Four British Mysteries

by Thomas Brown

  As I pulled up in the Wolseley outside Benny’s café, I saw him peering through the window and he caught sight of me as I got out of the car.

  ‘Up the world we’ve come, Mr Rolls Royce!’ was his greeting as I entered.

  ‘It’s an old Wolseley and it’s on loan for the night. It goes back in the morning.’

  ‘A Cinderella motorist, eh? You got a special date with that lovely Russian girl.’

  I grinned. I knew Benny would cheer me up.

  ‘You could say that,’ I lied. I certainly didn’t want to tell Benny the real reason for hiring the motor.

  I ordered the special of the day and a pot of tea and took a seat by the window. Five minutes later Benny delivered the goods – a plate of liver and onions accompanied by a greyish splodge of mashed potato.

  ‘I must say that you are looking a little more like your old self, Johnny. But you still need feeding up.’

  ‘You said I needed feeding up when you first met me five years ago.’

  Benny chuckled. ‘Yes I did.’

  ‘I’m fine, Benny. I’m back in the saddle and I’ve almost stopped feeling sorry for myself. When you get a blow like I did – losing Max so suddenly in such a terrible way – you think you’re the only one going through hell. It numbs you to other’s pain. So many people are suffering in this bloody war…’ I paused, my knife and fork motionless over the food, the image of David Llewellyn’s drained and tortured face shimmered before me. Suddenly I didn’t feel hungry any more.

  ‘Loss is always with you, Johnny. A day doesn’t go by when I don’t think about my Daisy, but you learn, you learn to cope with it. And you get on with your life. It’s what they would have wanted.’

  I prayed that this wasn’t a lesson that David would have to learn.

  THIRTY-ONE

  In her dark tomb, Sheila Llewellyn had lost track of time. She had no idea how long she had been incarcerated in the boot of this maniac’s vehicle. Initially, she had curled up foetal-like – like a frightened child, but gradually her fear had subsided and a kind of numbness of mind came to her, almost an anaesthetic, removing the pain of reality. At one point, when the vehicle had parked, she had actually fallen asleep.

  The car was on the move once more, and it swayed and shook violently as though it was being driven at great speed. And recklessly. Suddenly a thought struck Sheila, Perhaps he never intended to let her out ever again. She was meant to die here, to lose consciousness through lack of food and water and then rot. She would be found months later – a rotting corpse. She shuddered at the thought but somehow she was glad to have considered such an outcome. Facing the worst in some strange way gave her courage and hope.

  The vehicle slowed and ground to a halt. After a moment, she heard the driver’s door slam and then the key in the lock of the boot. Seconds later, the boot lid was raised slowly. Sheila screwed up her eyes as the blinding daylight flooded in.

  And then a shadow fell over her.

  ‘The circular tour is over,’ her captor observed. ‘Time to leave’. He reached into the boot and grabbed Sheila’s arm. ‘Come on,’ he said gruffly.

  Her body was stiff and awkward and her limbs failed to obey her. He dragged her over the edge of the boot and she fell forward, her hands hitting the harsh gravel. With some effort, she pulled herself forward until her legs flopped to the ground also. She lay there like a landed fish on a riverbank.

  ‘Welcome home,’ sneered Northcote, once more clamping his hand around Sheila’s right arm and hauling her to her feet. Her vision blurred, she felt nauseous for some moments and then gradually her surroundings came into focus. Her mouth opened in shock. Sheila couldn’t believe it. She was back home. She was in her own drive. The car was almost in the same position it had been when she had been bundled into it those long hours ago. Was this some kind of cruel hoax?

  Her eyes and expression must have clearly mirrored her thoughts and Northcote laughed at her confusion.

  ‘I’ve brought you back home, to wait for hubby to return. We’re going to have a cosy evening together.’

  ‘What the hell are you talking about?’ Sheila was surprised at the ferocity and the volume of her retort. Frustration, confusion and desperation had commingled to make her very angry. So angry in fact that she lashed out with her foot, kicking Northcote in the leg.

  He gave a cry of surprise and staggered back. Sheila was tempted to kick him again and this time aim at somewhere more vulnerable, but instead she turned and ran. Passing down the edge of the car, she headed down the drive for the gate.

  She hadn’t been prepared for the awkwardness of her body. Cooped up in virtually one position for many hours, it was learning to function again. Her limbs were stiff and did not automatically obey her. She ran like someone who has severe arthritis travelling over a bed of hot coals.

  Within seconds, Northcote was upon her and brought her to the ground. She crashed onto the hard gravel.

  ‘Naughty, naughty,’ he gasped. ‘I see that I shall have to watch you. Now get up.’

  Reluctantly she did so.

  ‘That’s a good girl,’ he said, and marched her back down the drive. After retrieving a small case from the back seat of the car he dragged Sheila into the house.

  ‘Can I have a drink of water, please?’ she asked.

  ‘Another trick?’

  ‘No, no. I am very thirsty.’

  Northcote pulled a knife from his pocket. He held the shiny bright blade in front of Sheila’s face. ‘I don’t want to cut you just yet, Mrs Llewellyn, but if I have any more trouble from you, I’m afraid I will have to slit your throat. Is that understood?’

  Sheila shivered with fear and nodded vigorously, words failing her at this moment.

  Northcote took her into the kitchen where she filled a glass of water from the tap and gulped it down eagerly.

  ‘Now it’s time to secure you for the evening. We must have you ready and nicely trussed for when hubby comes home.’

  ‘What… what are you going to do?’

  ‘Oh, that’s a surprise. You like surprises, don’t you?’

  At knife point, he took her upstairs. When he led her into the bedroom, she feared the worst. She determined that if he was going to try and sexually molest her she would kick, scream and bite like a demon. She would rather be knifed to death than succumb to his advances. He would not violate her without a damn struggle.

  But it seemed that Northcote had other ideas.

  Opening his case, he took out several lengths of rope and a reel of strong tape.

  ‘Time to truss up the turkey,’ he observed with a grin.

  Sheila actually felt a sense of relief when she realised that this maniac only intended to tie her up rather than rape her. She offered no resistance as he bound her feet and tied her hands behind her back. Then he rolled off a strip of tape, cut it with his knife and placed it across her mouth. As he did this she tried to scream but the tape prevented the sound escaping.

  ‘You’ll have to breathe through your nose for a while, my dear.’ Northcote chuckled to himself. He was really enjoying this grotesque charade. ‘And now a final touch,’ he added as he thrust her onto the bed. Snatching up a pillowcase, he detached the pillow and slipped the empty case over Sheila’s head.

  ‘That should keep you nice and quiet until your hubby arrives,’ he said, standing back and admiring his handiwork.

  Sheila lay on the bed, engulfed in darkness and began to sob softly.

  Northcote left her to her misery. Locking the bedroom door he went down stairs and checked his watch. It was almost time to set off. His features broke into a broad smile. He was going to enjoy this evening. Who was it who said revenge was a dish best served cold?

  THIRTY-TWO

  David Llewellyn arrived at Lambeth Bridge early. He was terrified that if he did not obey Northcote’s instructions to the letter, he would be placing Sheila’s life in jeopardy. Or, as he grimly reconsidered, more jeopardy than it already was – if that wer
e possible. His mind was all over the place and his stomach was spinning like a top. He was sure that he was going to be sick at any moment.

  The day was on the brink of evening and a stiff breeze blew off the river. Instinctively, he pulled his overcoat around him, although he was fully aware that it wasn’t the cool air that was making him shiver. It was fear. Fear that whatever he did this evening, the outcome would be tragic.

  At a quarter to six, he approached the telephone box, which was on the opposite side of the road to the bridge. As he did so, he gazed around him as casually as he was able in order to see if he could spot Johnny anywhere.

  He couldn’t.

  This did not dismay him too much. He that knew Johnny wouldn’t let him down. Would he? No, of course not. He prayed that he wouldn’t anyway.

  The phone box was occupied. A large woman with a shopping bag was in full flow. David checked his watch. Still ten minutes to go. That was all right. As long as this woman finished soon.

  For a moment, he had a vision of him swinging open the door of the box and hauling her out mid-sentence, so that he could receive his call on time.

  Crazy thought. He mopped his brow. He hoped it was a crazy thought. God, he could do with a drink, but that was the last thing on earth he should have now. He knew that he needed a clear head to deal with the unknown events ahead of him; at least as clear as he could make it. Alcohol would only slow his reactions, muffle his thinking and take the edge off his reactions.

  He mopped his brow again and stared into the box as the woman oblivious of his presence rattled on. Once again he gazed around him as casually and as nonchalantly as he could, hoping to catch a glimpse of Johnny. He still couldn’t. In his fraught state he didn’t know whether this was a good thing or bad. If Johnny was performing a brilliant chameleon trick, that was fine. He just hoped that he was actually out there watching, for without his aid, he was a goner and indeed so was Sheila. At the thought of his wife, David’s stomach lurched once more.

  He was just about to reach inside his jacket for a cigarette, when the large lady emerged from the phone box. She passed him without a glance and crossed the road and headed for the bridge.

  David hauled open the door and squeezed himself inside. It was like being in an acrid smelling womb… or coffin. Now he just had to wait. Just had to wait for the next move in this deadly game. He stared at the black bakelite telephone crouching there like a wary spider. How long would it be before it rang?

  God, a thought struck him. What if it didn’t ring? What if this were some cruel hoax? What if Northcote had set this up, just to buy himself some time? What if he’d already murdered Sheila and was now miles away from London?

  What a fool he’d been.

  He felt faint and began to sweat profusely. The walls of the telephone box seemed to press in on him and felt claustrophobic.

  ‘Ring,’ he croaked addressing the telephone. ‘For God’s sake ring.’

  But the phone remained silent.

  The minutes ticked by and David’s anxiety grew. At one point he lifted the receiver to see if it was actually working. The reverberating burr that emerged from the earpiece told him that it was.

  He dropped the receiver back in the cradle as though it had caught fire. He didn’t want the telephone to register an engaged tone and miss the call.

  But the call did not come.

  He checked his watch. The minute hand was crawling up towards ten past six.

  ‘Oh, my god, it is a trick’ he cried softly. ‘A bloody cruel joke.’

  And then suddenly the door of the telephone box swung open and someone forced their way inside.

  ‘Good evening, Inspector,’ said Ralph Northcote, a nasty grin plastered on his face. He held up a knife so that David could see it. ‘One silly move and you get this right between the ribs. Is that understood?’

  ‘Where’s Sheila?’

  ‘Oh, she’s quite safe for the moment. And will remain so, as long as you do exactly what I tell you to do. Is that understood?’

  David nodded, the sweat now running profusely down his face and he felt faint. What, he wondered, had this mad man got in mind – what nasty plan had he got up his sleeve?

  ‘I trust that you have brought no weapon with you. Nothing concealed somewhere?’

  ‘No.’

  Northcote patted his jacket, coat pockets and felt down the legs of his trousers. ‘Mmm,’ he said, ‘you seem to be telling the truth.’

  ‘I am, I swear.’

  ‘Good man. Now when we step out of this box, we shall turn right and round into Thorne Street. You’ll see a Vauxhall car there. We shall stand behind it and I will open the boot and we’ll look inside as though inspecting something in there. When the coast is clear, you’ll climb inside.

  ‘But…’

  Northcote pressed the knife against David’s ribs. ‘No questions, Mr Policeman. Do as I say or else…’

  Northcote pushed his weight against the door of the telephone box and with an eerie creak it swung open. ‘You walk before me and, please, don’t try anything heroic. Remember, I have the knife and I know where your wife is.’

  David stepped ahead of Northcote onto the pavement and walked slowly in the direction that he had been instructed to take. As he did so, he gazed around him as inconspicuously as he could in the desperate hope of seeing Johnny. There was no sign of him whatsoever,

  They turned into Thorne Street and he saw Northcote’s car.

  Northcote moved bedside him and opened the boot.

  ‘Lean forward and inspect the interior,’ he said.

  David did as he was told.

  Northcote gazed around the quiet street. Dusk was falling and there were no pedestrians or traffic. The time was ripe.

  ‘Right, get into the boot,’ he snapped

  David climbed over the edge of the boot and hunched his body in order to fit in the confined space.

  Suddenly darkness fell as the boot lid came down. He was trapped in an airless dark bubble. And he was helpless.

  Outside, he could hear the dark satanic laughter of his captor.

  THIRTY-THREE

  I left Benny’s café just as he was about to shut up shop for the day. He came on to the pavement with me to inspect the motor car. He pulled a face on seeing the vehicle close up.

  ‘Beggars can’t be choosers, I suppose,’ he said. ‘But this old crock is like me: it’s seen better days.’

  ‘It gets me from A to B,’ I said with a smile.

  ‘But what if you want to go further?’

  It was a good question. One that I could not answer.

  I clambered into the cab, wound down the window, gave a quick wave and turned the ignition to start up the engine. It resisted my first attempt and indeed my second, but with further coaxing and a little extra choke, it spluttered into life on the third go.

  ‘I think it’s time you gave it back to the circus,’ said Benny, as I pulled away in a manner far more stately than I had hoped.

  I glanced at my watch. It was twenty past five. I reckoned it would take me about twenty minutes to get to Lambeth Bridge. I would be in plenty of time to witness David’s telephone call.

  Or so I thought.

  It soon became obvious that the car thought otherwise. I was just passing down Redcliffe Gardens on my way to the Embankment when a strange gurgling and hissing noise emanated from the bonnet. This was quickly followed by a violent jerking motion before the car juddered to a silent halt. I turned the ignition desperately, but the engine did not respond. ‘What the hell!’ I thought, as I jumped out onto the pavement and gazed impotently at the dead animal. What on earth was I going to do? My knowledge of the internal combustion engine was less than nil. I didn’t even know how to raise the damned bonnet. Out of frustration, I kicked the front wheel. This action was not only of no practical use but it didn’t make me feel any better either.

  ‘A spot of bother?’

  I turned to face the owner of the voice who stood a few
feet behind me. He was a tall, distinguished looking gentleman in a smart dark overcoat and a bowler hat. He had well chiselled aristocratic features, bright blue eyes and a well trimmed jaunty moustache which was now white with age.

  ‘The thing has died on me.’

  ‘Did it splutter, steam and then shudder to a stop?’

  I raised my eyebrows in surprise. ‘That’s about the size of it.’

  His pale face split into a smile.

  ‘The old ones often do. These Wolseleys are nice little runners in their youth, but I’m afraid time does wither them and spoil their infinite reliability. But fear not. It will be dirt in the carburettor. It always is. As they get older and worn, these motors let in all sorts of alien smut. I should know; I had one of these for nearly eight years. I was sorry to see it go. Open her up. We’ll soon sort the old girl out’.

  I shook my head. ‘I’m sorry, I’ve no idea how to do that. Open up the bonnet, I mean.’

  ‘My, you are a novice. Are you sure you’re fit to drive this beauty.’

  On the evidence so far, I didn’t think I was. But then again, she was hardly a beauty either.

  The old gentleman led me round to the driver’s side, opened the door and reached inside. ‘See, here, there’s a lever,’ he said in the manner of a friendly school teacher. ‘This releases the catch on the bonnet.’ He gave the lever a sharp tug and the bonnet responded with a gentle snap.

  My mentor lifted up the bonnet and leaned over, peering beneath the canopy. He hummed a little as he inspected the interior and then dipped his hands inside. Heaven knows what he was doing, but he seemed to be doing it with supreme confidence.

  ‘Just as I thought,’ he said at last. ‘Dirty carburettor. Well, dirty and decrepit, if the truth be known. It really needs renewing. It’s on its last legs. Have you an old rag?’