There Is No Going Home

by Madalyn Morgan

  ‘I don’t mind telling you at all. You have a right to know who you are harbouring under your roof. I could be a master criminal.’ Ena laughed and took a long breath to give herself time to select from everything that was making her head spin what she could tell Helen without putting her life in danger. If Helen still worked for Five - and there was a mole - she could find herself being stalked by Russians, or worse.

  ‘I’m being followed to and from work. At night a goon in an Austin watches the flat. I went to confront the driver once but he sped off almost knocking me over. This afternoon, as I was getting out of my car, he drove straight at me. I dived out of the way. He was so close he took the door of my car off its hinges.’

  ‘Do you know who has you under surveillance?’

  ‘I can’t be sure but I think it’s to do with Frieda Voight, who you would know about working at MI5.’

  Helen didn’t answer, but nodded.

  Ena drank the last of her sherry. Nerves always made her mouth dry. The sherry did nothing to alleviate it. ‘Frieda was from Berlin, but my colleague Sid,’ Ena cleared her throat. ‘Sorry, my late colleague, who I believe was killed because of what he knew about Frieda, had proof that she is working for the Russians.’

  ‘And you’re under surveillance because the Russians suspect your colleague shared that information with you?’

  ‘I suppose so. But he didn’t. He said he wanted to check a file, make sure of something before he told me. He didn’t get the chance to tell me anything. He was found dead on the embankment on the south side of Waterloo Bridge in the early hours of the following morning.’

  ‘Do you think he was murdered?’

  ‘I’m sure of it. But I can’t prove it.’

  The conversation moved into the kitchen. While Helen took a stew pot from the stove Ena washed up the sherry glasses.

  ‘Smells good,’ Ena said, watching Helen spoon potatoes, carrots, onion and swede in a rich gravy onto two large plates.

  Helen took a crusty loaf from the breadbin and sliced it on a wooden chopping block. ‘Do you cook, Ena?’

  ‘When I can. I used to cook every night. These days Henry is rarely home for dinner, so I have something hot at lunchtime with my colleagues. She corrected herself: ‘Colleague.’

  ‘It must nice cooking for someone, eating with them, telling them about your day, sharing problems, discussing and resolving them.’

  ‘It would be, but with Henry working for MI5 and me working for the HO, we can’t discuss our work.’

  Helen opened a drawer in the kitchen larder cabinet and took out cutlery. She placed a knife, fork and spoon at the side of place mats. ‘You don’t mind eating in here, do you?’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘Tuck in, or it will be cold.’

  They ate in relative silence. Ena looked at Helen, she seemed miles away. ‘The food’s delicious. Thank you, Helen.’

  ‘I’m never sure how much to cook for two. I’ve been on my own for a long time now.’

  When they had finished eating, Helen transferred what was left of the casserole to a large bowl, put it in the refrigerator and dried the dishes after Ena had washed them. They then took cheese and biscuits into the dining room and sat by the fire.

  ‘I’ll show you the rest of the house tomorrow, Ena. It’s too big for one, really, but I’m reluctant to sell it.’

  ‘How long have you lived here.’

  ‘I was born here.’ Helen laughed. ‘Those were the days. The house was always full of interesting people. My father was a writer. Biographies mostly. We travelled as a unit of four to wherever in the world my father’s next commission was.’

  ‘What an interesting childhood.’

  ‘It was that all right. I met some fascinating people.’ Helen laughed again. ‘I could tell you stories that would make your hair curl. But seriously, if I had the time, which I haven’t, it would be my father’s biography I’d write.

  ‘My mother was a teacher before she married my father. She was a strong woman and quite forward thinking. She schooled me at home because she believed in this modern age girls should be educated to the same standard as boys. She was an artist, a painter, but she educated me in science, reading, writing and arithmetic.’

  ‘Is that one of your mother’s paintings?’ Ena asked, pointing to the seascape she’d admired earlier.

  ‘No, that’s one of mine.’

  ‘In that case I think you have a great deal of artistic talent.’ Ena got up and went over to the painting. ‘Where is this?’

  ‘I’m copying an old black and white photograph that my mother took in Egypt. We lived in Cairo for a while, but…’ Helen took a photograph from the mantelshelf and squinted. ‘That looks like the port of Alexandria. We were there for some months. It’s probably the Mediterranean.’

  Ena yawned. ‘I’m sorry. How rude of me,’ she said, ‘it’s been a tiring day.’

  ‘And a frightening one. Did you tell anyone you were coming to Brighton?’

  ‘Only Henry. Actually,’ Ena said, ‘I didn’t tell him I was staying with you.’

  Helen looked shocked. ‘Don’t you trust your husband? I assure you he is very trustworthy. McKenzie held him in the highest regard. He called him one of Five’s shining stars.’

  ‘Did he?’ Ena felt the swell of emotion in her throat. ‘We haven’t been getting on lately. He doesn’t like the work I do. He says it’s too dangerous.’ Ena bit her bottom lip. ‘We had a row before I left.’

  ‘Then go and telephone him. Let him know you’ve arrived safely. The phone’s in the hall. Go on, Ena, put the poor chap’s mind at rest.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Ena wanted to talk to Henry, but she didn’t feel comfortable speaking on the telephone. It wasn’t Helen she was worried about, it was her flat. It had been bugged once and she was worried in case it had been bugged again. Nevertheless, she thanked Helen, and went into the hall. She eyed the telephone with suspicion and quickly unscrewed the mouthpiece. There was no listening device in it. She shook her head at the ridiculousness of imagining every telephone she came across was tapped, picked up the receiver and dialled her and Henry’s number.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Henry, it’s Ena.’

  ‘Thank God. I expected you to ring when you got to Brighton; let me know you’d arrived safely. I’ve been worried sick.’

  ‘Sorry. I meant to phone from the station, but my friend was on the platform waiting for me when I arrived. And by the time we’d eaten and we had caught up with each other’s news it was gone ten. Truth is, we hadn’t seen each other for such a long time we’ve only just finished chatting.’

  ‘As long as you’re all right.’

  ‘Of course I’m all right. What about you?’

  ‘Fine. I found the car door. I couldn’t leave it in the road so I lugged it back here. As luck would have it, the lights were still on at Stockwell Garage when I came back from Victoria. I rang them and they came out and tied a tarpaulin over the car. They said they’ll pick the car and the door up tomorrow. If it can be repaired they’ll give me a quote.’

  ‘If it can’t, a new door will be expensive, Henry.’

  ‘I don’t care about the expense, as long as you’re all right. You could have been killed.’

  ‘I know,’ Ena whispered. ‘I should go. I don’t want to be on my friend’s phone too long.’

  ‘What’s the number, I’ll ring you back?’

  ‘I can’t remember and it isn’t on the telephone. I’ll call you tomorrow.’

  ‘At least give me the address of where you’re staying.’

  ‘No, Henry. With all that has been going on recently, I don’t trust that our telephone isn’t tapped. I’ll give you the address and telephone number tomorrow. I’ll ring the office and we can talk on a secure line. I’d better get back to my friend. Good night.’

  ‘Night, darling. Sleep well.’

  Guilt swept over her as she replaced the receiver. It wouldn’t
have hurt to give Henry Helen’s telephone number. It wasn’t Henry she didn’t trust, it was the situation - and whoever the mole was at Leconfield House.

  Ena met Helen as she was coming out of the kitchen. ‘I’ll show you your room, Ena,’ she said, leading the way across the hall to a short passage near the front door. ‘And, as promised, it has a sea view.’ Helen opened the bedroom door and switched on the light. ‘And this,’ she said, turning on her heels and opening a door on the left, ‘is the bathroom.’ She pointed to two large bath towels hanging from hooks on the wall just inside the door. ‘I’m on the first floor. This space is all yours.’

  Feeling tearful, Ena took a deep breath. She hadn’t felt safe since seeing Sid’s body on the pathologist’s table in the mortuary at St. Thomas’s. ‘I think being watched, followed, almost run down, has finally got to me,’ she said.

  Helen patted her shoulder as a mother might do. ‘Get a good night’s sleep. You’re safe here.’

  Ena tossed and turned, annoyed with herself because she was dog tired and yet, try as hard as she may, she could not sleep. She got up and went to the window. She drew back the curtains. The moon was almost full. It looked as if it was tilting slightly to the right. Dark craters brought it to life in the shape of an old man’s face. Two eyes, deeply set, and beneath them a broad nose ran down the centre of the orb. A jagged dark line across the bottom of the face looked like a mouth, lips smudged with dull charcoal coloured lipstick.

  She reached for the bedspread, pulled it from the bed and wrapped it around her shoulders. Tiptoeing out of the bedroom, she made her way across the hall to the kitchen and out through the back door. On the narrow wooden veranda she pulled the quilt tightly round her and flopped into a big old rocking chair. Tucking her feet under her, she leaned back on half a dozen soft cushions and looked up at the sky. The moon dimmed as clouds drifted lazily in front of it, shining brightly again as soon as they had passed. She breathed the tang of salt air and listened to the comforting sound of the sea rolling in and breaking without urgency against the low wall where several boats swayed and bumped each other.

  She would have liked to have stayed on the veranda looking up at the moon and stars all night, but it was too cold. Shivering she returned to the guest bedroom and crawled into bed.

  Running faster along narrow passages Ena was getting nowhere. Every time she saw a light someone switched it off. Frightened, she turned the corner and there they were.

  Who is Collins? the faceless ones howled. Ena ran again until she had left them behind. She was hot and slowed her pace. Needing to catch her breath she stopped and leaned forward, put her hands on her knees and inhaled deeply several times. She could hear them running, their feet pounding the cobblestones. They were behind her, then they were in front of her. She ran this way and that. The faceless ones chased her onto Waterloo Bridge and stood in a row. Like a police cordon they barred her way. She couldn’t go forward, she couldn’t go back. She looked over the bridge at the cold black water of the River Thames. It was her only escape.

  She ran down the steps of the landing jetty and, clutching a mooring rope, crouched between two wooden boats. They bumped and swayed with the swell of the incoming tide. The terrifying faceless ones - tall and angular - came out of the sides of the boats and marched towards her. To get away from them she let go of the mooring rope and slipped soundlessly into the Thames.

  She closed her eyes and let the icy black water wash over her. No one was chasing her now, nor were the boats bumping her. She felt safe at last. Lulled by the current she drifted into sleep. Then, in a net, she was hauled out of the water. In a catch of fish, she was landed. And like the fishing boats she was anchored, tied to the embankment.

  She pulled, pulled again, hard this time, but couldn’t free herself. Her body rocked and swayed, and collided with other dead bodies. She screamed for help. But her cries only alerted the green car man.

  Help me, she called, but the green car man only laughed at her. Again she was running for her life. The faster she ran the faster the green car man ran. It seemed he was around every corner, in front of her and behind her, waiting for her. There was no escaping him.

  Eventually, she stopped and confronted him. Why are you chasing me?

  He didn’t answer. He towered over her in a black overcoat with a high collar, and a trilby tilted low over his eyes. Ena stretched up and lifted the brim of the hat. But as hard as she tried, she could see nothing between hat and collar but a black aperture.

  Ena woke in a sweat. She turned over and for several seconds didn’t know where she was. Light crept into the unfamiliar room above the curtains, creating eerie patterns on the ceiling. She heard seagulls crying, reminding her that she was in Brighton at the home of her friend Helen Crowther.

  Relieved that it was morning, Ena did what she always did when she’d had a bad dream; she jumped out of bed and threw open the curtains.

  Spikes of rain dashed the window and the flags on the seafront whipped and flapped, a warning to fishermen that it was not safe to be out on the sea. Nor on the beach, Ena thought. The sea was choppy. High waves thrashed against the lattice piles of the pier.

  There was a knock at the door. Ena spun round. Her heart rate doubled, but calmed when she heard Helen’s voice. She hurried across the room and opened the door.

  ‘Not a day for strolling along the font,’ Helen said, setting a tray with tea and toast on the bed. ‘Did you sleep well?’

  ‘Yes,’ Ena said, which wasn’t the truth, but she didn’t want to worry Helen.

  ‘Ena?’

  ‘What?’ she jumped. ‘Sorry, I was miles away.’

  ‘You didn’t have a good night, did you?’

  Ena shook her head. ‘A man, green like the car that tried to run me down, was chasing me. And there were others. Faceless men like the anonymous men in the cold cases I investigate.’

  ‘Do you want to talk about it?’

  ‘No. I’m fine. I often have strange dreams. Mostly where I’m being chased. It’s always the same dream, it’s just different men doing the chasing. Happens when I’m worried or stressed.’

  ‘Well,’ Helen said, crossing to the window and looking out, ‘perhaps we should go out today after all. How about a trip to the fishmonger, buy something for tonight’s dinner, and have a cup of coffee in one of the new coffee shops on The Lanes?’

  ‘Sounds perfect,’ Ena said, putting all thoughts of being caught in a fishing net in the Thames out of her mind. ‘We’ll stay in town and have lunch. My treat.’

  ‘It’s a deal,’ Helen said. ‘I’ll get dinner, you get lunch.’ At the bedroom door Helen turned and said, ‘I’m going to enjoy having you here, Ena.’

  ‘I’m going to enjoy being here,’ Ena said. She went to the bathroom and ran the bath. Her hand and knee stung when she lowered herself into the hot water. The cuts soon became acclimatised and felt only a little sore.

  Refreshed, Ena dressed, brushed her hair, and took her breakfast tray down to the kitchen.

  Helen was finishing a cup of tea, but left it and took the tray out of Ena’s hands.

  ‘I’ll wash these.’ Ena took the tray back and headed over to the sink.

  ‘Unless you want more tea we’ll go when you’ve washed up.’

  ‘Yes. Let’s blow the cobwebs away.’

  Before they left, Helen gave Ena a headscarf. ‘You’ll need this,’ she said, ‘tie it tight. What size shoes do you take?’

  ‘Six, usually.’

  Helen took a pair of thick soled leather walking shoes from the cupboard. ‘Try these for size. They’re not glamorous but you won’t get twenty yards in your high heels,’ she said, dropping the brogues at Ena’s feet.

  Helen put on flat boots and tied a scarf around her head, knotting it tightly under her chin. Ena did the same.

  ‘Ready?’ Ena nodded, and her friend opened the front door.

  The wind gusted in. The nets at the windows on either side of the door billowed and a
painting hanging on the wall swayed on its cord.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Walking along the front arm in arm, the sound of waves crashing onto the shingle and the wind buffeting them along, the two women huddled closer. At the pier, Helen stopped and pulled on Ena’s arm. ‘Coffee?’ She mimed lifting an imaginary cup to her lips. Ena nodded and shimmied her shoulders to indicate she was cold.

  She followed Helen into the Palace Café. Hanging on to the last vestiges of summer, three walls sported summer posters. The first, a pretty blonde girl on a beach wearing a black and red bathing costume advertised Vimto for heath. A poster of two ice creams sitting in deckchairs in the blazing sun was coming away from the wall and the third, a selection of ice cream sundaes had begun to fade.

  When they’d finished their coffee, they left the café and made their way to the Lanes. Ena marvelled at the antique shops, fabric and gift shops. A penny arcade caught her eye and she dragged Helen inside to play the slot machines. She put a penny in the first and waited. It pinged and whizzed and lights flashed on and off, leaving two apples on the screen. While she waited for her reward, Ena read the small hand-written card stuck to the corner of the machine’s glass front. “Rich pickings when three apples light up.” She put another penny in. This time only one apple was left on the screen.

  From somewhere further along the arcade they heard coins clacketing into a metal tray and the laughing policeman burst into hysterics.

  ‘Had enough?’ Helen asked.

  Ena pulled a disappointed face. ‘Yes, I’m hungry. Let’s get something to eat?’

  They found a café on the front with a sea view. Ena peered through the floor to ceiling window. Thick in sea salt, it was like looking through frosted glass. Inside the pleasant café was warm and the fish and chips were delicious. After their second cup of tea, Ena paid the bill and the two friends set off for the High Street where Helen bought meat and vegetables for their evening meal before they caught a bus home.