by John Gardner
‘I’d love a sherry.’ She hoped it really was dry. The taste these days seemed to be angled towards sweet, which she couldn’t bear. ‘You have a good Christmas?’ she asked. Gently, don’t push him.
‘Kw-Quiet you know. I had my sister and her two children over on C-Christmas night. That livened things up.’ He came to her with the sherry — proper sherry glasses. She raised her glass to the light. Pale was all.
Suzie wanted to say things were livened up on her Christmas evening as well; her sister also had two children. Unfortunately she was killed cooking the Christmas dinner, but it was okay because her little boy couldn’t speak anyway, and Lucy was dealing with it in her own way. Mummy’s with Jesus.
She’s gone for ever.
‘Cheers,’ she said. ‘Happy New Year.’
‘Ch-Cheers. Yes, and a Happy New Year to you.’
Suddenly she found it all intimidating. Where did you beat her up then, the girl you bought for Christmas Eve? she wanted to ask. Down here, was it, or up in the bedroom? And where’s all the gear? Did Emily bring it over from Derbyshire Mansions?
‘Strange,’ she heard herself say. ‘Something very strange.’
‘Yes?’
‘I remembered your bedroom when I was away. Over Christmas.’
‘Oh.’ He sounded concerned, worried.
‘Up in your room, your bedroom, upstairs next to the dining room. You have a picture up there. A painting of a large country house and grounds, the land behind it slopes up to a skyline. Top of a church just visible at one end, and a little clump of trees at the other.’
‘Yes. Overchurch Manor. You said you were going there for ...’ familiar hesitation, ‘... Christmas.’
‘Not to the manor though. I went to a little cottage that doesn’t show in that painting.’
‘Yes. I had guessed. Oh my God, were you related to —?’ Not such a twit as she’d thought.
‘Yes. My sister.’
‘I’m so terribly sorry.’
For one horrible second she thought he was coming over to her. Arm round her shoulders, comforting. ‘Whatever you do don’t touch me,’ she said, but not out loud.
‘You’re still on the c-case?’
She nodded. This was a very bad idea. Shouldn’t have come. ‘Look —’ she began.
‘I understand.’
She doubted that.
‘Is it the same man who ... Who ... Jo Benton?’
She nodded. ‘Possibly.’
‘And Emily?’
‘We don’t know about Emily Baccus. Not sure. I have some questions.’
He stood. ‘I have to nip up to the k-kitchen. It’s a very simple dinner, but I have to deal with something now.’
He went upstairs, hurrying, and Suzie was unnerved. She stood up, slid her hand into her waistband. Held the end of the truncheon. She took a look round, opened the door out to the office. One light burned overhead, but she saw the long mirror and the Breugel. She recognized the copy now, Children’s Games, was it? She closed the door and walked over to the passage that led to the stairs.
It is an unconventional arrangement. Above here I have a dining room, kitchen and bedroom.
He came bustling down the stairs. ‘There. All doing fine. A very simple meal.’
‘What are we having?’
‘Very simple. A ca-carrot soup. Some veal escalopes —’
‘Where, in heaven did you —?’
‘I have a friend. I thought I had told you. There are ways.’ He shrugged, almost blushed. ‘But you know that. You ca-catch them every day.’ She said nothing, so he continued. ‘Some duchesse potatoes; beans. I store them in salt. In Ki-Kilner jars.’
‘Mr Dance?’
‘Mmm? Yes?’
‘I want to ask you a couple of questions.’ Get it out of the way, she thought, then she was saying he could sling her out if he liked, but someone else would come and ask. She thought this was the easier way. Did he mind if she smoked?
Not at all. He offered her one of his. Came over to light it for her. Just don’t lay a hand on me. Stay back. She actively disliked him now she knew about what he did with — to — women.
‘The picture? Overchurch Manor?’
‘I’ve known the village since I was a ch-child.’ He sat upright, spread his hands, palms inward, as though saying he had nothing to hide. ‘My father did a large oil of the manor house. Knew the family — the Harricky family. Old Miss Harricky, as she is now, was a keen painter. My father gave her advice, lessons, and she painted that oil of the manor. There was something between my father and her, a long time ago. I don’t know the full story but she gave him her painting and he couldn’t bear to have it in the house. Passed it on to me. I’ve kept it because, well — because I like the manor. It’s special for me.’
‘You still go down there? Overchurch?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘When was the last time?’
He looked at her, a long time. Not properly with her for a minute or so. ‘The last time? Beginning of November. Second of November, near Guy Fawkes Night. I went down to —’ He shook his head, said, ‘No, you’ve no need to know all that.’ Looked away, then said he’d been to see the vet. ‘I needed to leave something with him.’ Laugh. ‘You had some serious questions?’
Suzie let it pass. Something had gone on with Josh Dance, but she didn’t think it had anything to do with the killings. Probably had a lot to do with his past and, maybe the days just before Dunkirk. Serious questions?
‘I’d like to talk to you about the Baccus family.’
‘Oh, yes.’ Guarded. Taking a step back.
She guessed that by now he’d realized that she knew something about his particular problems with women. Maybe he felt guilty. Regretted now — quickly — that she had not gone on with the plan to draw everything out of him in friendly conversation. Maybe she wasn’t enough of an actress.
‘How well did you know them?’
‘Well enough. I knew the old man, of c-course. Quite a lad in his day.’
‘Emily his only child?’
‘Why d’you ask?’
‘Mainly because we’ve noticed a similarity between Emily Baccus and a possible suspect. Also someone who claimed to know Emily well, then couldn’t recognize her photograph.’
‘Who? Well-known person, is it?’
‘I can’t tell you that.’
He remained silent for almost a minute. ‘I don’t suppose there’s any harm in telling you now. The old man rarely s-spread it around, didn’t talk about it while he was alive. Fact is he had two other children. By two different women as well. Took responsibility for them. Paid for their upbringing, educations. Everything. S-Saw them as well, regularly while he was alive.’
‘Emily knew? She see them as well?’
‘Oh, yes. Like her father. Regularly.’
‘And after his death?’
A short wait. ‘Well, she saw her half-brother. I don’t really know about the half-sister. She did speak to her, so I presume ...’
‘There was a boy and a girl?’
He nodded, said, ‘Yes. Yes, he had the set.’ Attractive smile.
‘Names?’
‘He gave them his name when they were born. The boy later changed his, retained the Christian name, but took on a new surname. The girl married. So ...’
‘And their names, now? At this moment?’
‘I only know the girl because of hearing Emily telephoning her. She was Rosemary Baccus and her married name was, I think, Lattimer — bit of a dark horse, unsavoury character. Rosemary Lattimer. Husband killed ’36 or ’37. Bit infra dig actually, killed in some pub brawl by some lowlifes. Never pinned it on anybody, the police.’
‘Got an address?’
‘Afraid not. You’ll probably find something among Emily’s papers. There was some friction. Money of course. When Rosemary married, the old man cut back on the cash and left everything to Emily, with a discretionary clause about using her common sense regarding h
er half-sister.’ He glanced down at his watch. ‘We should go up. The soup’s ready. I’ve only got to do the escalopes and the potatoes and beans will be right on time.’
‘And the son?’
‘Oh,’ he sounded as though this was a trivial business. No need to waste time on it. ‘Oh, Barry. Barry Baccus.’
‘Changed his name to —?’
‘Forbes. Barry Forbes. Old Paul Baccus had a cousin who married an eminent English doctor, called Forbes. He treated Barry like his own. Had another child a year or two later. They were like brothers.’ And as he said it, the air-raid warning siren came rising up, growling, then wailing its horrible snarl across London. ‘Damn,’ he said. ‘Have to go up. If that’s a serious one I’ll have to get out on the roof.’ He led the way.
It was just after six o’clock, and it couldn’t have been more serious. The aircraft came in, Heinkels and Dorniers from bases in northern France and Field Marshal Hugo Sperrle, commander of Luftflotte 3, had given tonight’s raid a name. It was to be called ‘the 29th Fire Blitz’ and its object was to destroy the entire walled City of London by the saturation fire bombing of its one square mile.
Suzie followed Dance up the stairs, and remained close to him as he turned out the lights and opened the door to the roof. As he did so the sound of aircraft seemed to bump in on their ears — that strange noise of unsynchronized engines they would both remember all their lives. As she stepped out on to the roof, still close to him, she heard the sound of whistling in the air — not close, but eerie and followed by a clattering as though thousands of tin cans were falling in the streets to their east, close to the City.
It was much lighter out on the roof. Inside, with the lamps all turned off, it was pitch dark. Couldn’t see a hand in front of you, as Golly found out when he emerged from the cupboard under the stairs. He had heard the noises and knew that something was going on upstairs. Wait, he told himself. Wait Golly. Your eyes’ll get used to it.
Out on the roof, Suzie had followed Dance up to the corner, overlooking Piccadilly. She remembered that there was a good two and a half feet width between the pitch of the roof and the balustrade, an easy walk. From the corner they could see far off, over the buildings to the City of London. First, the great incendiary canisters had fallen, many short of their targets, carried on the stiffening wind. But others made it directly on to that history-soaked square mile, the canisters opening at one thousand feet and spewing out their smaller wicked incendiary bombs that came down in their hundreds, hitting the streets and buildings, bouncing vividly into being, spraying and showering the black streets and deserted buildings with phosphorus, igniting the fires that would rage through those same streets that Samuel Pepys wrote of during the Great Fire of London in 1666. Within a very short time those old streets were again ablaze and Suzie watched with horror from the roof of Josh Dance’s building. Creed Lane, Ave Maria Lane, Amen Court and all the rest of them engulfed in fire: from Moorgate to Aldersgate, from Old Street to Cannon Street; up Ludgate Hill and around St Paul’s Cathedral.
After some twenty minutes she knew that she would be there all night if she didn’t move now. It was a terrible and beautiful sight, the sky becoming deep red with the flames, turning to a rose coloured reflection as clouds of smoke choked out the light.
She said nothing to Dance, just turned and picked her way back along the wide, flat gutter around the building. Above everything else she wanted her coat because the wind was getting colder, starting to cut through her as she had stood hypnotized by the flames.
She reached the outline of the doorway leading in to the upper quarters of Josh Dance’s apartment. She stepped into the blackness and felt her way to the top of the stairs.
Resting her hand on the banister rail just inside the door, she paused, waiting in the hope that her eyes would adjust to the blackness. And as she did so, she felt another human hand cover her hand. A hand in a leather glove there in the dark.
Golly close beside her.
Twenty-Eight
She shrieked in terror. Screamed, turned, stumbled on the stairs, wanted to vomit then felt the piano wire brush across her hair. As she stumbled, Suzie grabbed for the waist of her skirt, missed the baton on the first grope, then held it, drew the weapon and slashed at the air like you’d slash at an angry wasp — to and fro, putting all her strength behind the blows.
She heard the animal growl in Golly’s throat as he threw out his loop of piano wire a second time. He had flattened himself to one side against the wall waiting for her to go past, but in reaching out to steady himself he accidentally placed his hand over the back of her hand as she got to the top of the stairs. He knew that he could have failed again. Emily Baccus wouldn’t like that and there would be some great punishment.
This had become a struggle at close quarters and Golly could only triumph from strength and surprise. His forte was attacking from ambush. Robbed of surprise and position he could only founder, incapable of fighting face to face.
Suzie lashed out, and again missed, then once more, and she felt the truncheon connect hard: heard the yelp of agony as Golly felt the bone-deep blow hard on his left shoulder. She was so close to him that she smelled his sour breath and the rancid sweat inside his shirt. In her head she thought this was the smell of death. Her final sensation in life. She flailed in his direction again and again, felt her wrist jar as she caught him on the top of his right arm. This time he cried out louder and she aimed her next blow downward at his head. But he was away, ducking under her raised arm, stumbling back, then finding his feet and charging down the stairs.
She heard the thudding of his boots as he broke clear and half-fell, half-ran from her. She gulped for air, then turned, pushed back, kicking at the open door leading on to the roof, closing it, then feeling for the light switch, relieved when the bulb flooded and brightened the corridor and stairs. Far away below in the entrance hall she heard the front door slam. Had he really gone?
Suzie was panting, scared half to death, her lungs straining as she drew in air, shoulders shaking as she began to cry: weeping with the relief of breaking free, for she was petrified, terrified of Golly and his dreadful presence. Dear God, if you let me live I’ll never doubt you ever again. Sweet Jesus, help me. Holy Mary Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death.
She could still smell Golly and feel him close to her. Even though he had run from her Suzie could not accept it: she sensed him nearby, a powerful evil in the night and in this building, like a bright image burned on her retina, refusing to disappear.
She dragged her coat from where Dance had hung it in his office, slung it round her shoulders, then turned sideways on to the stairs and went down them fast, the truncheon raised against the beast that was Golly Goldfinch, ready should he still be waiting for her in the hallway or on the pavement outside.
The house trembled, shook as though it was built on subterranean tunnels through which huge shock waves were passing, attempting to rock and jolt its fabric. Under her feet she felt the ground sway and the stairs tip as she went down into the empty hallway, and straight out of the door. In the street the ground still tilted and rippled as the bombs exploded, far off on Ludgate Hill and around the great cathedral dome of St Paul’s.
The air was fetid with the familiar singed stench that rose from the City and was carried west on the cold breeze. Even here, shielded by buildings, the sky was stained rust and crimson going to red, turning into a rosy glow as though the City of London was consumed by a hurricane of fire.
She had come out on to the street still with the truncheon raised, her body moving, from left to right, eyes everywhere, glancing behind her, then amidst the other noise she heard boots heavy on the pavement as Golly’s footsteps winnowed away, deflected by other noises. Now, late and in terror she began to blow her police whistle.
Then she heard the car’s engine as it bustled down the street towards her.
‘In, heart,’ Tommy called and Molly leaned out of
the car to give her a hand and pull her into the back. Brian went smoothly through the gears, gathering speed towards Piccadilly.
‘Did you see him?’ she asked, still gulping for air.
‘Who? Dance?’
‘Goldfinch. Nearly had me.’
‘Jesus! Which way? Which way did he go?’
‘I don’t know. I hit him a couple of times but he got away. I never want to ...’
Tommy was shouting instructions and Brian performed some daredevil manoeuvre, turning the car round, spinning it on a sixpence.
‘Go left first,’ Tommy shouted. ‘Slow down. Slower, Brian.’ And for over half-an-hour they ploughed their way down every side street.
And saw nothing.
‘We’ve got to go to the Yard,’ Dandy Tom said, swivelling round, looking concerned, feeling her bruised flesh with his eyes. She opened her mouth to start telling him what had taken place, but he stopped her — ‘Wait, don’t talk about it yet, heart. Wait till we get to the Yard.’ A pause. ‘The City’s in a dreadful state. On fire from end to end. I wouldn’t be surprised if St Paul’s has had it. Their bloody timing’s immaculate. Couldn’t be a better night for them to firebomb the City.’
Most of the City of London was empty on this, the last Sunday of the year. The churches were closed and warehouses and similar buildings were locked and barred until Monday morning. In spite of the experience of the Manchester firebombing over Christmas, the City of London was woefully unprepared. Keyholders were absent, firewatchers had not reported for duty — the following week firewatching was made compulsory. Tonight there was not enough water to fight the fires, and the firemen couldn’t even get it from the river because there was a neap tide that night. The river was so unnaturally low that when they did get a pump down, it quickly clogged with mud.
Then the wind aggravated matters; firestorms spread through the narrow streets and lanes of the most historic area of London, great waves and walls of flame rising, devouring everything in their path. St Paul’s Cathedral was hit by several incendiaries but no major fire caught hold, thanks to its Night Watch volunteers. In the end it stood, an icon of survival, ringed with fire. But the beautiful fifteenth-century Guildhall was not so lucky. The oldest building of its kind in England was consumed by waves of flame that raced down streets and lanes, sliding from windows, taking away almost everything it touched.