by J F Straker
‘No,’ he said. ‘She wasn’t.’
‘Too bad.’
‘Now don’t start sounding off again. I’ll explain when I see you.’
‘And when will that be?’
‘In about an hour, say. Or perhaps a little longer. I promised to have a jar with the lads, and I can’t rush away. Okay?’
She was prepared to play second fiddle to his job. She didn’t like it, but she knew she had to accept it. But that he should expect her to hang around for over an hour while he had a booze-up with his pals — and after last night, too, when he should have been eager to make amends — that was more than she could stomach.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry, but I can’t see you tonight. I’m going out with one of the men from the office. He’ll be calling for me any minute now.’
‘Oh!’ It was his turn to be angry. ‘Well, in that case I won’t keep you. Enjoy yourself.’
‘I usually do,’ she said. ‘He’s very amusing.’
‘Good. Well, I’ll be in touch.’
She put down the receiver feeling pleased with herself. He was taking her too much for granted, it wouldn’t do any harm to let him think he had competition. But the mood soon passed. It had been idiotic to get on her high horse like that. She wasn’t in love with him — or she thought she wasn’t — but she found him more attractive than other men she knew. Throughout the day she had looked forward to the evening, to being with him, to making up their — well, misunderstanding. And now, through a stupid rush of pride to the head, she had doomed herself to an evening of depressing loneliness.
Well, she wouldn’t spend it in the flat. She and Jill hadn’t been particularly close; but they had got on reasonably well, and it was in the flat she missed her most, it was in the flat that the memory of Thursday night was most active. She chose the Chic Inn in preference to a cinema; the prospect of sitting alone in the dark for a couple of hours didn’t appeal to her, and although she wasn’t really hungry she had to eat. There was unlikely to be anyone she knew at the restaurant, but at least there would be bustle, and people talking. And there was always Fred.
It was possible that Fred sensed her feeling of loneliness, her depression, for that evening he was more than usually attentive. Custom was slack, and whenever he could spare time from his duties he came over and chatted. At first he was full of the murder, wondering how anyone could have done so terrible a thing to such a beautiful young lady, expressing his sympathy for Carole. Mr Dassigne too, he said: he’d miss her. Carole thanked him for his sympathy, but said that if he didn’t mind she’d rather not discuss the murder; she found it too harrowing. After that he talked about himself. This was only his second job as a waiter. Among other things, he had spent several years in the Merchant Navy, had driven a van for a firm of wholesale grocers, and had worked on the construction of the M1 . Prior to coming to the Chic Inn he had been a milk roundsman. He hadn’t gone much on that, he said. He’d never been one for early rising.
‘And you like it here?’ she said.
He shrugged. It’s all right. The wages ain’t so hot, but we do all right on the tips. The grub’s free, and it’s a nice, warm job for the winter. I like that.’ He ran a hand through his unruly hair, and grinned. ‘You know what I’d do if I was rich, miss?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘Tell me.’
‘I’d go and live on one of them South Sea Islands. You know. Lots of sun, and all them birds in grass skirts. Real groovy!’
She laughed. ‘It might not be as groovy as you think. I’m told it’s all very commercialized these days. The grass skirts, for instance. They’re off.’
The grin broadened. ‘That’d save me the trouble, then, wouldn’t it?’
‘Perhaps.’ She smiled back at him over the rim of her coffee cup. ‘What do you do with yourself in the evenings, Fred? When you have any evenings, that is.’
Mostly, he said, he went to the pub. He didn’t drink much, though; it was the talk and the company he liked. Wednesdays he did the pools. He didn’t go much for reading, he said. It made him kind of restless.
He was, she thought, a restless man. Men with big feet often were. All those jobs — and he couldn’t be more than forty, if that. But when she asked if he wasn’t worried about the future he shook his head. He’d be all right, he said.
Maybe he wouldn’t get to the South Seas, but he’d be all right. He’d got plans.
‘Oh? Such as what?’
He shook his head. He wasn’t telling her that, he said. He wasn’t telling anyone. It could be unlucky.
He had been standing chatting for about ten minutes when she saw that George, the West Indian who usually alternated with him, was serving at an adjacent table. ‘This isn’t your early night, Fred, is it?’ she asked.
‘Yes, miss.’
‘But it’s twenty past nine! I’m sorry I’ve kept you talking. You shouldn’t have let me.’
‘That’s all right, miss. I’m not bothered.’
‘Well, you’re not talking any more. You’ll be missing out on the beer. Let me have my bill, will you?’
Grateful for his attention, she tipped him extravagantly, giving him a special smile as he thanked her and went off to the kitchen. Alone again, she began to think about Johnny. By now his hour with the lads would be up. What would he be doing? If he was really keen — and she thought he was — if he had got over his annoyance at being stood up and was anxious to make amends — it was possible he might come round to the flat later in the hope of catching her when she returned. It was even just possible that he hadn’t believed her when she said she was going out — that, thinking it over, he had recognized it for what it was, a fit of pique. In which case...
She gulped down the remains of her coffee and hurried out. It was raining heavily; the pavements were wet and slippery, and she shortened her step, making what haste she could. When she came to the alley she turned into it without hesitation. She was wearing only a light coat over her dress; if she went the long way round she would be soaked through by the time she got home, her hair would be ruined. And if Johnny were waiting...
She didn’t hear the two men. The first she knew of their presence was a hand clamped over her mouth from behind, an arm round her waist pressing her back against a hard male body; the other man hovered near by, a menacing shadow in the darkness. Kicking and struggling, she was dragged across the alley into a dark recess. As he came up against the wall the man holding her hooked a leg round hers to stop their threshing; the hand at her waist slid upward, ripping open the coat and tearing the neck of her dress as he groped savagely for her breasts. With her head bent back she could not see the second man. But she felt his hands — coarse, rough hands sliding up her thighs, and she wrenched her mouth open in a silent scream. A finger was sucked into the opening, and she bit down on it hard. The man swore — it was the first vocal sound either man had made and as he moved his hand she managed a shrill cry. Then the hand clamped down again, pressing even more firmly.
The second man was standing up now. She could not see his face; but his body was pressed against hers, and she could feel his breath on her cheek, smell the stench of it. One hand was tugging at her tights, the knuckles of the other dug into her as he fumbled at his flies. Tears streamed from her eyes as she fought wildly to twist her body away. It was a futile effort. Her captor was strong, and savage in his hold. Ragged nails bit into her flesh as his grip tightened on her breast.
She was never sure afterwards when she first became aware of her rescuer; pain and fear were too intense to be conscious of anything except what was happening to her. But suddenly she was free. She heard a man shout, another cry out in pain; shadowy figures fought and tumbled and swore around her. Her legs were so weak that they could no longer support her, and as she leant against the wall she felt herself slipping. The darkness grew darker, the noises fainter. Then there was nothing.
She was on her feet when she recovered consciousness, a man’s arm supporting her. Memory fl
ooded back, and with a sharp cry she started to twist away.
‘It’s all right, miss. It’s me — Fred. Fred Potatoes.’
‘Fred!’ In a surge of relief she sank against him, burying her head against his shoulder. Her fingers dug into him as she gripped, clenching and unclenching spasmodically. She was crying again, her body was a trembling, convulsive jelly. When she tried to speak the sound was a long while coming. ‘Oh, thank God!’
He held her for a while, not speaking. Two people came down the alley and passed without comment, no doubt mistaking them for a courting couple. Carole neither saw nor heard them. She was a medley of conflicting emotions: relief, gratitude, pain, shame, disgust. And it was shame that was uppermost when she drew away from him. Her coat and dress were open, white flesh gleamed in the darkness where the bra had been forced up to expose her breasts. She felt dirty and degraded, and ashamed that Fred should see her so.
Her legs were still wobbly, and he held her while she adjusted the bra and pulled the coat about her. She could not bring herself to look at him, and that increased her shame.
‘Thank you.’ She ran the knuckles of a hand across her wet eyes. ‘H’m all right now. Can you — have you seen my bag?’
‘It’s here, miss.’ He released her, and bent to pick it up. ‘You aren’t hurt, are you?’
‘No. Just bruised.’ She found difficulty in opening the bag. As she dabbed at her eyes she realized that she had barely thanked him. But when she started to do so he cut her short.
‘That’s all right, miss,’ he said awkwardly. ‘I’m just pleased I happened along.’
‘So am I. It — it was horrible.’ Concern for herself faded as she recalled fully what he had done. ‘But how about you? Are you hurt?’
‘I bruised me knuckles, that’s all.’
‘You’re sure? I mean, they were two to your one. And the man who held me’ She shivered. ‘He was terribly strong.’
He laughed. ‘I done a bit of boxing in me time, miss. Done a bit of fighting too, if you see what I mean. Them two, they was just plain raw.’ His voice hardened. ‘They won’t try nothing like that again in a hurry. Not one of ‘em, anyways. I got him where it hurts. He’s going to have a pain down there, miss, what’ll last him for weeks.’
He spoke with such savage satisfaction that she was embarrassed.
‘I want a bath,’ she said. ‘A long, hot bath. Would you mind seeing me home, Fred?’
‘Of course, miss. Shall you be calling the police?’
The police! Until now she hadn’t given even a thought to the police, and the prospect of telling them her story appalled her. She would have to make a statement, perhaps attend an identification parade with the two men watching her. There would be reporters — her name would be in the papers...
Oh, no, she thought, not that! I want to forget. I want it to finish right here and now.
But she couldn’t explain that to Fred.
‘I hadn’t thought,’ she said. ‘But I didn’t see their faces, so I couldn’t identify them. I couldn’t even describe them. How about you?’
‘Not really,’ he said. ‘It was all so quick, like.’
‘Then it’s not much use telling the police, is it? Just a lot of nasty publicity for nothing.’ She hesitated. ‘You won’t mention this to anyone, Fred, will you? I couldn’t bear to have people staring at me, pointing me out to others. Not even Mr Inch or Mr Dassigne. I’d rather tell them myself, if you don’t mind.’
If I tell them at all, she thought.
‘Not me, miss,’ he promised. ‘I won’t say a word.’
It had stopped raining. Her legs were still weak, but when he offered her his arm she didn’t take it. He told her that he had been on his way to the pub when he heard her cry out. As the man with his back to him turned he had given him one on the ear that had sent him flying, and had followed that with a boot in the privates — ‘if you’ll pardon the expression, miss.’ The other man had come at him, and they’d had a bit of a ding-dong, he said. But it hadn’t lasted; the man had chickened off. When he looked round the other had gone too. ‘I’d have chased after them, miss, only I seen you lying there, all still like. I thought you was hurt.’
‘I’m glad you didn’t,’ she said.
She was still so dazed by the ordeal that she would have walked past the flat had he not stopped her. There was no sign of Johnny. In a way she was glad. She didn’t want him to see her like that. She wanted to soak and scrub her body until she could no longer feel the touch of the men’s hands on her skin, put on fresh, clean clothing. Only then could she face him with some degree of composure.
‘Well, goodnight, miss,’ Fred said.
‘Oh, no!’ She tried to infuse real warmth into her voice. Grateful as she was, she wanted him to go. But he must not know she wanted him to go. ‘You can’t go yet, I haven’t even begun to thank you. Come in and have a drink. I’ve no beer, I’m afraid. But there’s whisky.’
He shook his head.
‘That’s nice of you, miss, but — well, if you don’t mind I’d rather not. I’m late for the boozer, you see; my mates will be wondering. I’d best be on my way.’
‘Bless you, Fred.’ She felt a bit choky, her eyes were starting to smart. Impulsively she reached up and kissed him on the cheek. ‘And thanks. Thanks a million.’
She sat in the bath for nearly an hour, soaping and scrubbing, constantly adding hot water. She was in no hurry. If Johnny should ring she could throw on a bathrobe and rush to the door or the telephone. The important thing was to feel clean again. There were bruises and scratches on her breast, and each time they caught her eye she shuddered. She could not scrub them away. They would be with her for weeks, ugly reminders that would not let her forget.
She did not bother to dress after the bath. It was getting on for eleven o’clock, he wouldn’t come now. He might ring, but he wouldn’t come. She poured a whisky and sipped it slowly, trying to stop her mind from dwelling on what had happened but finding that impossible. All that she cared to remember was Fred’s behaviour. Fred had been absolutely marvellous — not only in rescuing her, but in his conduct afterwards. Was she being selfish in asking him to say nothing?
Wasn’t it only fair that his bravery should be recognized? Rewarded too, perhaps? No, not rewarded. Not by her, anyway. That might seem patronizing. Although she might give him a present, as between friends.
It was late when she got to bed. Despite the whisky she didn’t expect sleep to come easily, and was surprised the next morning to discover that it had. I suppose I’m just disgustingly healthy, she thought.
Tuesday dragged. Each time the phone rang in the office she hoped it might be Johnny, and each time it wasn’t. Back at the flat she cooked herself an evening meal, watched television, and waited. But he didn’t ring. He’s paying me back for ditching him last night, she thought miserably. If only he knew how much I regretted it later! If Johnny had been with me...
She shivered. Last night was something she must try to forget.
She made herself a hot drink and went to bed to read. She was still reading when the telephone rang, and without waiting to don slippers or dressing gown she scrambled out of bed and ran to answer it. One-thirty in the morning was a crazy time to ring, hut maybe this was the first chance Johnny had had. Maybe she’d wronged him in supposing he’d been sulking.
She lifted the receiver. ‘Carole here,’ she breathed.
It wasn’t Johnny who answered. ‘This is Lara,’ a voice said. ‘Lara Dassigne. Remember? Is Johnny there?’
‘No.’ She felt like banging down the receiver. She wasn’t only disappointed, she was angry. What a nerve, to ring up and ask for him in the middle of the night! And he had said his interest was only professional! ‘He doesn’t live here, you know. He only visits.’
Mrs Dassigne practically sang into the mouthpiece.
‘Did I wake you? I’m sorry. But I’ve got something I think might interest Johnny.’
‘We all hav
e,’ Carole said crudely. ‘Is yours special?’
‘I like to think so.’ Lara Dassigne was not easily disconcerted. ‘But I was referring to information, not fornication. I’ve just had a visitor who claims to be a friend of Paul’s, only I think he’s a phoney. I mean, friends don’t usually rouse one in the middle of the night.’
‘How true!’ Carole said.
‘Touché. And another thing. I got the impression he hadn’t expected anyone to answer his ring. He looked quite stunned when I opened the door.’
‘I can imagine.’
Lara Dassigne laughed. ‘My, but we’re witty tonight, aren’t we? Anyway, I thought I should inform the police. They’re always telling us to report anything suspicious. So that’s why I rang. I mean, Johnny’s a policeman, isn’t he?’
‘Not the only one,’ Carole said. ‘Try the local police station. I’m sure you’ll find them equally accommodating.’
7
The sale of Forest Lodge was held in a hall behind The Forester. Nicodemus was there early, and stood near the entrance to watch the audience arrive; he was only mildly surprised to note that, when bidding started, Paul Dassigne was not among them. Like Johnny, he was convinced that the handbill found in the girls’ flat had been dropped by Paul; but one could be interested in a property without necessarily intending to purchase. Or perhaps Paul had commissioned someone to bid for him. He was more surprised that neither Sir John Diamond nor Colin Browne was there. The Lodge had been owned by Sir John’s brother, it adjoined the family estate; one would have expected them to show interest in the identity of their new neighbour. Perhaps Colin was still too shocked by Jill Summerbee’s death. And Sir John had always been a queer fish, unpredictable and remote.