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

by Rebecca Griffiths

  ‘I could tell you’re an animal lover. All the nicest people are.’

  ‘Is that so?’ Terrence strode between them and stood with his back to the fire. ‘Hitler had dogs, does that mean he was a nice man?’ He didn’t give his mother the chance to answer and flung his head to Christie, the burn of the coal fire on the back of his calves. ‘What the hell d’you think you’re doing?’

  Christie frowned. ‘I’m having a nice cup of tea and a chat with your mother.’

  ‘I can see that. I want to know what you’re doing here.’

  ‘Dear me, Terry.’ His mother put down her cup and saucer. ‘Where’s my gentle boy gone? What’s got into you? Have you left Mr Manners on the Tube?’

  ‘I do have to agree with your mother, Terrence,’ Christie whispered, forcing them both to listen. ‘I would never have dared speak to my mother like that, and as for my father… oh, no, I lived in dread of him. One word out of line and he’d take strap to me.’

  Terrence could hardly bear to look at the man. ‘Excuse me, but who asked for your opinion? You still haven’t answered my question. I want to know what you’re doing here. How did you know where my mother lives?’

  ‘There’s a way to speak to your friend. I am sorry, Mr Christie, I don’t know what’s got into him.’

  ‘Like I said, call me Reg.’

  ‘Reg. Yes. Would you like a sweetie?’ His mother offered Christie one of her precious fruit jellies. ‘I’ve been saving them for a special occasion.’

  Christie leant forward over his knees and took one.

  Terrence saw red and snatched the box away. I don’t think so, the bastard’s bleeding me dry as it is. ‘I want to know why you’re here. I want to know why you’re bothering my mother!’ He put the box of jellies out of arm’s reach on the sideboard.

  ‘Terrence! What the devil’s wrong with you? You don’t speak to guests like that.’ His mother made a huffing sound and crossed her arms. ‘Mr Christie, I mean, Reg… he’s a friend. We’ve been having a nice little chat together, haven’t we? We’ve been talking about that Timothy Evans.’

  ‘It’s an unfortunate business, Mrs Banks.’ Christie rubbed a hand over his shiny pate, his voice almost inaudible. ‘A really unfortunate business.’

  ‘Oh no, Reg, you must call me Peggy.’ Terrence’s mother wriggled around in her chair, acting the coy little girl.

  Terrence wanted to shake some sense into her. How could anyone be charmed by this snake in the grass?

  ‘As Terrence has decided we’re not allowed my jellies, do help yourself to another biscuit, Reg.’

  ‘Thank you, Peggy.’ Christie slid his dead fish eyes to Terrence, making him squirm, then took a ginger biscuit. Bit it in half and chewed slowly. ‘I’m finding these regrettable happenings all very stressful.’ He dispensed a lengthy sigh.

  ‘He’s going to be their principal witness, you know?’ His mother seemed to be under this man’s spell and Terrence gawped at her. ‘That’s quite some responsibility, don’t you think, Terry? A principal witness in a serious murder trial at the Old Bailey. They must think you’re very important, Mr Christie… I mean, Reg. But I’m not surprised, what with you being a policeman and training to be a doctor before the First War. You’re ever so clever.’

  ‘Kind of you to say so, Peggy, but I could’ve done without fuss.’ Christie dabbed crumbs from his mouth. Prissy and irritating, his assumed gentility made Terrence want to thump him. ‘I’m not a well man. I’ve never been particularly robust and stress of it all has made my stomach trouble flare up again.’ He licked his lips and spoke slowly, taking care of his consonants. ‘I suffer dreadful with fibrositis.’

  ‘Can’t you speak up?’ Terrence, strident from the sidelines; hating this man’s supercilious manner.

  ‘Terrence!’ his mother snapped. ‘Mr Christie’s voice got damaged in the trenches. Mustard gas poisoning, isn’t that right, Mr Christie… I mean, Reg? And I’m the same as you, any stress and it goes straight to my stomach. Shows a sensitive nature, we must be alike in that way.’ She scowled at Terrence then rubbed her abdomen as if feeling Christie’s discomfort vicariously.

  He wanted to scream. He wanted to grab Christie by the collar and haul him out of there. But he didn’t. Remembering in time how this man moved among the seedy strata of London society just as he did, and knew who and what he was.

  ‘What a terrible thing, to have that monster living in your house, Reg,’ his mother added.

  ‘A monster, indeed. He was a horribly violent man, I’m sorry to say. His poor wife, Beryl.’ A tight, dry cough into his fist. ‘It’s so sad. She were a lovely young woman. Not that it were what you’d call a happy marriage, not by any means. Two of them were forever arguing. I were always having to go up there to tell them to be quiet. My poor Ethel, her nerves are in pieces. It’s taken a terrible toll on us both.’

  ‘That’s all very well,’ Terrence interrupted. He’d had enough of listening to this bilge and it concerned him how Christie referred to Timothy Evans in the past tense as though he was already dangling from the end of a rope. He needed to take action and, moving away from the fire, he stepped up beside his mother’s armchair. ‘You still haven’t said what you’re doing here. My mother doesn’t want to be bothered by you.’

  ‘But he’s not bothering me, he’s my guest.’

  ‘Your guest? You don’t even know him.’

  ‘And whose fault is that? You never let me meet any of your friends. He doesn’t, you know?’ She inclined her head to Christie. ‘I can sort of understand it at the bank, but not the nightclub where Terry plays piano, it’s very upmarket. They don’t allow any old riff-raff in there. And Cyril Bream, he’s the owner, such a gentleman. He’s really taken Terry under his wing.’ His mother always did this: appropriating his life as her own and rattling off authoritatively about his band and his nights at the Mockin’ Bird as if she went there herself. Terrence had heard her doing it with her neighbours and it maddened him. ‘No, I don’t get to meet any of his friends.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you do.’ A smile that revealed a crooked graveyard of teeth. ‘He likes to keep them secret… his friends.’ A sneaky squint at Terrence. ‘But I know a few of them, don’t I, Terry? Who’s that chap you’re especially fond of?’ Terrence, stiffening inside his suit, watched helplessly as Christie turned his attention to his mother again. ‘He’s one of them darkies, Peggy.’ At this, the hands shot up. Not that this was any kind of capitulation. ‘I’ve nowt against them in principle, don’t get me wrong. But, well, you wouldn’t want to be associating yourself with them, would you, Peggy?’

  ‘No, I don’t like the sound of my lad mixing with the likes of them.’ She placed a hand on Terrence’s leg. ‘Oh, he always was a naughty boy. It’s been a struggle for me since his father’s gone.’ She leant forward in her chair and lowered her voice. ‘Now, Reg, what were you telling me earlier? Something about my Terry owing you money?’

  Terrence opened and closed his mouth. Flabbergasted at the gall of this man, he couldn’t speak.

  ‘Oh, I’ve gone and embarrassed him,’ Christie chimed in. ‘Look at him, Peggy.’ Terrence felt two pairs of eyes. Neither of them welcome. ‘It was when you were a bit short, wasn’t it, Terry? Don’t you remember?’

  Sickly sweet and soft like a girl, there was so much about this man, with his effeminate affectations, that made Terrence wonder if he wasn’t a latent homosexual himself. Was this why Christie had such a problem with him? An idea occurring.

  ‘A few weeks back, wasn’t it, lad? It’s not his fault, Peggy. I don’t say these things to get him into trouble, you understand.’

  ‘Of course, you don’t.’ His mother sipped her tea.

  Christie’s thin lips formed a smile as sinister as the wind that threw its lopsided weight against the walls of the house. ‘Peggy,’ he began, delivering her name like a parcel, ‘the thing is…’ He lifted his chipped blue gaze to Terrence, his smile sliding away again. ‘Like I was expla
ining earlier, I’m on tablets for my stomach.’

  ‘Yes, you poor thing.’

  ‘And your Terry, well, he knows my predicament, I’ve told him all about sick note doctor’s given me for my back.’ Christie lifted his cup from its saucer and sipped his tea, his little finger raised to the ceiling. ‘I’m unfit for work. It’s why I need money he owes me.’

  ‘But you didn’t need to come here. Why did you come here?’ Terrence clasped and unclasped his hands, fearful of what this man was about to say.

  ‘You left me no choice, lad.’ Christie pushed his spectacles onto the bridge of his nose. ‘I had to do something.’

  ‘You are a naughty boy, Terry. Whatever would your father say? Borrowing money, didn’t we always tell you?’

  ‘Mum, will you please stay out of this?’

  ‘I will do no such thing, young man. And with Mr Christie being so unwell—’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with him.’ Terrence cut across her and raised his voice over her protestations. ‘And now he’s leaving. Aren’t you?’

  ‘B-but Mr Christie’s not finished his tea.’

  ‘He’s going. Now.’ Terrence bounced his fists against his sides. Made sure Christie saw what he was doing.

  ‘Er, yes. I’m afraid so, Peggy.’ Christie brushed biscuit crumbs from his tie, and with a wince and a grumble put an exaggerated hand to his lower back and got to his feet. ‘Such a pleasure to meet you. Thank you for tea, most kind.’ Grovelling and scraping, he backed out of the room.

  ‘You must come again, Mr Christie,’ she called after him. ‘Any time, I’m always here.’

  ‘I won’t be a minute, Mum,’ Terrence told her before charging out into the rainy street. ‘You fucking bastard,’ he snarled through gritted teeth. ‘What the hell d’you think you’re doing coming here? She’s an old woman.’ He heard the front door slam behind him.

  ‘I don’t care for foul language if you don’t mind.’ Christie positioned his hat and pushed his arms into his raincoat – the pain in his back miraculously gone.

  ‘I don’t give a fuck what you mind about. I want to know what you’re doing here. How come you know where my mother lives?’ Terrence lit a cigarette and smoked it furiously. The rain, he didn’t seem to notice, dripped off his hair, into his eyes.

  ‘I’ve told you before, lad. I know all there is to know about you.’

  ‘You’re to stay away from her, d’you hear?’

  ‘Important to you, is she?’ Christie poked out the tip of his tongue and licked his lips. ‘I wouldn’t have needed to bother her if you’d stuck to our deal. I’m not unreasonable, I just want what’s mine. What we agreed.’ The whispering voice, all but swallowed up by the rush of the rain and the stiff north-easterly that was whipping around their ears.

  ‘We agreed nothing. And I’ve told you, you’re wasting your time. I haven’t much left after I’ve paid for Mum. You want to see her out on the street, do you? What I gave you the other day was my rent. I’m in the fucking red, thanks to you.’

  Christie gave a mock shiver. Cold, or because of Terrence’s choice of language? Either way, the man’s pomposity irritated the hell out of him. All he wanted to do was punch him, to finish him here and now. For this torment to stop.

  Terrence stood with his back to his mother’s house and smoked his cigarette. It seemed as if things had reached some kind of stalemate, and because he wasn’t going to be the one to break it, he stared at the incessant rain and the fading day. They had the street to themselves until a lamplighter, ladder tucked under his arm, came clanking along the pavement. Christie saw him and hurried backwards into a dark alleyway, where he adjusted his trilby down over his eyes. The scrape of the ladder against the pavement added to Terrence’s nerves and he watched Christie light up and smoke his own cigarette. The way he held it tucked back in his fist between puffs, the smoke leaking between his fingers.

  ‘What would your mother say if she knew what a dirty bugger you are?’ Those dead fish eyes glinting from behind their spectacles. ‘I’d say it would break her heart.’

  Terrence took a swing for him. Christie caught his arm. The man was surprisingly strong.

  ‘Just pay me what you owe me, lad, and we’ll hear no more about it.’

  ‘And if I don’t?’

  ‘Well, now,’ Christie seemed to think about it as he finished his cigarette and threw it away, ‘let’s just say it would be terrible if something bad were to happen to your mother.’

  Terrence watched Christie pull the stocking from his coat pocket and wrap it around his hand. Snapped it taut. Then, with a stomach-churning wink, Christie twisted through the rain and pointed his nose at Terrence’s mother’s front door.

  60

  He had only just positioned himself in the doorway at the side of her building when, to his amazement, the girl ran out into the rain in her slippers to use the phone box. Not that the girl’s telephone call could have been about anything important – it was over in a jiffy and now she was nicely back inside her brightly lit basement room. The phone box was something he had been making use of too. Employing his detecting skills to source a certain number, he had taken to dialling it whenever it took his fancy. It was great fun, putting the frighteners on them by keeping quiet when they picked up at the other end, and certainly helped pass the time on the occasions he found himself waiting for the girl to show up.

  The rain had finally ceased, and the moon, slipping its moorings and floating free of the scudding clouds, washed the rooftops in its cold vein of light. He had wandered over here from Camden and was feeling chilly inside his wet raincoat and plimsolls, but he wasn’t ready to head home yet. What a stupid old fool Mrs Banks was. He chuckled into his neck. All he had to do was tell her about his wartime services as a police constable and his injuries during the First War and she was inviting him inside her house, making him tea. Anything could have happened. It nearly did. He lit up a celebratory cigarette and smoked it while continuing to congratulate himself on how well the visit had gone. It had been worth traipsing all the way over there if only to put the fear of God into that filthy bugger of a son of hers. Which he had. His face had been a picture, and smiling into the memory, he wondered how long he should leave it before popping in to see the mother again.

  Women were such stupid creatures. Take this one. Never closing her blinds. Never imagining someone could be watching from the street. Someone who meant her harm. Such guileless innocence in one plainly exposed to the dangers of the world. He couldn’t believe how easy it was to spy on her. Seeing her move around her bedsit, she appeared to be distracted again tonight. Teary too, he’d say. He had tried to get her to open up to him in the cemetery that time, but she had refused to engage, which was a shame. Not that it took a genius to work out things with that boyfriend of hers had soured. Soured between her and that painted friend too. Which was hardly surprising. A right pair of feckless good-for-nothings, betraying her like that.

  So, here she is, his roaming thoughts while he sucked on the last of his cigarette and squashed it against the wall, friendless and alienated and miles from home. Just how he liked them. He rubbed his hands together – things didn’t get much better than this. He grinned, and although he was shivering inside his damp clothes, he would stay a little longer. There must be something more to see and, with this in mind, he moved closer, leant against the railings for a better look.

  ‘Bloody vermin… bloody filth.’ The cooing getting on his nerves, he flapped the pigeon away. The thing was tame enough to pick up and strangle. To smack its head against the brickwork and silence it forever. If he had a mind to, and half of him did. But for now, he wanted to concentrate on the job in hand.

  Quietly, tucked into the shadows, he didn’t want to alert the girl to him. All he wanted was to look. And look he did. His bloodshot eyes exploring her with a deadly intensity as she undressed for bed. He assessed her perfect breasts. His eyes grazing over her throat, the length of her body. Marvelling at how beaut
iful she was.

  * * *

  Light off and lit by the moon, she was sleeping now… his sleeping beauty. So peaceful, so silent, so still. His sleeping beauties was what he called them, in the moments before strangling them. And with saliva shining at the corners of his mouth, he tugged the stocking from his pocket. Grubby and laddered from much fingering, he pulled it tight, flattening the length of silk and running it through his hands like a tapeworm. He imagined how it would feel to wind it about this one’s slender neck and strangle the life out of her. Massaging his crotch and growing in confidence, feeling he was safely hidden from the lights of any passing vehicle, he delved beyond his trousers, his underwear and right down to the clammy depths of his arousal. Then, with the sensation peaking to something almost too much to bear, he risked everything and stepped through the gap in the railings, down the stone steps, to press right up against her murky basement window.

  61

  Back in her bedsit, Joy thought she was going mad. She scrubbed and scrubbed at her little satin slippers but couldn’t wash away the stains that haunted the weft and warp of the fabric. Like rose-coloured phantoms, they bloomed and swelled with each fresh soaking. She shouldn’t have worn them in the street; how many times had she told herself how precious they were? And now they were ruined, like everything else was ruined. And what made it worse was that it had been for nothing. Running through the rain to stand shivering in the phone box only to be told by a voice she didn’t recognise, a voice that sounded as far away from her as the moon, ‘He’s gone, my dear. You’re too late. Charles left for Africa this morning.’

  She gave up on the slippers and sat on the bed. Pushed the flats of her hands against the walls that seemed to be realigning themselves, fearing they were about to topple forward and crush her like the grief she couldn’t push through. Nights were always the worst. It was when it was dark outside that the splintered images of her time with Charles shoved their sharpened ends into the tender parts of her. Unhappier than she ever remembered, Joy brushed away a tear and undressed for bed. She just wanted the suffering to stop. Whenever she had been sad in the past, she had found a way to snap out of it. After all, she’d lived through enough disappointment and loss before. Look how depressed she had been when her father had died. But this was different: she didn’t seem able to find a way through this and it frightened her.