, ‘thi
s man knows how to help girls in trouble. He’s helped them out in the past.’

  ‘A right Mr Fix-It, aren’t you?’ A watery smile as she stared at the square of paper in her hand. ‘I’m ever so grateful, Terry. Thank you.’

  ‘Thank me when it’s all over.’ He gripped his thin knees. ‘The nearest Tube’s Ladbroke Grove, it’s not far from there. I’ll write down the directions I’ve been given. I have to say, to warn you – I haven’t been there myself, but I’ve heard Notting Hill’s a bit of a run-down part of town. But that’s where he lives.’ His face was congested with concern. ‘Do you want me to come with you?’

  ‘No.’ She was firm. ‘If I decide this is what I want to do, I don’t want you getting in trouble. You take enough risks in your own life.’

  Queenie unfolded the note, her lips moving over the words as she read:

  John Christie. 10 Rillington Place.

  32

  Joy woke up in the big boarding-house bed. She watched Charles, a towel wrapped around him, his chest bare, his damp hair looking darker. He kept smiling at her. Bobbing in and out of the bathroom to check she hadn’t moved.

  ‘We’ve probably missed breakfast.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter, we’ll get something out.’

  ‘But you’d like a cup of tea? I’ll nip down and ask.’

  She watched him dress and blew him a kiss as he backed out of the room. Hesitant, tapping his cane against the carpet, reluctant to leave her. When he did, she got up and drew the curtains, looked over the red-roofed town to the sea, then further, up to the bird-haunted headland that was as motionless as a dream. Could all this be a dream? A drowsy bluebottle, the last of the summer, struggled against the glass. She opened the window and guided it to freedom. Above her, the fast shadows of birds flying over in fleeting pairs. She tilted her head and marvelled at their speed, their skill. There was an energy in the air. It felt like anything could happen.