by Penny Henry
Imogen knew the roads inside out. She knew where the traffic would be heavy and the shortcuts to take. It didn’t take as long as expected. Holloway Road was a nightmare and Imogen quickly forgot the idea of a quick shop. She guided her purring motor to a side street where traffic died and was lucky enough to catch a Range Rover leaving a space a short walk from her grandparents Café and Take Away. She breezed through the door just as Grandma Eleanor was closing up shop.
The small dark-haired woman was intent on not allowing any more customers to enter. "Sorry, we are clos— Imogen!" Grandma Eleanor threw her arms round her beautiful granddaughter, kissing her cheeks and calling excitedly. "Demetrius! Come and say hello to you granddaughter."
A grinning bear of a man emerged from the tiny kitchen at the end of the narrow café. His hair was thick and curly, black with a generous sprinkling of grey. He was wearing a white shirt with rolled up sleeves, black trousers and a grubby apron on which he furiously wiped his pan-like hands. "My Imogen!" He walked the length of the café to wrap her in a crushing embrace and drown her senses with the smell of fried food.
"Demetrius!" Eleanor scolded her overwhelming husband. "Do you want your granddaughter to smell like breakfast?"
"Okay, okay.” Demetrius released his laughing granddaughter and stepped away. He raised his eyes to the ceiling. "Go upstairs, Imogen. We’ll finish off down here." There was a small flat above the shop that Imogen's grandparents called home.
"Go― go, Imogen," insisted Eleanor. She clapped her hands together to try to chase Imogen away. “Go and make yourself at home. You know where everything is."
Imogen wouldn't hear of it. To the curious looks of the remaining customers and the obvious pleasure of the males among them, Imogen removed her jacket and set to work. She could clean a table with the best of them. She was quickly wiping tabletops and replenishing sauces on the tables. She loved the physical effort she needed to put into it. It made a welcome change from sitting behind a desk all day. Eleanor ushered out the last customer and the three of them worked together to finish off the cleaning. Imogen and Eleanor chatted animatedly as Demetrius sang Greek ballads in the kitchen, happy to have his granddaughter in their home.
In less than an hour Eleanor and Demetrius had showered, changed and were seated in Imogen's car. The traffic thinned as they headed into Hampstead. They parked easily and strolled up Parliament Hill to watch the kites being flown. The fresh air was a welcome tonic but Eleanor had forgotten her coat and in half an hour she was feeling the chill. Imogen suggested they return to the car to collect Eleanor's coat and take a stroll through the village. Over the years that Eleanor and Demetrius had been coming to the area there had been massive changes. It was now an up market place to live and home to a number of celebrities. Demetrius shook his head at the prices the eating places were charging. Imogen laughed and promised to take them for a meal sometime. Her day with her grandparents was not destined to last as long as she had planned. Eleanor and Demetrius had promised to attend a Greek community function in the evening. It was a long-standing arrangement that Imogen insisted they keep. She departed in a deluge of hugs and kisses and a promise to telephone them with the arrangements for dinner very soon. Demetrius wasn't entirely convinced that any dining experience could be worth that much money. Eleanor was still talking him round when Imogen pulled out of her parking spot and waved goodbye.
Gable's Porsche was still in its spot when Imogen pulled into the car park. She glanced at her watch. She was back an hour earlier than she had anticipated. The action had reminded her that she must remember to return her jewelry to the office safe on Monday. She had hidden her stuff inside a shoe. It wasn’t exactly original but the thief was unlikely to return over the weekend. The block was busier and the tenants were more likely to notice a stranger lurking about the building. She would definitely take it in on Monday. The thief still had a couple of days to work his mischief until the electronic lock arrived. The thought gave Imogen a hollow feeling inside her stomach. The sooner the police caught him and put him away the safer the residents of the block would feel. Imogen put the depressing thought behind her as she took the elevator to her floor and looked forward to a pleasant evening with Gable. With any luck he would have left a note. Or maybe she might just pop upstairs and ask him face to face. The issue was decided for her by the lack of any message inside her door. She was not deterred by the absence of a scribbled note. She had returned earlier than she had told Roger she would. There was still time for Gable to drop off his answer. She would save him the trouble. Imogen pushed the door shut with her foot, flipped the catch and walked through to the lounge to drop off her jacket. She turned to walk back the way she had come and looked straight into Don Thornton’s terrified face.
He had emerged from the passage that led to the other rooms and hurried a few steps into the lounge before he had seen Imogen. Clutched in his stubby fingers was Imogen's jewelry.
"Don, what the hell—" She took in his drained features and her irreplaceable Rolex clutched in his hand. "It’s you! You're the thief!"
Don wilted in the face of her blatantly true accusation. He held up a hand to silence her. "I know what it looks like but I can explain everything, please—"
"Yeah, like fuck you can!" Imogen stalked to the telephone. "You can do your explaining to the police."
Don sprung in to life. A look of desperation crossed his face. "No! Please… Miss Mercouri." He crossed the space between them with surprising agility. "Don't call the police." His damp hand closed over hers, pressing the handset back to its base. "I needed the money. I didn’t have a choice." He was on the verge of panic. His eyes were glassy and staring. He was trembling.
Imogen was suddenly wary of pushing him too far. She relaxed her grip on the handset and stepped away from the telephone. "But we all trusted you, Don.” She sighed heavily. “Why did you need the money so badly?"
"I... I owe money to the wrong people." He was sweating profusely and breathing noisily. "I’ve got some gambling debts. They're going to break my legs if I don't pay up."
"How big are these debts, Don?" She kept her voice calm, sidling towards the apartment door in a round-a-about way. "Who is it that wants to hurt you?"
Don kept pace with her sideways shift. "They’re big debts. They’re very big debts. I... I didn’t know when to stop. I’ve been a fool," he admitted in a broken voice. "They're not the type of people you can reason with."
"Give yourself up to the police, Don. Please, just do it now - before things get out of hand." She had lowered her voice to a soothing tone but the dryness in her throat could not be disguised. Her mouth was parched and her tongue felt like it had swollen to twice its normal size. "You haven't hurt anyone, Don. It's a simple case of burglary. They won't be too hard on you. Just think about what you’re doing. Please, Don."
Don shook his head. His face was distraught with worry. Things had gone wrong and he didn't know what to do. He had never planned for the eventuality of being caught. "It’s too late. I'm in too deep. If they can't get to me they'll get to my family. Or they’ll get me inside. They don't have consciences, not men like them."
For the first time Imogen began to feel a real sense of fear. Her calm reasoning was having no effect on the desperate man. "The police will protect you, Don. They’ll protect your family. That's their job. Please, just think about it."
A tear welled in Don's eye. "Why didn't you leave the Rolex behind the other night? I wouldn't have needed to come back for it."
Imogen cursed the publicity the gift of the Rolex had received. "You can take it, Don. I don't care. It's insured in any case. I won't tell a soul, I promise you." And at that moment she meant it with every fiber of her being.
"Why did you have to come back earlier than you said? I heard you shout that you wouldn't be back until eight o'clock." He was shifting the blame in his twisted thoughts, intent in justifying the course of action that was forming in his head. He stepped closer until his stale br
eath was washing across her face. "You shouldn't have come back, Miss Mercouri. It's your fault." He shoved the jewelry into his pockets and sobbed openly as he advanced upon her with a fatalistic look that twisted his features into a desolate mask.
"Don't, Don... Please..." She backed away until her spine came into contact with the wall. The entrance hall was an arm's length away and the apartment door was another two meters.
Don raised his sweaty hands to cup her face. "You are so beautiful. I'm sorry." He slid his hands from her face to curl his fingers round her graceful throat. The pressure from his thumbs increased and Imogen reacted. She whipped up her knee with all the power she could muster. His hands fell away from her neck. He doubled up and Imogen smashed her knee into his shocked face. He lurched to the side holding his groin and grunting with pain. Imogen spun to the hallway and hurled herself forward to the door, exalted by her bid for freedom.
Fuck it! For once in her life she had locked the door. She fought to remain calm, focusing on the lock and thumbing up the catch. She jerked the handle down. The door had opened thirty centimeters before Don's fingers tangled in her hair. In the split second that the door was open Imogen screamed as if the hounds of hell were baying at her heels. It was Saturday, someone had to hear her. Then the door slammed shut as Don rammed his hand past her shoulder. His fist was wrapped in her long black hair, jerking back her head.
"Bitch!" His nose was bleeding and he was insane with rage.
She yelled at the shooting pain in her head as Don dragged her backwards by her hair and threw her onto the couch. His eyes held the madness of a desperate man. He was intent on stopping her screaming. He slapped her across the face and knelt at either side of her hips. For two seconds Imogen was stunned into silence then opened her mouth to scream again. Don had to stop the noise. He grabbed a cushion from the sofa and covered her face, leaning heavily on her body as she flailed her arms and legs in the grip of absolute panic. She felt her fingers strike soft flesh and dug her nails into his flabby face. Don roared in agony and launched a barrage of punches at the cushion, stunning Imogen through the padding. She was unable to breath, struggling for air. Her lungs were starved of oxygen and her resistance was weakening. She was going to die. Don's weight bore down on her as she fought against the brute who was taking away her light. Then the struggle became too much. She couldn’t breathe. Her strength was fading. She heard a distant explosion that she thought must be the first firework in the starless night sky that had descended upon her. She hadn't dreamt it would be like this. There was a party to celebrate her passing to another world. It was a realm of calm and the inhabitants of this other place were welcoming her with a carnival of light. The weight upon her chest lifted and she knew that her soul had left her body and was no longer subject to the earthly rules of physics. She had gone to heaven.
The dazzle of the fireworks came closer and caused Imogen to blink against the glare as the cushion was lifted from her face. The blinding colors became a brilliant light that shone from the light bulb directly above her head.
"Imogen! Imogen! Are you okay?" Gable was calling to her. His distant voice sounded frantic with concern.
"Gable? Is that you, Gable?"
What was Gable doing here? Had there been an accident?
"It's Roger, Imogen. Are you okay?"
Imogen lifted her head as the events of the last few minutes returned with startling clarity. She sucked in air and forced herself up on her elbows to look cautiously round the lounge. Roger had stopped shaking her shoulders and stood in the middle of the floor. A muffled sobbing attracted her attention. She looked past Roger to where Don Thornton huddled on his knees against the wall. He was nursing his head and crying uncontrollably. Her eyes switched back to where Roger was standing in an aggressive pose halfway between the couch and Don. His eyes were switching from a caring glance towards Imogen to an instant venomous stare in the direction of the cowering man. He was stripped to the waist. His blonde hair was wet and smoothed back on his head. Her first thought was of how much he looked like Gable. It was all she could think of.
"Where's Gable?" Why hadn't he come galloping to her rescue?
Roger's face clouded over. "I… I think… Sorry, Gable is on a shoot." He suddenly became more positive. "He’ll be back soon. I was bringing a note to put through your door." Much to his obvious disappointment, Imogen's face fell. He scooped up a folded sheet of paper from the floor and stuffed it into his pocket.
"Did you hear me screaming?"
"No, it was pure luck that I heard the noise and burst in. Sorry it's not Gable," he added sourly. "Anyway, it doesn’t matter. The main thing is that you’re safe. I'm here and we need to call the police. Is that okay?"
Imogen was taken by surprise. There was a note of bitterness, or was it jealousy, in Roger's voice. She rose unsteadily to her feet and looked round the room. There were no signs of a struggle - other than hers. Roger must have taken Don out with a single blow. One glance at the broken apartment door told her that Roger had saved her life. She could not have been more insensitive. Even in the midst of his heroics she had put him in his brother’s shadow.
"Oh, Roger, forgive me. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to—"
"Call the police, Imogen. I'll keep an eye on our friend," he cut in.
He was in no mood for platitudes or apologies. This was a Roger she hadn't dreamt existed. The man behind the awkward neighbor she had amusedly mocked as a geek. Now she saw a man of steely determination and cold detachment. He was pumped with adrenaline and not to be crossed. It was clear that Don Thornton was a beaten man. He was utterly cowed by the glowering figure towering over him. Don wasn't going anywhere. Imogen was humbled by Roger's brave act. She crossed the room to make the telephone call while Roger paced up and down like a caged beast. She kept her eyes on Roger while she waited to speak to the emergency operator. His face was set in grim concentration. He barely spared a glance for the pitiful man slumped against the wall. The diffident neighbor and his self-conscious avoidance of Imogen’s eyes was nowhere to be seen. In his place stood a man that presented an enigmatic study of male beauty and power that brought a mist to Imogen's eyes. Her blood was returning with a vengeance to her oxygen-starved body. She replaced the receiver. The police were on their way. The situation was in hand. But for Imogen her predicament was just beginning. This morning she had woken knowing she had fallen in love with Gable. Now she was forced to question whether she was in love with the man or the image that he tirelessly worked to create.
Chapter Thirteen
The police response was faster than Imogen might have expected. The duty officer was a familiar face who had recognized her name. He was the same detective that was dealing with the poison pen letters. Knowing he might yet have Rose to face, detective constable Geoff Harris was going to take great pains to ensure his investigation was conducted with exemplary care and sensitivity. The link worked well for Imogen. Statements were taken and appointments made for the following week. The very fact that Don had been caught in the act and virtually begged to declare his guilt made it pretty much routine. Don was a repentant and sorrowful man. Rarely was the work of the police made this easy. Considering the trauma she had suffered, Imogen was as relaxed as could be expected. She was more concerned at the sight of Don being hauled away by an unsympathetic female police constable. She had no time for blubbering thieves that assaulted women. She closed the handcuffs on Don Thornton's wrists with a satisfying smirk.
The on-call tradesman arrived while the police were finishing off and the damaged door was made good without fuss. Imogen's Rolex and jewelry were taken as evidence and Detective Constable Harris warned them the legal proceedings were likely to be drawn out for several months. They would be kept informed and he would likely be seeing Imogen soon in any case. He paused on his way out to pass a quiet warning to Roger that Imogen may not be as much in control as she appeared to be. Roger needed to be aware that the shock had yet to come out. Imogen had suffered
a violent assault and it had been a close call. There was no shame in tears.
On the stroke of midnight Imogen closed the door on the last policeman. At some time during the evening Roger had dashed up to the penthouse and grabbed a denim shirt. He wore it loose outside his jeans. His hair had dried and looked blonder in the light of Imogen's apartment. He walked with an easy grace, moving round the apartment with a new air of confidence. There had no sign of Gable. Imogen had needed to constantly remind herself that this was Roger who held her hand and supported her throughout the stressful evening. How wrong could a girl be about a man? Roger had been a rock through the entire police proceedings. He had been firm when he felt he had needed to intercede on her behalf. He had taken her hand and pressed comfort into her flesh when her eyes had filled with tears. When she has faltered he had whispered encouraging words into her ear. Where the hell was Gable when she needed him! It had been Roger that had saved her life. She knew she was being unreasonable. There was no way that Gable, or anyone else for that matter, could have predicted the terrifying events of that evening. But Roger had been there for her.
Imogen suddenly realized she was staring at him. Roger was looking uncomfortable with her scrutiny. He was starting to look at the floor and push his spectacles up on his nose.
"Roger, I—"
"I’ll give you a hand with the clearing up." He hadn’t waited to hear what she had to say.
The lounge was littered with every cup and mug that Imogen owned. Tea was definitely the way to a copper's heart. They had drunk gallons of the stuff. Even the arresting officers had found time for a drink of tea before wheeling Don out of the apartment. Roger had made his fair share of brews and now he was lending a hand in the clearing up.