To Run a Little Faster

by John Gardner

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Will you be going down there?’

  ‘They won’t let me.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘But you know that. Brer Fox had me taken off the story on the first day.’

  ‘Yes, but you’re a rooter, Sim dear. It’s your profession; you grub for a living; worry at stories. I bet you were into everything when you were a child.’

  ‘I hadn’t noticed you complaining now I’m a grown man.’

  ‘Don’t be disgusting,’ she giggled. ‘Seriously, I hope it’s all over and that it is his body. I’ve had the feeling that you haven’t really given up — not even after the flat got smashed and that awful business in the tube.’

  I almost replied that it couldn’t be over yet as there were too many questions to answer: the three names in the notebook; the warnings; Jane Patterson. Nobody had mentioned her for some time, and I was concerned, for the moment was coming when I would not be able to keep the meeting in Basle a secret. One day the police would come out in the open over the Patterson girl, and if I didn’t go to Fox and cough up the whole thing of my own accord, then Guy would insist upon it. I did not care for that idea, not really knowing what penalty might be imposed for withholding information. In the more depressing moments I wondered if I could be charged with being an accessory before the fact of Miller’s lonely murder on the Swiss train.

  That evening, every newspaper knew about the body, and the Hensman story was pushing all the political news from front pages. A little before noon, Beryl Hensman, with Fox in attendance, identified it as that of her husband. Those down in Cornwall and in the know reported that this identification was made wholly on what remained of the clothing: the face, they said, was long past recognition and any other identifying marks on the corpse had disappeared. When the story was written up, great care had to be taken not to offend squeamish readers. Within twenty-four hours they held the inquest, and a local coroner ruled that in view of there being no specific evidence, Michael Hensman had died an accidental death by drowning. Beryl Hensman remained in the west country for a few more days, was present at the small private funeral at Boscastle, and then announced that she was going abroad for a long holiday. She was still of slight interest to our society columns and her progress was duly reported — to Paris, and from there to the South of France, where she stayed quietly in her father’s villa at Beaulieu.

  In spite of the deepening gloom and Hitler’s aggressive attitude towards the Czechs, I found myself gradually being drawn away from the big news stories. Even the colourful world of Mr. Kasher and his villains lost its glow, becoming unreal against the furious preparations for our marriage, which began to fill my mind like a long, exciting dream. On one or two occasions I questioned the wisdom of what we were doing, nervously comparing our emotions with the ones I had felt so strongly before marrying Sarah. There were times when I wondered if we had not, perhaps, rushed too fast into this permanent relationship. But these moments were never prolonged, and were always ousted the moment I set eyes on Poppy, or even heard her voice on the phone. I suppose that she was also analysing the situation as much as myself: wondering if it was merely a physical romance, querying the more lasting influences.

  By this time Poppy’s mother had arrived with a mountain of luggage at the Dorchester, and took over arrangements to such a degree that in the final week neither Poppy nor myself seemed to have much to do as far as the preparations were concerned. Quickly we both reached the stage where all we wanted was to get away and be along with no pressures from the world outside our own duet. My search for the truth concerning Ramsey, Nettlefold and Trim began to flag, and their dossiers, together with Hensman’s, were pushed away in my desk drawer, locked out of sight and mind — until three days before the wedding.

  It was my penultimate night at the office, and I had begun to sort out the pile of copy which had been put on my desk when the extension rang. There was no hint of impending disaster. In fact at first it seemed almost the commonplace start to a story. George was on the line.

  ‘There’s a lady here wanting to talk to you, Mr. Darrell,’ he said.

  ‘Who is she?’

  ‘She says you know her, sir, but she wants to surprise you.’

  I thought that it might just be Sarah and wondered if she was going to become difficult, Tommy Carter having left her and the news of my marriage now public property among the old set.

  ‘Tell her to come over here, George. I’m busy.’

  ‘I said you’d probably be at the office. But she says it’s urgent and there’s a good story in it.’ He dropped his voice, ‘I think it’s really one of them gossip column scandal things.’

  From the bits and pieces I had already seen, it promised to be a fairly slow night. Anything out of the ordinary might come in handy.

  ‘She won’t give a name?’

  ‘Definitely not, sir.’

  ‘It’s not my ex-wife?’

  ‘No, sir, but she does give me the feeling that it’s something big — in news terms that is. A scoop?’ He sounded uncertain if he was using the correct terminology.

  ‘Take her up to the flat, George. I think we left some booze there. Give her a drink and tell her to wait. She does look respectable, doesn’t she?’

  ‘Highly respectable, and …’

  ‘And what?’

  ‘Well, if I was Miss Poppy, I wouldn’t leave you alone with her.’

  ‘I’ll be over in twenty minutes or so.’

  It was a small mystery, but I still didn’t connect it with anything from the immediate past. In the taxi I revised my ideas about Sarah, unless George was pulling my leg. Then I thought of the other boys at the paper. There had been a case a year or so before when one of the lads was getting married. A tasteless joke that had almost rebounded. The boys had put up some tart as a pre-wedding night gift. There had been a smile on the faces of two junior reporters when I said I had to go out for a while.

  George was not in his usual place when I got to the building, but I had my key. In fact Poppy and I had been in earlier that afternoon to dump a pile of wedding gifts: the toasters and fish slices were rolling in at a disturbing rate.

  The first indication that there was anything wrong came as I approached the flat from the lift. Almost as soon as I stepped on to the landing I saw the door was open. Not wide, just about an inch. For some reason, as I got within a couple of paces of it the short hairs on the back of my neck started to bristle: like being in an empty house and hearing the unexplained creak of a door. But this was more, something definite in the way of anxiety, and a feeling deep within my sixth sense. Like a frightened animal I almost shied away from the place. I remember kicking open the door lightly with my toe and wishing I had some object to grasp, something that I could use as protection.

  The door swung back and I looked through the crack on the hinge side. There was nobody flattened against the wall, prepared to strike out as I entered. Nor was there anyone in the lounge. The lights were all on and a woman’s handbag, in greeny brown crocodile skin, lay on one of our new easy chairs. It was open and I felt that I had seen it somewhere before: it was certainly expensive. On the glass table, which we had placed between the easy chairs and the chesterfield, the wedding gifts still rested in the neat pile which Poppy had constructed. There was also a glass, half full. George had given the lady a drink. I called out, but there was no reply and almost automatically I looked towards the bathroom door, wondering if that was where my guest had gone. The door was open and no light shone from within. The bedroom door was also open, and as I walked quietly towards it, the bristling on the nape of my neck became more intense. I pushed the door fully open and switched on the light, recoiling at what I now saw.

  She could have been asleep, but for the great clots of blood which still appeared to be seeping from her, staining the eiderdown. Strangely, my first reaction, mixed with the shock and horror, was to think of the bed linen.

  She had been dressed only in
a flimsy undergarment: black laced cami-knickers, silk, like Poppy wore, and the position of her dying was almost sexual, as though someone had embraced her and then thrown her on to the bed. She had fallen there with her legs splayed apart; one hand dropping to the crotch as though to assist in undoing the buttons. But there was nothing erotic about the posture; if anything it was obscene, the black silk soaked through with blood.

  It must only have been a second, but it seemed minutes before I became aware of the sound. At first I could not place it, then slowly came the realization that it was a combination of the beat of my own heart and the hiss of breath coming from between my lips. Reluctantly I took three paces towards the bed, reaching out gingerly to touch her wrist, knowing at the same time that it was no good. She was quite dead, though still warm. A beige dress lay on the floor and there was a pair of dark glasses on the bedside table. I didn’t think they belonged to Poppy. Turning, I looked around the room, taking in the smart, military style coat thrown almost casually across a chair, and a silk scarf on the floor between the chair and the bed. I had to force myself to look at her again. She had dyed her hair since last I had seen her — a light, almost platinum blonde. Even in death the transformation was quite marked, but there was no doubt, as I stood looking, that the corpse was that of Jane Patterson.

  I’m not certain how long I stood there in indecision. The thoughts that passed through my mind were fast and jammed, like logs caught in a narrow river obstruction. I wondered where she had been since I had last seen her in the apartment on the Dufourstrasse? Why it had come to an end like this? Why here in my flat? How far was I implicated? Then, how far away was the person who had killed her, and how had it been done? I hadn’t the strength or stomach to examine the wound, which could have been caused by bullet or knife.

  Everything seemed to have slowed down, like those trick films one saw at the cinema, or a particularly vivid dream. It crossed my mind that this could interfere seriously with the wedding, for I could no longer keep silent about Basle. The police would have to know. Eventually I backed out of the room and went over to the telephone. I was a pace from it when it began to ring, the sudden bell making me jump, my hand shaking as I reached out to lift the earpiece off the hook.

  ‘Simon Darrell?’ I couldn’t place the voice — soft, almost soothing in its menace. Jane Patterson had told me of a voice just like this one. The voice that had come to her over the telephone on the night Hensman had gone missing.

  ‘Yes.’ I had to clear my throat to get the word out.

  ‘You’ve looked in your bedroom, have you?’ There was no trace of ghoulish pleasure or satisfaction about the way he said it, only a matter-of-fact efficiency, as though he was helping me find a lost wallet.

  ‘Yes,’ I repeated, my voice a little stronger.

  ‘We much regretted that,’ he continued.

  ‘Who the hell are you?’

  ‘Just keep quiet and listen to what I have to say’. There was no mistaking the note of authority now. ‘We much regretted having to do that. It is an inconvenience. It should also be a lesson. If you do not do as I say immediately, the same thing will happen to Miss Cooke.’

  The enormity of what he was saying got through at once.

  ‘What have you done ...?’ He didn’t allow me to complete the sentence.

  ‘With Miss Cooke? She is unharmed, though we have her with us. We’d like you to join us, Mr. Darrell. It’s quite important.’

  ‘How do I know she’s with you?’

  ‘She’s not with me exactly, but she is safe. She will not remain so if you deviate from the instructions I am going to give you.’

  ‘I need proof.’

  ‘If you quibble, the proof will be there, and too late, Mr. Darrell. Leave your flat immediately. Start walking up Marylebone High Street. Sometime before you get to Oxford Street a taxi will stop for you. Just get into it. You’ll see Miss Cooke for yourself very soon. Do it now.’

  Emotionally I wanted to shout at him, argue, insist on proof. But the line was dead and I stood, the earpiece in my hand and a sense of disbelief — at the dead Jane Patterson in my bedroom, the orders from the quiet voice on the telephone and the idea that Poppy was not going about her normal business. She had planned to have dinner with her mother that evening. I jiggled with the hook on the side of the telephone until I got through to the operator, and asked for the Dorchester. The girl had me connected within seconds, but they were a long time in tracing Mrs. Cooke.

  ‘Is that you, Simon? Are you all right?’ She sounded surprised, but pleased.

  ‘Yes, is Poppy still with you?’

  ‘No. No, my dear, she’s gone to the hospital. Are you really all right?’

  ‘Of course. What hospital?’

  ‘I don’t know. What happened? The police gave us the impression that you were quite badly hurt. They would only let Poppy come to you. I thought it was her when you rang. She said she’d be in touch as soon as she knew anything.’

  ‘It’s okay, don’t worry.’ I dropped the instrument back on its hook, no doubt lingering in my mind. I had enough sense to turn the lights out and lock the door before leaving, but the anxiety prickled at my scalp and churned deep in my stomach: uncertainty and concern gradually building up to anger. George was still not at his post downstairs and as I went out into the street I wondered if they had done anything to keep him quiet.

  It was warm with plenty of traffic about, and the taxi caught up with me as I was almost at the point where the High Street narrowed into Marylebone Lane. It came up behind me, the driver honking his horn as the passenger door opened and a shadow leaned across.

  ‘Simon, how nice. You want a lift?’ It was the same soft voice I had heard on the telephone.

  I took a step towards the door and spoke, trying not to sound as frantic as I felt. ‘Where is she, you bastard? What’ve you done with her?’

  ‘Good.’ He reached forward and took my hand, pulling me towards the taxi. ‘Get in and she won’t be hurt. Don’t be an idiot, Darrell. You’ve seen what we can do.’

  I half expected it to be the bowler-hatted man who had haunted me since Basle and the incident at Piccadilly, but I hadn’t seen this one before. He tugged me into the back of the taxi and the door slammed as the driver pulled into the traffic. It was as though I had suddenly been cut off from the familiar world. Outside the lights winked and people went about their business as though nothing had happened. It was the same sensation as when you have reported on some great disaster, or after the death of someone close. I wondered, illogically, what right they all had to be oblivious to my situation.

  He had a gun in his hand and let me know it as soon as I was seated by pressing it lightly into my side. Possibly the gun that had killed Jane Patterson. Shifting, I turned towards him, peering through the half light, trying to get a picture of him into my memory. I did not want to forget this one: smartly turned out, almost like a diplomat — double-breasted topcoat, a homburg hat, dark gloves, a white shirt glistening at his neck, and a tie, caught in the light from the street, tied in a Windsor knot. His face, only partly visible, was lean and hard, the lips unsmiling. I guessed him to be about forty, maybe a little older.

  ‘You take me to her.’ I fought back the desire to make a grab at him. ‘You hear me?’

  ‘I hear’ calm and precise as a piece of well-oiled machinery, as though there was no humanity behind the eyes or the voice: no soul, no sense of past or future, only of the present.

  ‘I’m a journalist, and you don’t seem to ...’

  Again the metal jammed hard into my ribs: the chivying finger of time. ‘I know what you are, Darrell; what you know; what you want. Leave it there. I know your paper will miss you — but probably not until the morning. Miss Cooke will also be found to be missing, and they’ll probably go to your flat and find poor Miss Patterson.’ The voice ran smoothly on, soft as a pillow pressed against your mouth and nose. ‘But by then we will know certain things from you, and decisions will ha
ve been made. Just remain silent.’

  We were drawn up in traffic. Somewhere to our right an electric sign blinked on and off, lighting his face and then casting it into shadow. ‘Accept the facts and don’t try to resist. That is if you want to see your Miss Cooke again.’

  I tried to reach out for the door handle and the metal sunk into me again. ‘I don’t want to shoot you here, it would be inconvenient: and the door has a lock to it.’

  I closed my eyes and leaned back, vaguely realizing that I was still in some kind of shock. I was certainly not thinking logically; my mind grasshoppering over the events of the last hour: the telephone ringing; the flat; Jane Patterson’s body; the voice on the telephone; the taxi. There had to be some order in the chaos, and no purpose would be served by my reacting to sudden impulses; or taking actions not thought through. One piece of sense emerged. Whatever else happened, I had to see Poppy.

  ‘You’re taking me to Miss Cooke?’

  ‘I told you to remain silent, but yes, eventually you will see Miss Cooke.’

  I centred my thoughts upon her. Undoubtedly she would be frightened, alone and confused. It would be better for both of us if I was with her, so I didn’t try to speak again. Instead, I concentrated on the journey, attempting to follow the route we were taking, noting the reactions of both the driver and my abductor. It soon became impossible to keep track of the streets, for the driver — who appeared from my seat in the back to be a thick, barrel-like creature — was continually doubling back on his tracks, turning about and changing direction, as though intent on throwing a would-be follower off the scent. This conclusion was fortified by the man on my right who, while remaining calm and unruffled, occasionally glanced back through the rear window, as though expecting to see a chase car behind us. I didn’t dare look back, but gathered from glimpses at his expression that we were not being pursued.

  We must have gone on like this for an hour or so, and I had a vague idea that we were now somewhere near to the London Docks, though it was impossible to be certain. I would not have risked even five bob on it. In what light there was, I could see that we were driving through a series of streets in which the small houses were crushed hard upon each other, the severe landscape punctuated from time to time by a street corner public house, blazing with light which seemed to bounce back on the ornate windows. I had tried to memorize street names, but it was impossible; all I could see was drab and depressing. By this time the initial shock was wearing off, leaving behind it a sick hollow feeling in my stomach. At last we turned into a narrow cul-de-sac, unlit but for one lamp which stood glowing on its slim iron pedestal at the far end, its light diffused and throwing shadows against what looked like high brick walls. The taxi came to a halt and the driver sounded his horn three times in quick succession.