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

by Rebecca Griffiths

  This man meant to destroy him, ruin him; with his colleagues, with the police. He had to do something – he had to get rid of him.

  ‘What do you want?’ Terrence lowered his head to the brass railings again. Felt his heart thrash like a netted bird behind his ribs. The bastard, how dare he come here, threaten him here. ‘Just tell me what you want.’

  ‘What I want… is for you to pay this.’ A rent demand was pushed under the counter. ‘I’m rather short this month, you see. My fibrositis has flared up again, and my enteritis. It’s like I were saying other evening, the doctor’s signed me off sick, it’s why I’ve come to you.’

  ‘I’ve already given you a walloping load. I’m not made of money.’

  Christie pressed the shiny end of his nose close to the bars and slid his eyes to the cash box at Terrence’s elbow. ‘You dare to say no to me, lad?’ The deadly murmur made sweat break out between Terrence’s shoulder blades. ‘I’m one with all cards, in case you’d forgotten.’

  ‘But please, I haven’t any more, not until the end of the month.’

  ‘Don’t give me that. You work in a bank, lad. You’ve access to loads of stuff. You deal in it all day long, passing it through your hands all time. I can’t imagine they’d miss a bit.’ That smell again: Terrence flinched from it in the same way he flinched from Christie’s cold blue stare. ‘Go on,’ the simpering continued. ‘We’re not talking much, who’s to notice? You could cover it if you wanted to.’

  Terrence stared down on the trays of notes and coins and contemplated doing what this repulsive specimen had asked of him.

  ‘Oh, well, have it your own way,’ the soft voice started up again. ‘And there was me, thinking you cared about Joy.’

  Terrence, on the verge of losing it, snapped back his neck and raised his voice a notch. ‘I’ve said you’re to stay away from her, do you hear me? That poor girl’s suffered enough without you adding to it.’

  ‘Is that so?’ The cold eyes shone with merriment. ‘Well then, I’d say it were up to you, lad. If you’d see to paying me what I ask for, then I won’t need to go bothering your little friend, will I?’

  A thought occurring. ‘That was you hanging around outside Queenie’s house that day, wasn’t it? I thought I recognised you. You’re to stay away from them, both of them, do you hear me?’

  ‘Excuse me, sir. Is there a problem here?’ One of the senior clerks stepped up beside Terrence to address Christie. He had spotted that whatever transaction was going on, it wasn’t banking business. ‘Do you need further assistance, something Mr Banks can’t help you with?’

  ‘No, thank you.’ Christie’s curt reply and Terrence thought he saw the man’s mask slip a little. ‘We’re all done here. I’m just going.’ The rent book was whipped away and returned to a pocket in his raincoat.

  ‘Jolly good, sir. Lambert’s look forward to welcoming you again soon.’ They waited for Christie to scuttle away, out into the street. Then Terrence’s superior turned to him. ‘A word, if you wouldn’t mind.’

  It wasn’t a request; it was a demand. He followed the man he had never bothered to learn the name of into one of the small offices.

  ‘I’ve been meaning to talk to you for a while.’ The door was closed behind them.

  ‘You have?’

  ‘It’s been noticed things are slipping, Terrence. There have been complaints. Is there anything I need to know about? You’re not unwell, are you?’

  ‘Just been feeling a bit run-down.’ He pushed a hand up through his hair. ‘Things getting on top of me.’

  ‘Do you want to tell me what that business was about just now? Was that rather odd little gentleman a customer of ours? I really can’t believe he was.’

  ‘He was asking about opening an account.’

  ‘An easy enough procedure. What took you so long?’

  ‘I don’t know. He was just awkward.’

  ‘But you’re experienced enough to deal with awkward customers, aren’t you? Dear me, Terrence, you do need to take a good hard look at yourself and make some choices. I’d say you were burning the candle at both ends.’ The senior clerk eyed him then turned briefly to pick up his pipe. Lit it with quick, inky fingers and the smell of tobacco filled the small space they stood up in. ‘Something’s got to give and I don’t see why it should be the bank.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ Terrence shifted his feet. ‘I hadn’t realised there was a problem.’

  ‘Well, there is.’ A hard glare. ‘They tell me you play at a West End nightclub.’

  ‘Yes, I play the piano.’

  ‘Jazz.’ The pronunciation was given as a lazy zed of a word.

  ‘Yes, along with other genres.’

  ‘Black music, isn’t it?’ The clerk touched the knot of his tie. ‘American?’

  Terrence cocked his head, disinclined to educate the philistine.

  ‘Mm, well, speaking for myself, I don’t much care for music, and just to warn you, neither does the board. In fact,’ he puffed on his pipe, ‘I’d go so far to say the top brass here at Lambert’s wouldn’t approve of you being part of that scene at all.’

  ‘And what is that scene, exactly?’ Careful, Terrence warned himself, you’re skating on thin ice here.

  ‘Good God, must I spell it out?’

  ‘I suppose you must.’

  ‘Mixing with Coloureds and those other types.’

  ‘Other types?’

  ‘Well, yes, I imagine all sorts would frequent such places… even those homosexuals we hear about,’ the senior clerk said darkly.

  * * *

  Terrence and Malcolm left Albert’s Cavern and followed the progress of a ginger cat, tail aloft, slinking between the dustbins along the wet alleyway. In the Soho streets beyond, the lamps were out, and the perpetual darkness enclosed within the walls of Albert’s seemed to thin out across the city. Terrence could make out basement railings, an empty milk bottle on the front step of a gramophone shop and, above, the illuminated front of a clock tower and the entrance to the public lavatories.

  Dawn was a strange place. Made up of milk floats and foxes sloping through empty streets back to their holes. Nobody was about. He and Malcolm were alone. They were rarely alone. Without the fear of prejudicial eyes, in this envelope of time before the rest of the city woke up, Terrence felt Malcolm relax a little, heard it in the steady rhythm of his breathing. The air was fresh like country air. Terrence could believe they had escaped to a better place and, letting himself go with the fantasy for a moment, he put his hands into his coat pockets for the warmth, deciding, in time, it was always too risky to hold hands on the street whatever time of day it was.

  They reached the corner where they were to say their farewells and were adjusting themselves inside their coats for their onward journeys when a black shape snagged the corner of Terrence’s vision. He spun to receive it. Saw a policeman in full uniform complete with peaked cap lurking in the shadows.

  Panic flared behind his ribcage and he froze.

  Impuissant.

  The street had shrunk into some kind of hell and he and Malcolm were trapped in it.

  ‘Hello, hello, hello.’ The police officer emerged from the gloom. Straight-backed and shiny-chinned, his confident strides snatching the pavement. ‘And what, may I ask, are you dirty buggers up to? Pair of you should be horse-whipped.’

  What Terrence could see of the policeman’s stony stare made it difficult to breathe.

  ‘Dis is it, Terry, we’re bloody done for. We gotta run, we gotta get outta here, man… I can’t do dis… I can’t.’ Malcolm let go a frightened cry then spun on his heels.

  Terrence couldn’t move and a feeling like icy water sloshed through him. This was dangerous.

  ‘Oh, dear. Was it something I said?’

  Terrence recognised the accent. It found him through his fear. This was Christie. Dressed up in his old wartime special constable uniform, and not a real policeman at all. He wanted to shout after Malcolm, to call him back, but he’d alr
eady fled to the top of the street.

  ‘What are you wearing that for? Like dressing up, do you?’ Terrence felt his blood slow. ‘You don’t frighten me, you little weasel.’

  ‘Could’ve fooled me, lad. I can see whites of your eyes.’

  ‘What do you want, following me around? I’ve nothing to say to you.’

  ‘But there’s matter of our little bit of unfinished business. I don’t like leaving loose ends.’ Christie fixed him with his gimlet eye.

  ‘Bloody hell, man, I’m not paying your rent; I can barely afford my own.’ Terrence made to go. He felt this man’s anger, his hatred. He was evil.

  ‘Oh, no you don’t, lad,’ the voice whispered from the shadows. ‘Not till we’ve settled our business.’

  ‘I’ve already said, I haven’t got that kind of money.’

  ‘Right, well, don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

  Terrence spun back to face him. Horror-struck. Was Christie’s threat about Joy or reporting him to the police?

  Kill him. Kill him.

  It was the only way to stop this torture. How hard could it be? Just a hand around the throat. Snap his scrawny neck. He’d killed worthier men in the war. Men who would have been missed, who were loved. Who could love this wretch? Words of violence burst in his mouth. He held them there, bloody, like loose teeth, while he sized Christie up, measuring how small and narrow he was.

  A clock chimed. Tuneful in the tightening seconds. Terrence took out his cotton handkerchief and dabbed his mouth. Looked at it, as if expecting to find blood there.

  ‘Are you going to give me my money, lad, or am I going to have to report you to police?’

  Terrence stepped back, his mind turning. ‘I’m thinking I might just go and report you to the police myself. Impersonating a police officer is a very serious offence.’ Not to mention blackmail.

  ‘Aye, maybe. But not as serious as buggery, wouldn’t you say?’

  There was no way out of this. Terrence took out his wallet and handed over half of what was inside.

  ‘All of it.’ Christie stepped forward, his palm opening and closing like a clam. ‘I’ll take all of it, if you don’t mind.’

  Terrence handed over everything he had. Tried not to touch the revolting pale hand.

  ‘I suppose this’ll do for now.’ The wormy fingers flicked through the banknotes: everything Terrence needed to pay for his mother’s rent and his own. ‘But it isn’t enough… it’s nowhere near enough.’

  53

  Snow. Joy woke to the shock of it pressing its cold white face up against her basement window. She couldn’t remember when she’d last seen snow. She sipped her Camp coffee and watched it fall. Big, fat flakes, large as francs, settling ghost-light and transforming the drab London street into a dazzling Christmas card scene. It would be Christmas in a few short weeks. Not that it would mean anything to her this year. Last year she and Queenie had spent it together here; it had been fun. But she didn’t want to have to think about Queenie; she didn’t want to think about anyone. She just wanted the days to roll into nights, then days again. Some days were better than others, but perhaps it was just that she was too tired to think, and instead of diving into the depths of herself and harpooning the skin of her memories, she bobbed around on the surface.

  Charles was there again. Calling to her, demanding she let him inside. Why couldn’t he understand that for her to get over him, he needed to stay away? Upstairs, a door slammed and the skitter of raised voices, Charles’s among them. Then heavy boots descending the stone steps, the crunch of snow in her entrance area.

  ‘Miss Rivard, are you in there?’

  Joy opened up. Her landlord, bristly-chinned and out of breath, was the angriest she’d seen him.

  ‘That flamin’ man’s here again. Making a right rumpus. I thought you told him to stay away.’

  ‘I did. But he won’t listen.’

  ‘Well, you’re going to have to make him listen. This is a quiet house; we can’t have this kind of disorder. Let this be a final warning to you, Miss Rivard. If this nonsense carries on,’ he wagged a fat finger, ‘I’ll have no option other than to terminate your tenancy.’

  This was a man who liked to throw his weight around – she’d seen him doing it with his other tenants. What he lacked in stature, he made up for with aggression. She nodded. Scrunched her lips together to stop herself from crying.

  ‘Perhaps if you had a word with him?’ Joy raised her eyebrows. ‘He might listen to you.’

  ‘I won’t be having a word with anyone. This is your mess to sort out.’ He glared at her. ‘And while we’re at it, you’re to stop feeding that thing, d’you hear?’ He jabbed his thumb at the woodpigeon roosting on its usual perch. ‘Bloody thing shits everywhere; it’s not hygienic.’

  She didn’t want to add homelessness to her lengthening list of problems, so when her landlord had gone, she shouted up at Charles, who was still hovering on the pavement. Shouted at him to go away, to leave her alone. Which he did. Eventually. She watched his dark shape disappear along the snowy pavement. His expression, whatever it had been, was hidden beneath the brim of his hat.

  ‘Don’t worry, little friend.’ She wiped away her tears and talked to the pigeon before going back inside. ‘You stay there. This is just as much your home as anyone else’s.’

  * * *

  Joy had arranged to meet Amy and her family today. Not that she had the energy for making conversation but she couldn’t let her down, not when she’d been so kind and careful with her over these past few weeks. She dressed in her plain blouse, blue wool jacket and nylon skirt. Ignored the beautiful clothes Heloise had bought her, deciding some days ago that she would pack them away and donate them to the Salvation Army and do some good. She counted the coins in her purse. She needed to be careful and hoped this restaurant in Putney wasn’t going to be expensive.

  Wanting to wear her apple brooch, she checked the collar of the dress she had worn to work yesterday. But it wasn’t there. She picked through the items that were on top of the bedside cabinet and rifled through the chest of drawers. Then, getting down on her hands and knees, she searched beneath the bed.

  Nothing. Where was it?

  Please don’t say I’ve lost it. I don’t think I can bear it. In danger of spiralling down into a deep panic, she got up off the floor and paced the room, picking things up and putting them down at random. This is hopeless. She burst out crying. It could be anywhere. I could’ve dropped it at work, or out on the street.

  She scrubbed her hands across her face: a frantic gesture to clear a way through her tears as if hoping there might be a better truth concealed beneath them than the one she feared.

  A glance at her wristwatch. She was meeting Amy and her family in just over an hour and, knowing it would take longer to walk in the snow, she needed to get a move on. Promising herself she would have another search for the brooch just as soon as she came home, she laced her feet inside her shoes, put on her trusty green coat and slung her bag over her shoulder.

  Without bothering to check her reflection, she closed the door of her bedsit, and with a handful of crumbs and a word or two of greeting to the pigeon, who was shaking snow off its back and settling inside its feathers, she hurried up the steps and into the silent, snowy world. Too wrapped up in her troubles to notice the danger hiding amid the black shadows across the street, waiting for her to leave so he could follow her.

  54

  Safe in his hideout, he watched the girl moving around in her basement room. Silly thing, why didn’t she draw the blind and stop prying eyes? He’d seen her do everything from washing and changing out of her calico nightdress to leaning out of her door and shouting at her boyfriend, who turned out to be the same elegant man in a fedora and big dark coat he’d seen gallivanting around Soho with her painted friend.

  And what a carry-on that was. No wonder she told him to clear off. His snorted amusement as he smacked his hands together for warmth. It really wasn’t the weather
to be hanging around, but the promise he had made to himself to follow her and get her on her own was enough to keep him warm.

  It was fortunate he had so much spare time, that he was no longer gainfully employed. And didn’t need to be, so long as he could extort money from that filthy bugger, Terrence Banks. He was enjoying himself taunting him: it was fun making the pervert suffer. Idle hands are the devil’s workshop. One of his father’s favourite sayings elbowed its way inside his head. Isn’t that the truth? he answered it and, brushing snow from his lapels and hat brim, he looked down on her window again.

  What was the girl doing now? All in a flap. She seemed suddenly agitated, circling her bedsit, a hand clamped to her face. He continued to gaze down on her, his mouth agape, absorbing her in the way he used to do with Beryl Evans… except Beryl Evans was no more. He’d done what he’d wanted with her and now he was going to do what he wanted with this one.

  He was glad the man in the black coat and fedora had finally got the message and cleared off. Talk about persistent – didn’t he have any pride? It was obvious to an imbecile that the girl wanted no more to do with him. But he had to admit, it had been an anxious twenty minutes thinking the man would never go, and he would have to move on, to come back another day.

  But Joy is alone again now, isn’t she? His thin lips curving into a smile. Oh, aye, completely alone, and there’s no danger of me being interrupted this time.

  Not long now, he thought. Any minute… any minute… and his patience would be rewarded. He stuffed the stocking away and, rolling his tongue around in his mouth, lit a cigarette and smoked it. Looking down on himself, he wished he’d made more of an effort with his appearance. His faded raincoat had been looking rather shabby for some time.

  Then, a flurry of activity he nearly wasn’t ready for, and the door of her basement swung open. He watched her pause to feed that filthy pigeon from the palm of her hand with such tenderness and devotion. How could she? He realised how it angered him. To see her giving affection to vermin when she should have been displaying that affection to him.