Pendulum

by Adam Hamdy

  ‘Here,’ Mrs Levine said, proffering a set of keys through the crack. ‘Take them.’

  Connie hurried forward. ‘Thanks,’ she replied, as Mrs Levine dropped the keys into her hands.

  ‘Wish him well,’ Mrs Levine requested. ‘But ask him not to come back until all this trouble has passed. We’re too old for it.’

  Mrs Levine shut the door, leaving Connie alone on the landing. You don’t get to pick your family or your neighbours, she thought as she hurried up the next flight of stairs. With the exotic dancer living on the top floor, Connie had always thought of Wallace’s building as a bohemian artists’ commune. It was reassuring to know there was a timid, normal retired couple living beneath him.

  Her face fell when she reached the landing outside Wallace’s flat. In addition to the normal locks, there was a police padlock and a caution notice. She approached the door and tried the Chubb deadbolt. It was unlocked. She then slid the key into the Yale latch and opened it. The door gave about an inch before it was reined in by the police padlock. Connie pushed at the door, but the padlock was firmly attached and held fast. She thought about getting Wallace, but she had no idea what lay behind the door. If the killer had staked out the place, at least she had a chance of explaining away her intrusion. Bringing Wallace would only endanger them both. She hurried back downstairs, took a deep breath and knocked on Mrs Levine’s door. She sensed movement on the other side and saw the spyhole go dark.

  ‘It’s her,’ came a hissed whisper.

  ‘Find out what she wants.’ This whisper was deeper; a man’s.

  ‘Pretend we’re not here,’ Mrs Levine hissed.

  ‘She knows we’re here. You just gave her the keys,’ the man whispered with a sense of exasperation.

  ‘And I can hear you,’ Connie said loudly.

  ‘You and your big mouth!’ Mrs Levine hissed before she opened the door. ‘What do you want?’ she asked Connie.

  Connie shifted from side to side, plucking up the courage to finally ask, ‘I don’t suppose you have a crowbar I could borrow?’

  ‘Push it, don’t pull it!’ Mrs Levine instructed.

  Her husband, a short, spry fellow in his early seventies, was pulling against a claw hammer that was wedged between Wallace’s front door and the frame.

  ‘OK then!’ Mr Levine retorted. ‘Have it your way.’

  Connie put her hand to her mouth to conceal a smile as Mr Levine shifted position. He leaned against the hammer’s handle, and there was a slight splintering sound.

  ‘Let me help,’ Connie offered. She couldn’t tell whether the Levines had insisted on coming upstairs because they didn’t trust her with their hammer, or whether they were driven by a desire to keep tabs on her. Maybe they were just being neighbourly?

  ‘I’m OK,’ Mr Levine said firmly.

  ‘Let her help!’ Mrs Levine exclaimed. ‘It’s the Sabbath. You shouldn’t be doing anything.’

  ‘This is an emergency,’ Mr Levine replied curtly. ‘If I don’t get some peace, I might kill somebody!’

  Connie chuckled at the spirited exchange.

  ‘Did you say something, dear?’ Mrs Levine asked sharply.

  ‘Nothing,’ Connie responded meekly. Mrs Levine might be a short woman, but that didn’t diminish her presence.

  ‘Let me get set properly,’ Mr Levine said. He took a step back and stared at the hammer, which was suspended by the pressure applied between the door and the frame. If it were possible to metaphorically roll up one’s sleeves, that’s exactly what Mr Levine did as he prepared himself for the next push. The little man stepped forward, grasped the handle with the determination of a Samoan weightlifter and pushed with all his might. His face went red, a throbbing vein appeared on his forehead, and he grunted and groaned like a drunken lover. Finally, there came the crack of splintering wood, and the padlock separated from the frame. The door swung open, and Mr Levine hurtled forward. He was only just able to keep his balance.

  ‘There,’ he said breathlessly. ‘I did it.’

  ‘Well done,’ Mrs Levine acknowledged. ‘Now let’s get you home before you have a stroke.’

  ‘Thank you so much,’ Connie said gratefully. ‘You really didn’t have to.’

  ‘What are neighbours for?’ Mrs Levine asked as she steered her red-faced husband to the top of the stairs.

  ‘Tell John he can buy me a cognac,’ Mr Levine advised.

  ‘Don’t you dare,’ Mrs Levine chastised.

  ‘What? A man’s got to have his vices,’ Mr Levine responded as they disappeared down the stairs.

  Connie heard them banter all the way into their apartment. She envied their easy familiarity, the rhythm of their relationship. Maybe one day? With that optimistic thought running through her mind, she entered Wallace’s flat.

  Wallace had told Connie what happened, but nothing prepared her for the devastation in the living room. The main beam had collapsed, bringing down much of the plaster ceiling and some of the masonry above. The window was covered with a clear plastic sheet that had been taped over the jagged hole. Shards of glass were everywhere, either scattered by the impact or distributed by the many people who must have come and gone since Wallace made his escape. Fingerprint dust covered almost every available surface.

  Connie backed out of the room and went down the corridor that led to Wallace’s bedroom. The immaculate, hardly used kitchen lay off to her left. Beyond it, to the right, was the guest bedroom, and Wallace’s studio was the next room on the left. Connie entered and immediately saw that the forensics team had also been in here; fingerprint dust was everywhere. It covered the beech chest of draughtsman’s drawers that Wallace used to store his larger prints. It speckled the black flight cases that housed his cameras and lenses. Dust also marked all of the large framed photographs that lined the walls. There were eight of them; four mounted on the long wall and two on each of the flanks that ran out to the side of the building. The photographs were of Victorian industrial machinery. They were beautifully lit and perfectly composed, but Connie had never liked them. Of all the pictures he’d ever taken, Wallace had chosen to adorn his walls with soulless machines rather than people or places.

  Wallace’s laptop was where he’d said it would be; on his large partner’s desk next to his huge high-resolution screen. Connie didn’t recognise the machine; Wallace must have replaced his old one after they split. She hurriedly unplugged the power cable and deposited it and the laptop into a vintage leather satchel she found beside the desk. Mission accomplished, she hurried from the room with the satchel under her arm. Her heart leaped when she saw a silhouetted figure in the corridor ahead of her. Connie tried to cry out, but her throat refused to obey the command.

  ‘Hello?’ a tentative voice said. The figure stepped into the light from the kitchen and Connie saw it was the dancer who lived above Wallace. Lexi? Leona?

  ‘Did I scare you?’ she asked. ‘I’m sorry. I just heard all this noise.’

  ‘It’s OK,’ Connie replied, her heart pounding almost to the point of bursting. ‘John asked me to get some things. I’m a friend.’

  ‘I know,’ the woman responded. ‘I recognise you. Been a while, though.’

  ‘You know how it is,’ Connie said. ‘Anyway, I’d better get going.’

  She started down the corridor. The woman turned and headed for the front door, leading Connie all the way.

  ‘Is he OK?’ she asked.

  ‘Yeah,’ Connie replied.

  ‘When’s he coming back?’

  ‘It’s hard to say.’

  ‘Send him my love,’ the woman said, as they stepped on to the second-floor landing. ‘I will,’ Connie said as she pulled the door firmly shut. She used Wallace’s key to turn the Chubb deadlock, and, satisfied that his flat was secure, hurried downstairs.

  Wallace paced the corner, growing more concerned with each passing minute. He and Connie had agreed that he’d come in if she hadn’t emerged after fifteen minutes, but it wasn’t until she’d entered
the building that he realised he had no way of telling the time. No watch, no phone. He cast around until he remembered the large church at the top of the terrace. The square, Norman-style tower had a clock, which seemed accurate enough. When it reached the allotted fifteen minutes, Wallace started across the road, only to be greeted by the sight of Connie hurrying from the building with his soft leather satchel under her arm. She dodged a car and scampered across the road.

  ‘I did it,’ she said proudly. ‘Your neighbours send their regards.’

  Wallace hugged her, and looked back at the building to see the Levines watching from their living room window. Then, above them, he saw Leona.

  ‘Come on, let’s go,’ he said as he took Connie’s hand and led her up Abercorn Place towards St John’s Wood tube station. ‘Did they see you?’ he asked.

  ‘They helped me,’ Connie told him. ‘The Levines are lovely.’

  ‘I don’t really know them,’ Wallace admitted.

  ‘What do we do with this?’ she asked, indicating the satchel.

  ‘I need to know if it’s been tampered with,’ Wallace replied. ‘What are your detective skills like?’

  ‘Pretty crappy,’ Connie said honestly. ‘But I may know someone who can help.’

  They crossed the street and hurried on to Grove End Road. Wallace used the excuse of trying to read the plaque on Sir Lawrence Alma-Tadema’s house to turn around and check if they were being followed. Apart from a black cab that shot past without slowing, the street behind was empty, but Wallace didn’t relax until they were on the tube heading back to Connie’s place.

  15

  When they arrived in Stoke Newington, the November sun was strong enough to trick them into thinking it was a spring day. Connie suggested they go out for lunch, so they trekked up Stoke Newington High Street with its boutique shops and small, independent cafés and restaurants. They found a table at the Blue Legume, which Wallace thought was a terrible play on words, but the quality of their food earned them forgiveness. He ordered a cheeseburger and fries and Connie asked for a falafel burger with a side of spinach. Wallace kept his legs either side of the satchel and made sure his feet were touching it at all times. With Detective Sergeant Bailey finally taking him seriously, he felt optimistic that he’d soon have his life back.

  The tables in the Blue Legume were tightly crammed together, so there was no opportunity to discuss anything sensitive. Instead, Connie asked him about the films he’d worked on since they’d split. Had he met any famous people? Yes. Were any of them divas? No. Connie’s face animated with excitement as he talked. He’d worked on so many films, with so many stars, that he was inured to the supposed glamour. It was just a job working with normal, flawed human beings, some of whom happened to be sensationally famous. He couldn’t help but smile at Connie’s star-struck enthusiasm.

  ‘You’re laughing,’ she said accusingly.

  Wallace shook his head and his smile broadened. ‘I’m not laughing,’ he said. ‘I’m smiling. And I’m only smiling because I think you’re great.’

  Connie tilted her head bashfully and replied with a coy smile of her own.

  After the meal, they held hands and walked back to Connie’s place. The tall, old trees that lined Cazenove Road were beginning to shed their leaves, and a team of street cleaners brushed them off the pavement towards a mechanised road sweeper. Wallace and Connie moved at a languid pace, a fixed distance behind the sweepers, and, for a few indulgent moments, Wallace imagined the path was being cleared just for them.

  As they approached Connie’s building, he saw a face he recognised peering at him from the window of a Vauxhall. Bailey climbed out of the car and walked towards them.

  ‘He’s police. Don’t mention the laptop,’ Wallace said quietly.

  Connie nodded.

  ‘Mr Wallace,’ Bailey said, ‘I thought we’d agreed you weren’t to go anywhere.’

  ‘Man’s got to eat,’ Wallace replied. ‘Detective, this is Constance Jones. Connie, this is Detective Sergeant Bailey.’

  Bailey offered his hand and Connie shook it.

  ‘I need to talk to you,’ Bailey said to Wallace. ‘Privately.’

  ‘Let’s go inside,’ Connie suggested.

  As Bailey followed Connie towards the front door, Wallace glanced up the street. Part of him wished he and Connie could just keep following the sweepers down the newly cleared path.

  Bailey sat with his back to the window. He had pushed his chair away from the dining table to give himself the space to cross his legs, and one elbow rested on the back of the chair. Wallace recognised the self-assured, relaxed pose of someone accustomed to being in charge.

  ‘Can I get you a drink?’ Connie offered.

  ‘I’m OK,’ Bailey replied. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘John?’ Connie asked.

  ‘Nothing for me, thanks,’ Wallace answered.

  Bailey looked at Connie expectantly.

  ‘Do you want me to leave?’ she asked.

  ‘I’d like her to stay,’ Wallace said emphatically. ‘Connie knows everything.’

  Bailey’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t say anything. Connie sat next to Wallace, opposite the policeman.

  ‘So your story checked out,’ Bailey began. ‘I asked enough awkward questions to convince Staffordshire Police to reopen the Huvane investigation. And my commanding officer has agreed to allocate resources to bring this guy in.’

  Wallace felt a flood of relief and turned to see Connie smiling at him.

  ‘We just have one problem,’ Bailey continued. ‘We’ve got no idea why this man targeted you and Huvane. Like you said in your notes, there’s no connection. We also don’t know how he found you in the Maybury. The fact it happened after I gave them your real name may mean he was able to access records, but that’s just guesswork.’

  Bailey fell silent and stared at Wallace, who had a strong suspicion he knew what the policeman was thinking.

  ‘You want to use me as bait,’ Wallace said.

  Bailey didn’t respond.

  ‘No,’ Connie interjected. ‘He didn’t say that. You didn’t say that.’

  ‘He’s right,’ Bailey replied calmly. ‘We could spend months trying to track this guy down. Or we could give him what he wants. My commanding officer has agreed to a specialist firearms unit that will provide round-the-clock protection; six SCO Nineteen officers working in teams of two. We’ll have a couple of unarmed officers providing additional support at all times. And I’ll take one of the shifts. You’ll be completely safe.’

  Wallace considered the proposal.

  ‘You can’t do this, John,’ Connie protested. ‘Let them take their time to catch him. Just stay here. Nobody knows about us. This man, this killer, will never find you here.’

  Wallace smiled at her. ‘And what if they never find him?’ he asked.

  ‘Then you can just stay here,’ she said sadly. She wasn’t even fooling herself with her wishful thinking.

  ‘I can’t stay hidden for ever.’ Wallace turned to Bailey. ‘I’ll need a weapon.’

  ‘I’ll see what we can do,’ Bailey replied.

  ‘How would it happen?’ Wallace asked.

  ‘You’re a wanted criminal. We’ll have a unit arrest you somewhere public, probably a train station. They’ll bring you in, process you and ship you back to the Maybury,’ Bailey answered.

  ‘Will they know?’

  Bailey shook his head. ‘No. We’ll bill the SCO Nineteen officers as additional security to ensure you don’t escape again, but we won’t tell any of the staff what’s really going on.’

  ‘So I’ll be a patient?’ Wallace inquired. The thought of returning to Doctor Taylor’s sessions tied a knot in his stomach.

  Bailey nodded.

  ‘How long?’ Wallace asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Bailey conceded. ‘But my CO has cleared funds for two weeks. So we’ll have to re-evaluate if it takes any longer.’

  Wallace looked at Connie, who shook her head a
nd pleaded with her eyes. He nodded apologetically. ‘OK,’ he said finally. ‘When do we do it?’

  ‘My car’s outside,’ Bailey said as he stood.

  ‘No, not today,’ Connie protested.

  ‘Give us a moment,’ Wallace requested.

  Bailey nodded and gave Connie a sympathetic look. ‘It was nice to meet you,’ he told her. ‘He’ll be safe. I promise.’

  Connie stood up, but she didn’t respond until Bailey left the room and she heard the front door slam shut.

  ‘This is crazy,’ she blurted out. ‘It’s so dangerous. You’re more likely to get shot by one of them.’

  ‘I can’t just hide, Connie,’ Wallace replied quietly.

  She shook her head and turned away from him in exasperation. He walked over and put his arms around her.

  ‘I’ve got to do this,’ he said firmly. ‘I won’t let anything bad happen, I promise.’

  ‘You can’t make that promise,’ she said angrily.

  ‘Con, I have to get my life back,’ he explained.

  Connie turned to face him and Wallace could see that she’d finally accepted this was an argument she couldn’t win. ‘You make sure you stay safe,’ she commanded. ‘I’m going to visit you every day.’

  ‘You can’t,’ Wallace said. ‘Right now, nobody knows about you.’ He could see frustration cloud her face. ‘Help me,’ he offered. ‘Take my computer to your friend and find out if it’s been tampered with.’

  ‘I wouldn’t call him a friend,’ Connie said, her mood easing slightly. ‘So, how will I know you’re OK?’

  ‘I’ll ask Bailey to phone you.’

  ‘Go, then,’ she instructed. ‘Before I start getting emotional.’

  Wallace could see that it was already too late; her eyes were welling up, and when he kissed her, he felt warm tears on his cheeks.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Connie said when they separated.

  ‘It’s OK,’ he assured her. ‘I’ll be back before you know it.’

  He stepped away and retreated towards the door. Connie looked beautifully fragile and sad and he wanted nothing more than to stay with her and hold her, but he didn’t. Instead, he turned his back on her and hurried from the flat under a cloud of oppressive sadness that swelled as he descended the stairs. It was a depressing contrast to the lunch they’d shared earlier. He promised himself that he’d come back, and, as he walked along the garden path, he looked up at Connie’s flat and saw her standing at the window. She gave him a sad wave and wiped her eyes. Whatever his future held, Wallace knew that he wanted Connie to be part of it. He hurried out of the garden and saw Bailey leaning against his car.