by Paul Charles
Here was I, ‘not long since, knee-high to a packet of Surf,’ as my father had a habit of reminding me, perfectly happy to blast off all this bleedin’ television jargon. Tell the truth, David, what exactly was your handle on the case so far?
Okay, since you’ve asked, I’ll tell you.
Jean Kerr had told Jean Simpson that she’d bonked Jean Simpson’s future husband, John Harrison. Jean Simpson had told John Harrison that the marriage was off. Finito, the end, whatever you want to call it, it was over. John Harrison didn’t want it to be over, for lots of reasons, maybe even because his first ex was now set up very cosily with yours truly. We know John had a few demons of his own: he didn’t want children, and (maybe because of this) he didn’t want to have sex with his wife until they were married, and he liked to control his women. Hell, even Jean Kerr suspected that Jean Simpson and I were more than friends and she’d suggested as much to John. Perhaps John had brought this up in the argument with Jean Simpson about Jean Kerr, and perhaps Jean Simpson had admitted it, admitted every sordid little detail of what we’d got up to behind his back. Perhaps she did this to get her own back on John for bonking Jean Kerr. Perhaps she was even madder due to the startling fact that in all the time she and John had been betrothed to each other, he’d never once tried to make love to her. Added to which, Jean Simpson knew that John had definitely done the wild thing with his ex (and my current) girlfriend, a certain Miss Mary Skeffington, who herself may or may not be more annoyed than even I thought at John dumping her in favour of Miss Simpson.
So in our big pot we’ve got two people, Jean Simpson and John Harrison, and we’ve got all of the above crazy mixture going on around them. You leave that brewing long enough and eventually it has to catch fire, doesn’t it? I mean, come on! This is all very flammable stuff. Perhaps it was an accident, perhaps it wasn’t, but the end result was that Jean Simpson was no more.
Yes, there was still a slim chance that Jean had gone to ground until the whole John Harrison thing had blown over. But that option was becoming slimmer by the hour. Jean had been missing now for just over three and a half weeks – that’s exactly twenty-five days since she’d last been seen – and my money would have been on Jean contacting her mother, or her place of work at the very least, if only to secure her financial future. She’d been in touch with neither and so the signs were ominous.
I had taken out a fresh notebook and I was jotting ideas down, nothing of consequence, nothing at all, as a matter of fact. My mind was wandering away from the case: I was looking forward to Mary Skeffington returning home. I was thinking of the last time we’d made love.
There’s something very magical about the way a woman will sometimes give herself to you totally, unselfishly, completely, while having no interest in their own pleasure. This special magnetism is so powerful, so overwhelming, that a part of you knows that you should wait, you should be conscious of her pleasure. But that’s only a little part of you, the other part – the major part – pushes you selfishly on and the fact that your partner is so giving, so available and so willing, makes it unbearable to try to stop or slow down.
That was the way it had been the last time Mary Skeffington and I had made love and even thinking about it three days later made every part of my body tingle with excitement. Not that I wanted to enjoy it the same way again immediately; no, not at all. In fact, if anything the complete opposite was the case. I wanted to try to be as preoccupied with her pleasure as she had been with mine. But it wasn’t even that; I just wanted to be with her again.
Seven o’clock passed and no Mary. Trains, you can set your watch on them always being late. I fell asleep shortly after eight, I guessed. I must have been pretty tired because I woke just after ten o’clock. This was very unusual for me; I usually couldn’t sleep during the day if my life depended on it. Mary must have been tired as well because when I woke up she was nowhere to be seen. She’d obviously missed me sleeping on the sofa and gone straight to bed. I crept into the bedroom hoping to find her asleep.
No Mary.
Surely the train couldn’t have been three hours late? Three hours was a bit ridiculous. I wanted so much for Mary to be there so that I could share all the new information I’d discovered over the weekend. Equally I wanted to find out what kind of weekend she and her mum had had. Now I’d been to their home, I could imagine Mary and her mother, two very English people, having a very elegant English weekend in a very English house.
I was tired. I was fighting sleep. I just wanted my Mary back with me so that we could cuddle up in bed together. She’d say, ‘No monkey business, Buchanan,’ as we were both about to fall asleep. I wouldn’t have considered any monkey business up to that point, but once she’d planted the idea in my mind and what with a wee bit of strategic wiggling, well, who knows.
At 10.40 p.m. I rang Wimbledon station to find out what had happened to the train. They let the phone ring off the hook; either that or they were at home safely tucked up in their own beds, not all together, mind you.
At 10.45 p.m. I rang her mum.
‘Hello David, how are you?’ she said, in a very polite voice while I knew she was thinking what the hell was I doing, ringing her up at this time of night?
You see, I’d figured that Mary had stayed on an extra night and I just wanted to check in with her so that I could go to sleep. I’d be a bit sad about having to go to bed by myself but tiredness would win that battle.
‘Ah, is Mary in bed already, Mrs Skeffington?’
‘David, how many times do I have to tell you? My name is Hermione, please – call me Hermione. Now, what was it you were ringing about?’ she said sheepishly. I’d obviously woken her up.
‘Sorry Mrs Skeff… sorry, I mean Hermione. Is Mary already asleep?’
‘David,’ she said, a sharpness entering her voice, ‘Mary left here just after lunchtime. She caught the earlier train; she wanted to be home when you arrived.’
‘Ah. Well, it’s just that the information line at Wimbledon station is shut for the night. I assume they’re carrying out engineering works.’
‘Not for six hours, David, let me make a call. Stay by the phone box, I’ll ring you back presently.’
Three and a half minutes later the coin box in the cold hall of Mary’s flat rang.
‘God David, the train got in on time! She would have been in Wimbledon by 3.20 p.m!’
A lump climbed straight from my heart and stuck in my throat. ‘Is there anywhere she’d go?’ I asked, trying to keep the panic I felt growing up through my chest at bay.
‘No, she was so desperate to see you! That John Harrison bugged her a few times over the weekend, though.’
‘He did? Was he down there?’
‘No, but he was never off the phone,’ she answered calmly; she was dealing with this better than me.
‘How did he know she was down there?’
‘He rang the flat and when he didn’t get any answer, he rang here.’
‘What was he annoying her about Mrs Sk… sorry, Hermione?’
‘She said he was saying horrible things about you. He told her you were in Derby. She said she knew. He said, cheeky as you like, “Ah, but did you know that he was up there to see the other Jean?” He said one Jean wasn’t enough for you.’
‘Agh.’
‘Listen, David, now listen to me closely David Buchanan: Mary didn’t believe any of it. She knows what John’s like. We both know what he’s like, David. She gave him an earful and sent him on his way. She said she couldn’t believe how lucky she was to have met you, she said she was starting to have nightmares thinking about the fact that if she’d have married him, the saddest thing would have been that she would never have met you.’
‘Hermione–’
‘Listen David, I’m telling you this not to give you a big head, but so that there are no doubts in your mind about you and Mary. Doubts are the seed of the devil, David – they can destroy you if you let them.’
‘Thank you, Herm
ione,’ I said. I always felt weird calling her by her first name. You see, to me she was a real lady and I felt like I should respect her by calling her Mrs Skeffington, because that’s the way I’d been brought up, and the older I grew the more I found that my parents lessons and manners always stood me in good stead. ‘Thank you, and I need you to know that I have absolutely no doubts whatsoever about my Mary and I. I’ve rarely been more convinced about anything in my life.’
‘Good.’
‘Now, is there anything else you can tell me about what John said to Mary?’
‘Let’s see now. Oh yes, he said that he and Jean Simpson were finished. He suggested that he and Mary should get back together again. Mary said that whenever she said something to John it wasn’t just like he hadn’t heard her – it was more like she hadn’t even spoken.’
‘Did Mary ask him about Jean?’
‘Yes, she did. He told her something about how Jean had got married sooner than she wanted to. Do you think that means she has run off and married someone else? Mary was beside herself with worry; she didn’t know what to think! Have you any idea what’s happening, David?’
‘Tell me, Hermione: Did John know when Mary was due to come back to town?’
‘Well, I heard her telling him not to come round because you’d be there. I don’t know when she was referring to. Should I ring the police David? Is Mary okay?’
‘Look Mrs Skeff… Hermione, I’ve got to go out and find Mary. If you don’t hear from me by the morning, ring the police. Now, try to get some sleep.’
‘David…’ She started to say something but she obviously thought better of it and stopped before starting again, ‘Look David, I’ll wait up for your call. Please ring me. Please ring me even it’s just to tell me that nothing has happened.’
‘Don’t worry, Mrs Skeffington, everything is going to be okay,’ I said, just before I set the phone down. I don’t know whether I was trying more to reassure her or myself.
Either way, I hoped it was working better on her than it was on me.
Chapter Thirty-Seven.
The tiredness had vanished completely from my body. I felt tight and taut with adrenalin and I was bursting to do something, anything really that might help Mary and Jean. I was so up for it, for a bit of action, I just hoped that I wouldn’t peak too quickly.
It took me about fifteen minutes to reach John Harrison’s first floor flat at 36 Worple Road. The yellow hue from the lights of the second floor cast a large rectangular beam of light onto the darkness of his unkempt lawn. I’m sure I could hear noises coming from above, but the problem with a house of flats is that anything you hear could be coming from any of the apartments.
I rang the doorbell. I didn’t have a plan. I just knew I needed to move forward, in any direction. I just needed to do something.
There was no reply, so I looked through the letterbox into the hallway and as I did, I remembered the line from Dylan’s song: ‘You will wind up peeking through a keyhole down upon your knees.’ Dylan had Miss Simpson better pegged from the beginning than I ever had.
I rang the doorbell once more, same response as last time. I was now starting to panic. What was I to do, burst the door down? Was Mary inside? If so, what was he doing to her? How had she got inside? Had she merely gone with him, you know, had he turned on the old charm again?
I walked out into the rectangular light beam in the garden and started to pick up stones, pebbles bits of mud, anything I could get a handful of to throw at John’s window. I started to shout, as loud as I knew how. I was going to get a reaction, someway, somehow, anyhow in fact.
Two minutes later the front door opened and the very sheepish head of John Harrison peeked out from behind the eight or so inches he’d opened the door.
‘Buchanan, what the feck are you doing at my house at this time of night?’
‘I’d like to come into your flat for a minute and talk to you,’ I tried. I could hear the nervousness in my voice. I did wish that I hadn’t sounded so feeble, so wimpy. No disrespect to your burgers, Mister, but you picked the name!
‘Come back tomorrow, I’m just about to go to bed! I’ve been drawing all day.’
If the stale whiff of tobacco and lack of daylight was anything to go by, I’d say he definitely hadn’t been out of his flat all weekend. There also was a little pong of sick coming from him. The combination was quite vile to be honest, and I stepped back a bit.’
‘I’m sorry, John, it won’t wait. I need to come in. NOW!’ I was happy I’d finally managed to get a bit of authority in my voice.
‘Come back tomorrow, Buchanan,’ he hissed and started to shut the door.
I tried to protest and at the same time as I stuck my foot in the door, I also stuck my chin forward, just like a sprinter might while trying to nudge at least some part of his body past the winning tape.
That’s when he slammed the door and it connected full on with both my chin and nose. The last thing I remembered was the metallic smell of blood. I don’t think I’d even worked out it was my own blood I was smelling as I slumped into a heap on his doorstep.
I don’t remember how long I was unconscious for.
I do remember taking comfort from the ice-cold, red-tiled step, in an effort to reduce the heat in my flushed face. I thought I could hear footsteps coming from inside, I thought I’d better try to struggle to my feet to face John Harrison as he came to finish me off.
I thought he must have opened the door again, because I imagined I felt a warm draft from within.
‘I know you took Jean from her flat! I know you know where she is! If you don’t let me in right now I’m going to the police!’ I believed I said.
‘What are you on about?’ he’d said, dropping back to the Scottish accent he usually hid so well.
If he didn’t close the door on me then that was a good sign, wasn’t it? A little hesitation would have showed something, wouldn’t it?
‘What’s all this crap about Jean?’ he said.
‘Look John, I know that you’re involved with her disappearance,’ I heard my voice say, working up to my bluff.
He rolled his eyes, laughed and replied. ‘Oh yeah?’
That would be another positive clue, you know, the fact that he wanted to hear my evidence.
‘Yes, I know you were the last person in her flat,’ I continued. I’d try not to act. The way to make it work would be to believe it, genuinely believe in this scenario I was creating. That way, he wouldn’t see through my scam. You see, I have this theory that all great actors don’t act, they don’t pretend; they really make themselves believe they are the character they are playing.
‘Right, of course you do,’ he said, smirking.
He was giving nothing away. His previous two answers, however, encouraged me to lay out the information I’d gathered, in order to flush out any proof I thought I might have. But he wouldn’t once even hint at.
‘And how do you know that?’ he asked.
Ah ha! So he was implying that my accusation was correct!
‘Okay, John,’ I said, voice still sounding shaky, fuzzy even. If I was attempting to go for bust, it was vitally important that he believed I knew something, ‘I know you were in Jean’s flat just before she disappeared because of the way you tidied away her records. You put her record sleeve away and left the record on the deck.’
‘But anyone in the world could have done that, Inspector Holmes! I’m afraid you’ve come up with nothing elementary old chap, more of a lemon entry, if you ask me,’ he replied, enjoying a right old chuckle at my expense with his weak attempt at humour. He started to close the door again.
‘Perhaps so, John, but you… you and Jean Simpson were the only two people in the world whose fingerprints were found on the record sleeve,’ I bluffed.
‘Fingerprints? But surely there’d be loads of fingerprints on a record sleeve?’ Again he allowed himself a bit of a chuckle, but this time it wasn’t be quite so hearty.
‘Possibly, bu
t the difference on this occasion was that it was a brand new record, John – Bob Dylan’s Bringing It All Back Home. Mary had just bought it at Musicland. Yes, John, that’s right – Musicland. Do you know what they do at Musicland, John? They shrink-wrap all their new records. So that Bob Dylan record would have been untouched until she got it home. The only prints on the sleeve would have been Jean’s and the person who filed it away when they tried to tidy up after abducting her.’
John countered that with, ‘Fingerprints? What do you know about fingerprints anyway? Did you get your magnifying glass out and examine the bloody thing?’
‘No John, actually that’s what I do professionally,’ I lied, ‘that’s why I’ve never been able to tell you guys about my work – it’s all secret work, for the government.’
For once in my life, my not being allowed to admit what I did at work had worked to my advantage.
He stood in shock, still managing to give very little away. But I was on a bit of a roll so I continued down on this shaky road.
‘Yesterday, when we’d breakfast, at the end of the meal? I stole your knife. Yep, that’s right, and your prints matched up exactly with those on the record sleeve,’ I said, not even bothering to cross my fingers behind my back. Well I could have, couldn’t I?
That’s the thing about lying isn’t it? You’ve got to keep going. You’ve got to keep on with the lies, layering and layering them, and the lies have to get bigger and bigger in order to cover up the flaws of the previous ones. By this point, then, I definitely had him interested, as he seemed to be considering his options.
‘Oh sod off home, Buchanan, I’m off to bed,’ he’d said, playing my bluff.
‘I’ll get the police out. I’m serious.’
‘Yeah, right, and remind them to bring a search warrant won’t you?’ he said, as he rolled his eyes and disappeared behind the closed door once again. This time he was more cautious or I was less adventurous but either way, his green door and I avoided contact.
It’s funny how in your fantasy, you always know the correct questions to ask your adversary and they always know the correct answers to give. I wondered whether the police really need a search warrant. Surely if they thought something untoward was going on they could just burst the door down? But if they needed a warrant that meant it was going to take until tomorrow morning, and by that time Mary could be… well, it didn’t bear thinking about, did it?