Pendulum

by Adam Hamdy

  Mercer Avenue was a long street in a large estate that marked the edge of town. The road was lined with detached, red-brick ‘executive’ houses that spread to within inches of their boundaries. The cab stopped outside number 114, which showed more signs of wear than any of its neighbours. The estate was probably a little over ten years old, and while most of the houses showed evidence of refurbishment and repainting, 114 looked like it hadn’t been touched since it was first built. Wallace paid the driver a surprisingly reasonable thirty pounds and walked up the short, narrow path to the red front door. There was no bell, so he rapped the brass knocker. After a moment, he saw movement through the frosted picture window at the top of the door, and a distorted shadow stalked towards him. The door opened and Wallace was met by the face he’d seen in the photographs.

  ‘Hi,’ Sally Harris smiled.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Harris,’ Wallace replied.

  ‘It’s Ms Norton,’ Sally corrected. ‘Divorce.’

  ‘The moment I tell you why I’m here, you’re going to want to slam the door on me,’ Wallace continued. ‘But I really need your help.’

  Sally’s smile fell and her right hand gripped the edge of the frame. ‘I don’t do that any more,’ she said curtly. ‘No matter what you’ve heard.’

  As she moved to shut the door, Wallace put out his hand to stop her.

  ‘I haven’t heard anything, Ms Norton,’ he said. ‘I’m here about Stewart Huvane. I think he was murdered and I believe the same man who killed him is trying to kill me.’

  Sally looked at Wallace and smiled wryly. ‘If he was still alive, I’d have killed him myself,’ she said. ‘You’d better come in, duck. We wouldn’t want the neighbours getting the wrong idea.’

  She stood to one side and allowed Wallace to enter. He stepped into a small hallway which was almost completely devoid of furnishings. The hallway carpet ended abruptly at the foot of the stairs; bare planks led to the upper floor. A chipped mahogany occasional table with a broken leg leant precariously against a wallpapered wall. Wallace knew it was wallpapered because a large strip had been ripped clean off, exposing jagged shards of plaster.

  ‘He cleaned me out,’ Sally explained as she led Wallace inside. ‘But I got to keep the house.’

  The sitting room was covered with old, garishly patterned floral wallpaper. An ancient grey fabric sofa was pushed against one wall and a table with a large, empty birdcage stood against another. Net curtains hung over the windows, but there were no fabric drapes. No television, no photographs or ornaments. If this was where Sally took visitors, Wallace wondered what the rest of the house looked like.

  ‘Pretty rough, huh?’ Sally observed as she walked over to the table and picked up a box of cigarettes and a lighter. ‘But life’s more than stuff, right? As long as you’ve got your health.’ She popped one of the cigarettes into her mouth, and after half a dozen attempts with the lighter’s rusty ignition, managed to get a flame.

  The cigarettes might explain the excessive lining of her face, which made her look older than she probably was. Wallace placed Sally in her mid-forties but the lines nudged her up a few years. She had wavy shoulder-length hair with a cheap peroxide tint. Her rounded curves were crammed into a summer mini dress that looked a size too small. Wallace couldn’t help but notice little crushed honeycombs of cellulite at the top of her thighs.

  ‘What’s your story, then?’ Sally challenged between drags.

  ‘Do you know anyone who might have wanted to kill Stewart Huvane?’ Wallace asked.

  ‘Not until after the videos went public,’ Sally replied. ‘Would have been at least a dozen people on the list then. Stu was a harmless old codger. He used to party. But we all partied, there was no jealousy or any of that bullshit.’

  ‘What about a husband or boyfriend? A wife?’

  Sally shook her head. ‘Nah,’ she said. ‘Listen, when that idiot posted those videos, a bunch of marriages fell apart – including mine. Nobody got killed. It’s not worth it, is it? Over a few random cocks.’ She smiled slyly and her eyes flashed with mischief, satisfied that she’d shocked Wallace with her bluntness. ‘I’m guessing you’ve seen the videos.’

  Wallace shook his head. ‘Just some photos.’

  ‘It’s a real shame,’ Sally continued. ‘Killed the scene round here. No one wants to get caught. I’ll probably move on,’ she observed, looking round the room. ‘If I can find anyone to buy this shithole.’

  Wallace watched her for a moment. She cut a sad figure outlined against the wallpaper’s faded flowers. ‘Well, I’m sorry to have troubled you,’ he said as he started for the door.

  ‘No trouble, hon,’ Sally replied. ‘There was one thing that has always bothered me about those bloody videos, though. I have no idea how Stu got hold of them. I uploaded them to Blue Vidz and made them private.’

  Wallace paused by the door, a little surprised.

  ‘Well, I wasn’t about to let those idiot blokes do it,’ Sally said. ‘Not with what was at stake. I sent them passwords, but none of them could access the original copies. They could just stream low-resolution versions. Enough to bring themselves off, you know? The videos Stu posted were originals. High resolution. Good enough to pick out each and every pube.’

  Wallace grimaced inwardly.

  ‘Stu could barely send an email, so you tell me how he managed to get those bloody videos?’ Sally challenged.

  ‘Maybe from your computer,’ Wallace suggested.

  ‘He’s never been to my house,’ Sally replied. ‘I kept my hobby and my home life separate, for obvious reasons.’ She gestured at the empty room. ‘If Stu was killed,’ she continued, ‘I reckon whoever did it posted those videos. Like I said, Stu was a harmless old codger. Even if he had wanted to kill himself, he wouldn’t have ruined all our lives in the process.’

  Wallace had offered to wait outside, but Sally said that a strange man hanging around outside her house would only give the neighbours more gossip. So, he sat on the tatty sofa and waited for his taxi while Sally busied herself in another room. It was an uncomfortable, odd ten minutes, but the taxi eventually arrived and the driver sounded the horn. Wallace hurried into the hall as Sally came down the stairs.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said.

  ‘Good luck, hon.’ Sally blew him a smoky kiss.

  Wallace let himself out and walked down the path to the waiting cab. He climbed in the back seat and instructed the driver to take him to Stoke Station.

  Thirty minutes later, he was on a fast train to Euston. He’d asked the taxi driver to stop at a newsagent and had run in to buy a pen and pad. Once on the train he’d started writing. In neat, careful script, he transcribed everything he’d learned during the previous couple of days. He recounted conversations to the best of his ability, noted names and annotated footnotes where elements of the narrative dovetailed or needed to be cross-referenced. By the time the train arrived in Euston, an hour and a half later, Wallace had twenty-nine pages of handwritten testimony. He slipped the pad into the purple box folder and disembarked.

  Wallace tried Connie from a payphone in Euston Station, but got her voicemail. He hung up without leaving a message, crossed the concourse and walked a couple of blocks west to Euston Square. From there he caught a Circle Line train to Edgware Road, and at 4:18 p.m. presented himself to the receptionist at Paddington Green Police Station.

  ‘I’m looking for Detective Sergeant Bailey,’ he said.

  The civilian receptionist studied Wallace; he didn’t look like a drunk, lunatic or hardened criminal. ‘Is he expecting you?’ she asked.

  ‘No,’ Wallace replied. ‘But he’s going to want to see me. Just tell him John Wallace is waiting outside.’

  He backed away from the receptionist, who suddenly became suspicious. She looked at her colleague, who was busy trying to decipher the rantings of a Russian who’d been pick-pocketed. Wallace smiled at the young woman and nodded confidently as she picked up the phone.

  He didn’t have to wait lon
g. It took less than three minutes for Bailey to emerge from the station with a couple of burly uniformed officers in tow. He scanned his surroundings and caught sight of Wallace, who was standing beside the open door of a black cab that had stopped in the mouth of Newcastle Place.

  ‘Come on, mate!’ the cab driver said impatiently.

  Wallace handed the man another twenty-pound note.

  ‘Another minute,’ Wallace said. ‘I need to see what my friend’s going to do.’

  He turned his attention to Bailey, who was fast approaching with his two brutish colleagues. Wallace shook his head emphatically and pointed at the two uniforms. He made to get into the taxi and was gratified when the detective understood his meaning. Bailey turned to the two officers, instructed them to stay back, and continued his approach alone.

  ‘I thought we could take a ride,’ Wallace said to Bailey when he was within earshot. ‘I’ve got something to show you.’

  Bailey turned to the uniformed men and signalled the cab licence plate. ‘Come on then,’ he said.

  ‘Hackney,’ Wallace instructed, as he and Bailey climbed into the cab.

  Wallace slid on to the bench seat, and Bailey sat on one of the rear-facing jump-seats. Bailey slammed the passenger door and the taxi pulled into the traffic. Wallace looked through the rear window and saw the two uniforms talking into their radios as they ran back to the station. He turned to face Bailey.

  ‘I’m really sorry about before,’ Wallace started. ‘How are you?’

  ‘I’m not here for a health check,’ Bailey replied. ‘You’ve got sixty seconds before I stop this cab and arrest you.’

  Wallace noticed the cab driver’s ears prick up, so he switched off the intercom. He felt Bailey tense as he reached into the backpack for the box folder.

  ‘I found someone who was killed by the man who attacked me,’ Wallace said. He opened the box folder and found the illustration Stewart Huvane had commissioned. ‘He was a farmer named Stewart Huvane,’ he continued. ‘He claimed that this man tried to hang him in his barn, but the local police didn’t believe him. They referred him for psychiatric care.’

  He was gratified to see the similarities strike home; Bailey was genuinely interested.

  ‘About a month later the killer went back again. While Huvane’s wife slept in the upstairs bedroom, Huvane was hanged in his garage. The police wrote it off as suicide after they found a note and videos that linked Huvane to an underground sex ring. After the first attempt, Huvane commissioned this image from an artist he found online. This is the man who attacked me. He’s killed before and if we don’t stop him, he’s going to kill again.’

  Bailey took the illustration and studied it.

  ‘It’s all in here,’ Wallace said, indicating the box folder. ‘Emails, photographs, and I’ve written up notes of everything I’ve found. Take it,’ he said. ‘If you read it and don’t think I’m telling the truth, you can arrest me. I’ll tell you where I’m staying.’

  Bailey studied Wallace for a moment before asking, ‘What happened the night of your escape? Did he come for you again?’

  Wallace felt a buzz of elation as he heard the question; Bailey already suspected he’d been telling the truth. ‘He dragged me into a medical storeroom and tried to inject me with something. Morphine, I think. We fought and I escaped. Are the two guards OK?’

  ‘They were pretty messed up, but they’ll live,’ Bailey reassured him, as he accepted the box file. ‘OK,’ he said at last. ‘I’ll keep this between us for now. If what you’re saying checks out, I’ll help you make things right, but if this is some crazy fantasy, you’re going back to the Maybury.’

  ‘Deal,’ Wallace responded, offering his hand.

  ‘I wouldn’t do that,’ Bailey cautioned. ‘A big part of me just wants to put a cuff on it.’

  Wallace nodded sympathetically and withdrew his hand.

  ‘What’s the address?’ Bailey asked.

  ‘Flat four, ninety-one Cazenove Road, Stoke Newington.’

  ‘Stop the cab!’ Bailey instructed, tapping on the partition.

  The taxi pulled to a halt on St John’s Wood Road. Wallace couldn’t believe how close he was to his flat; he could have walked to it in less than five minutes. But there was no way he could return until the man who’d tried to kill him was in custody.

  ‘I’ll be in touch,’ Bailey told him. ‘Make sure you don’t go anywhere.’

  ‘I won’t,’ Wallace reassured him.

  Bailey stepped out of the taxi, taking the folder with him.

  Wallace activated the intercom. ‘Stoke Newington,’ he instructed.

  Bailey slammed the door shut and glowered at Wallace as the taxi drove on.

  Wallace sat back and relaxed as the pounding adrenalin ebbed away. There was nothing he could do but hope the policeman was as smart as he seemed.

  14

  Wallace was seated at the dining table, hunched over the laptop, when Connie arrived home. He rose and gave her a warm hug, which she returned with a kiss.

  ‘How did it go?’ she asked, as she stepped away and slipped off her heels.

  Wallace was mesmerised by her long legs, which were encased in sheer black tights. Or were they stockings? He took her by the hand. ‘Let’s talk later,’ he said, as he led her towards the bedroom.

  Connie was covered in a glistening sheen of perspiration. She lay against Wallace’s right shoulder and looked up at the ceiling, as he admired her flawless skin and beautiful curves.

  ‘I missed you,’ she observed.

  ‘I missed you, too,’ Wallace said honestly.

  ‘You’re just grateful for a bed,’ Connie joked.

  ‘No,’ he said seriously. ‘I never should have let you go.’

  ‘You didn’t let me go. I couldn’t handle it,’ Connie said. ‘You were a mess.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Wallace interjected with a twinge of guilt.

  ‘It wasn’t just you,’ Connie assured him. ‘I’d been doing the same thing my whole life. Finding people who need fixing. Trying to save them. I was in a real state after we split, so I went to see a psychologist. He helped me make sense of what happened. I knew how screwed up you were going into the relationship, but I thought I could make it work.’

  ‘I wasn’t always screwed up,’ Wallace replied. ‘And I’m not now. This whole thing, it’s made me see things differently. Ever since my parents died I’ve spent my whole life trying to push people away. And when I did care about something . . . about the Inquiry, those kids . . . it almost destroyed me. When I was hanging there at the end of that rope I saw you. I realised . . . I don’t know . . . I realised I’d lost the best thing that ever happened to me.’

  She kissed him tenderly and they lay silently in each other’s arms.

  ‘So what did you find up north?’ she asked eventually.

  ‘I’m reasonably sure Stewart Huvane was killed by the same man who tried to kill me. I just can’t see a link between us. The killer might have selected us at random. Huvane was into dogging. A suicide note and a bunch of videos were found on his Facebook page, but if he didn’t commit suicide, then the killer probably posted them. I spoke to one of the women Huvane was meeting for sex. She says he was useless with a computer—’

  Wallace stopped suddenly.

  ‘What?’ Connie asked.

  Wallace was lost in thought.

  ‘What is it?’ she pressed.

  ‘He didn’t leave,’ Wallace said. ‘After he hanged me, the killer didn’t leave. He was still in my flat. Why?’ His mind sparked as it made connections. ‘You doing anything tomorrow?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s Saturday,’ she replied with a shrug.

  ‘Good,’ Wallace said emphatically. ‘I need you to go to my flat.’

  ‘What for?’ she asked in surprise.

  ‘We’ve got to get my laptop,’ Wallace replied.

  Saturday morning in St John’s Wood was usually a quiet affair. There were very few vehicles cutting across the inter
section of Hamilton Terrace and Abercorn Place, so Wallace had a good view of Connie as she crossed the street and headed towards his building. As he stood on the opposite corner of Abercorn Place with his hood pulled firmly over his head, Wallace felt a mix of emotions: anger that he’d been so violently torn from such a comfortable life, gratitude that he’d survived the savage assaults, and joy at his reconciliation with Connie. He watched her walk up the path to his building. When she reached the front door, he saw her press one of the intercom buttons.

  ‘Hello?’ came a voice.

  ‘Mrs Levine?’ Connie asked.

  ‘Who is this?’ the voice said with more than a hint of distrust.

  ‘My name is Constance Jones,’ Connie replied. ‘I’m a friend of John Wallace. If you look out of your window, you’ll see him on the corner.’

  The intercom fell silent and Connie waved to Wallace. She saw him look up to the first-floor window and wave. A few seconds later, Connie heard the intercom crackle to life.

  ‘He looks different,’ the voice observed.

  ‘He’s in disguise,’ Connie explained. ‘In case the building is being watched.’

  ‘We don’t want anything dangerous here,’ the voice cautioned. ‘First this suicide. Then all the police traipsing around the place. It’s not good for the neighbourhood.’

  ‘Mrs Levine,’ Connie interjected, ‘John says you have a spare key to his place. He wants me to get a couple of things.’

  Silence.

  ‘Then we’ll be gone,’ Connie assured her. ‘I promise.’

  Silence. Then the buzzing sound of the latch unlocking. Connie pushed the front door and stepped inside.

  She was on edge as she hurried up the stairs. If the place was being watched, she was putting herself in danger. He’d do the same for you, Connie told herself. Or would he really? she thought darkly. He let you go.

  When she rounded the final flight of stairs, she saw Mrs Levine’s suspicious face peering out of the narrow crack between the door and the frame. Connie could see the chain was on.