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

by Rebecca Griffiths

  39

  Fog. It rubbed itself against the high-sided buildings. Terrence left a note for Malcolm with Albert at the bar, saying he wouldn’t be long and to wait for him, then stepped out into the night. There was no need to panic, he told himself, striding away in the direction of Piccadilly Circus. The chances Queenie had chosen tonight of all nights to go to Ladbroke Grove were slim. But it was best to check. He would never forgive himself if something happened to her.

  The way ahead opened out into the bright lights of Piccadilly. A part of town that never slept, it was always lit up like Christmas and being here lifted his mood. A mood, because he’d started drinking too early, which had slumped. Remembering there was no point trying the Mockin’ Bird – it was closed tonight – he looked around for a bus that was heading south of the river. If Queenie was anywhere, she would be at home. A glance to where a thin moon claimed its space in the dun-coloured sky. Colder now, a fine drizzle settled on his hat, on the sleeves of his coat. Come on, come on. He flapped his arms through the air. Where was a bus when you wanted one? He might not be in any particular hurry, but he didn’t want this to take up his entire evening – he wanted to spend time with Malcolm.

  A momentary lapse in concentration and a policeman on a bicycle whizzed past just as he stepped out to cross the road. His big black cape flapping out behind him. Dumbstruck, Terrence stared after it, aghast, adjusting himself in the aftershock, before aiming for the statue of Eros with its ceaseless roundabout of traffic. A memory of the sunny afternoon he’d borrowed Uncle Fish’s Kodak camera to take promotional pictures of Queenie to send to America. How beautiful she was, the sun picking out the tones of her hair, her bright eyes and tinkling laugh. It had been a while since he’d heard Queenie laugh. But given what was hanging over her, he supposed there wasn’t much to laugh about.

  Still no sign of a bus. If he set off towards Charing Cross, then on to the embankment, he might get lucky and pick up a bus along the way. Best to keep walking; standing here and waiting for one to come along was just wasting time.

  At last. A double-decker sent up a spray of rainwater as it pulled to the kerb, drenching his already damp suit trousers. A hiss of brakes and the bus slowed to a stop to decant its passengers.

  ‘Excuse me. Excuse me,’ he called through the knot of people oblivious to anything but themselves.

  Weaving through them, he saw a space on the lower deck and quickly, before the bus set off again, grabbed the metal pole and swung aboard. He couldn’t be bothered climbing to the top. There probably weren’t any seats and there wasn’t much of a view tonight anyway.

  * * *

  Queenie’s house, with its privet hedge and green front door, was locked up and dark. Reluctant to believe it, Terrence scampered down the side alley, crashing into dustbins. He let himself in through the garden gate to try the handle on the back door. Found this to be locked too. He shook it until the glass panel rattled in its frame.

  Where is she? Where is she? Oh, God, please don’t let her have gone there.

  He nipped back around to the front, replaying Albert’s words in his head: He’s a dark one, he is. A right queer fish… It seems we got him quite wrong. And an image of the prostitute in her ripped stockings and boa found him as the tail of his coat snagged the thorns of a rosebush growing under the front window. Tugging it free, he stood on the red front step and hurled his voice in through the letterbox. Down into the dark empty hall and vacated rooms beyond.

  ‘This can’t be happening.’ He flung a frantic look to the bow of the upstairs window. ‘Queenie!’ A cold panic slopping through him.

  He charged out through the gap in the hedge and into the street again. Blinking through the fuzzy ochre light that was radiating from the gas lamps. The fog was thicker than ever. It hurt to breathe as he broke into a steady jog along the pavement, stopping whenever he saw someone. Black-clad, androgynous figures, fastened into winter coats. He didn’t care who they were. Wild with worry, he accosted anyone and everyone, asking his desperate question: ‘Have you seen Queenie? Please, you must’ve seen her.’

  Then, someone he half-recognised from his frequent visits to this street, crossed from one side to the other as if to distance themselves from him.

  ‘Excuse me, excuse me.’ Terrence tried not to shout. ‘Have you seen Queenie Osbourne from number seven? No? Are you sure?’

  Met with little more than a series of befuddled faces, it terrified him; did they even know who Queenie was?

  He circled back towards her house again. She had to be in. Maybe she’d gone to bed early. It seemed feasible; she had been complaining about being tired recently. Yes, that was it, hope rekindled. He retraced his steps, running one minute, walking the next and, reaching her door, he bent to pick up a handful of earth from the front garden. Was about to lob it against the upper window when a mousy-looking woman in curlers and floral wrap stepped out of the house next door.

  ‘What’s all the fuss?’ she accused in her slippers. ‘If you don’t clear off, my husband’s gonna fetch the police.’

  ‘I’m looking for Queenie.’

  ‘I’m sure you are, young man,’ came the sour reply. ‘Her and her gentlemen callers, a right dreadful carry-on, I can tell you.’

  Terrence stared at her. Bolder, the urgent need to find his friend driving him on. ‘Did you see her go out?’

  ‘She’s always going out. Keeps very strange hours, does that one.’ The woman sniffed and scratched her nose.

  ‘I mean tonight… have you seen her tonight?’ Terrence tried again. The woman was so leisurely and sneery, it made him want to shake it out of her.

  ‘I might have. What’s it to you?’ The languid reply and the neighbour crossed her arms. ‘Friend of hers, are you?’

  ‘Look, you’ve either seen her or you haven’t. Please, I’m in a hurry, I’ve got to find her.’

  ‘Don’t go getting lippy with me, matey boy. I’ll fetch my husband, and the police can be here in a minute. If that’s what you want?’

  ‘No, please. No police.’ Terrence wafted his hand. ‘I just want to know if you saw Queenie going out.’

  ‘I did, as it happens. She in some sort of trouble, is she? Serves her right. Miss Hoity Toity. That one thinks she’s better than everyone else round here—’

  ‘Do you know what time?’ Terrence, impatient, cut the woman off.

  ‘It was just getting dark. I was putting tea on.’

  ‘Getting dark, getting dark… about five, half five then?’ God, this was like pulling teeth. The nosy old bat knew exactly when Queenie had left, he could tell.

  ‘About then, yes.’

  ‘You didn’t happen to see what she was wearing?’ He knew why he was asking this but refused to explain himself.

  ‘What she was wearing?’ A choked laugh. ‘Bit of an odd question for a man to be asking, isn’t it?’

  ‘I just want to know if she looked dressed up to you or not.’

  ‘Dressed up?’ Another dry cackle. ‘As it happens, no, she weren’t. She looked pretty dowdy, to tell the truth. Come to think of it, she’s been looking a bit under the weather lately.’

  ‘Right, well, thank you very much.’

  Terrence skidded out into Balfour Road. He veered off sideways and, turning right when he reached Merton Road, broke into a flat-out run. This was a race against time. She must have gone to see Christie. There was nowhere else she could be. His fears for her safety snapped at him like wild dogs as he hurtled down into the mouth of the Underground.

  40

  The interior of the Elgin had a threadbare feel that echoed the streets around Notting Hill. Dimly lit and smoky, it was thick with the low murmuring of men who came to drink ale from pint glasses. She looked around at the etched mirrors, the stained-glass panels, the clock above the bar that was stuck at a quarter past four. This was a man’s pub, no place for a woman. It was the sort of establishment her father liked, and what he would term a Victorian drinking house, with its formid
able dark wood panelling and leather benches. Queenie didn’t belong here, but it would have to do and it was at least warmer than outside. Horribly conspicuous, several pairs of eyes turned to her as she crossed the grimy floorboards, and every fibre of her wanted to flee. But it was still too early to call in on Mr Christie and she couldn’t be seen to be hanging around in the street.

  ‘Yes, what can I get you, love?’ The barmaid, her hand on a brass beer pump, gave her a friendly smile.

  ‘I’ll have a port and lemon, please.’ Queenie, relieved to see a woman, gripped the edge of the bar. She would just have one; it would steady her nerves.

  The barmaid looked kind and Queenie had a strange longing to confide in her. To ask her advice. But there wasn’t the time.

  ‘I’m dealing with this young lady, if you don’t mind, Millie.’ And Queenie watched as the woman was bodily moved out of the way by a pair of large hairy hands.

  ‘Suit yourself, Sid.’ The barmaid backed away to serve a cluster of old men in cloth caps at the opposite end of the bar.

  ‘Most unusual to see a young lady on her own in here, if you don’t mind me sayin’, love.’ The man Queenie assumed was the pub’s licensee leered at her.

  She did mind him saying and pretended the nicotine-stained ceiling was of more interest than him.

  ‘Don’t want to talk, I take it?’ Smouldering fag in hand, he dropped ash down his front.

  A piano struck up somewhere in the far corner. Tinny and out of tune, it set Queenie’s already frayed nerves on edge. Some of the men began singing along to whatever was being thumped out on the keys. Wet-lipped with toothless gums, now and again lifting their jars to their slobbering mouths; they were anything but jolly.

  She stepped away from the bar and sipped her drink. Focused on the barmaid, who was now washing and drying glasses. It was probably best if they didn’t get talking. What she had come to do was illegal and she couldn’t be sure the woman wouldn’t shop her to the police. Whoever this Mr Christie was, offering his services to desperate women like her, she doubted he would take too kindly to her blabbing to the staff at what was probably his local.

  A man around her age limped up to the counter. Way shorter than Queenie, he was a little fellow with black eyes and shiny black hair that was plastered back off his long, thin face.

  ‘Get you another, Tim?’

  ‘Aye, why not, isn’t it? My Beryl told me to go and make myself scarce for an hour or two, so best do as I’m told.’ The man with the Welsh accent put his empty pint glass down on the bar.

  ‘I hear Beryl’s expecting another kiddie?’

  ‘You bet she is.’ The Welshman grinned: proud, fatherly. ‘A little brother, I’m hoping, for Geraldine.’ At this, Queenie saw a dark shadow cloud his face. ‘Beryl’s not happy, mind. Worrying we can’t afford another babby… but like I say to her, where there’s a will there’s a way, isn’t it?’

  ‘I’m sure there is, Tim.’

  Queenie tried not to eavesdrop on their conversation as she sipped her port and lemon, but she couldn’t help it. The last thing she wanted to overhear was a discussion about the joy of parenthood and having babies. Fiddling with the damp corner of a bar mat advertising Guinness, she looked around at the pub’s ruptured seating and shabby décor.

  ‘Are you Italian?’ the Welshman suddenly called over to her.

  ‘Me?’ A hand to her chest. ‘I don’t think so.’

  She couldn’t help but laugh at this. Cheeky and cocky, she liked this little fellow. So full of beans, his antics let her forget, for a minute, what she was there to do – now he had stopped talking babies.

  ‘You look Italian if you don’t mind me saying. My father’s an Italian count, you know.’

  Queenie stifled another laugh and bunched her lips. ‘Is he indeed?’ She nodded along with him, thinking how guileless he was. She didn’t want to engage in any kind of chit-chat, she just wanted a quiet drink, but something about this chap made her feel a little sorry for him. Why? She didn’t know. He was well-dressed and had a group of friends who all seemed to like him. But weighed down with her own problems, she didn’t think too deeply about it.

  ‘Take no notice of him, duckie,’ the licensee advised her. ‘This one’s full of wild tales, aren’t you, Timothy? The boy lives in a fantasy world half the time.’

  ‘Oi, that thing I just said, it happens to be true, that does.’ The Welshman laughed along, good-humouredly. ‘It’s you she shouldn’t be taking no notice of.’

  Queenie watched him return to his pals. Noticing again that he had a limp and wondered vaguely where he had the injury from. He looked too young to have fought in the war.

  ‘Will you be wanting another, love?’ The licensee drank from his tankard. Something, she’d noticed, he needed to frequently refill.

  ‘Presently.’ She swallowed the trepidation she held in her mouth and did her best to smile.

  ‘You’re not from round here.’ He was trying to make conversation again, but Queenie wasn’t interested. Too jittery to talk, she wanted to be left alone.

  ‘That’s right.’ It was all she was prepared to give.

  She caught sight of her reflection in a mirror advertising White Horse Whisky. How pale she was, the lipstick she had on made her look ghoulish. Turning away from it, she removed her gloves and coat, knowing she would need the benefit of them when she went back outside. It was a bitterly cold night. Time passed. But slower than she thought. She checked both the pub clock that never changed and her watch. Decided she had time for another.

  ‘Go on then.’ She waved at her empty glass. ‘I’ll have the same again, please.’

  Head swimming. She knew she shouldn’t drink on an empty stomach, but if she was going to get through this, she needed another one. She opened her purse and took out the necessary coins. Looked again at her rainy-day money. How rainy could it get? That day had come. Grim and bleak. That awful swirling in the pit of her stomach was back. She lit up a cigarette, hoping the nicotine would settle her as Terrence had said.

  ‘You’re waiting for someone, that’s it, isn’t it?’ The licensee continued with his one-sided guessing game.

  ‘That’s always the time in here, is it?’ She pointed to the clock on the wall, anything to divert his unwelcome questions.

  ‘It is.’ A tight laugh. ‘The correct time is quarter to eight.’

  Her second port and lemon arrived. She stared into her glass as if it could tell her fortune and read her doom. Then she swallowed it down in two. Was she prepared for what was undoubtedly going to be gruesome? She must be mad, going to this stranger’s house and asking him to help her out of the mess she was in. No one knew she was here. Was she mad? No, she told herself for the umpteenth time – this was what desperation did, it made you take impossible risks.

  She made room for her cigarette in the ashtray and stubbed it out. Put on her gloves and rebuttoned her coat. Without any kind of goodbye, she pushed out through the pub’s swing doors and into the street again. And turning her collar to the cold and damp, she took off in the direction of Rillington Place.

  41

  Terrence dashed from the train, onto the platform. A glance at the station clock as he ran towards the exit signs. He still might have time to stop her. He had told her not to go there before eight.

  ‘I should have just gone with her… Why didn’t I go with her?’ he repeated, over and over, as he tore into the street. An image of the bruises on that Marie girl’s neck bouncing along beside him. ‘That Christie is one nasty bastard… If he hurts one hair on Queenie’s head, I’ll have him… I’ll bloody have him.’

  He charged out into Ladbroke Grove. Into the fog. Stopped. Was it left, or right? He couldn’t remember the route he’d given Queenie. Right. He’d swear he’d told her to take a right when she left the station. A cold droplet slid down inside the collar of his coat, icy and shocking. He took off at a brisk pace. Pounding the pavement, splashing through puddles, his feet inside their thin socks cha
fed the frayed lining of his shoes. But he didn’t stop, he kept on, half of him thinking it might have been quicker if he’d caught a taxicab. Except there were no taxicabs. There were no buses either. The street was dead under the ineffectual orange gaslight.

  The drizzle slapped his face like a wet flannel. His skeleton, jarring against the pavement, made his jaw ache. But he refused to slow down, wouldn’t stop to shake out the sharp stray stone swimming around in his shoe. Malcolm would be impressed with his surge of speed, his endurance; he was the athletic one, not Terrence. Except impressed was the last thing Malcolm would be. He would say it was irresponsible. Letting Albert find the name of someone, then passing it on to Queenie before vetting it himself. He should have known it wasn’t safe. Terrence should have gone and met this Christie bloke, not handed over his name and address to Queenie like that. What kind of a friend was he?

  God, this place was awful. He’d been told it was run-down, but he didn’t think it would be this bad. It was ruined street after ruined street. The display of poverty made him shudder in horror as he imagined the hotbed of depravity and vice going on beyond the cracked windows and rotting stucco-clad façades. Slums like this were a breeding ground for it. The people living here would think they had nothing to lose. They had already lost everything.

  Panting his whisky breath, he reached yet another junction of Ladbroke Grove. He’d passed at least four. He recognised none of the street names in the directions he’d written down for Queenie. This was madness. He was lost, and because of it, he was going to lose her… he should have made her listen, made her marry him. They would have found a way. Anything but this.