Four British Mysteries

by Thomas Brown

  ‘I’m not sure,’ I mumbled and inspected the inside of the car for such an item without success. I dug into my pocket and pulled out my handkerchief. ‘Will this do?’

  The old gentleman gave a sad shake of the head. It was clear that he thought I wasn’t fit to be in charge of this motor car – a man who has no idea how to open the bonnet and does not even possess an old piece of rag to wipe up spills and smears.

  ‘You’ll not be able to use this handkerchief again,’ he said, returning to the task of doing something under the bonnet.

  As he did so, I gazed at my watch. It was five forty-five. Time was running out, but I could hardly tell the old fellow to hurry up. He was doing me a great favour after all. A favour to an incompetent ignoramus of a motorist.

  After a few moments, he stood clear of the car. ‘That should do it’, he said, handing me my handkerchief back. It was now thick with soot and grease. I threw it on the floor of the car.

  ‘Give the engine a try,’ he said cheerily. For a moment I thought he was about to add, ‘You do know how to do that, don’t you?’ and although I suspect he was tempted, he restrained himself. I sat in the driver’s seat and turned the ignition. The car whirred and whined for a moment and then remarkably coughed its way into life.

  The old gentleman beamed and he slapped down the bonnet. ‘There you are,’ he said. ‘They only need a little care and attention and they’ll serve you well. I recommend that you have her serviced pronto and get the garage to replace the carburettor. That done, it’ll keep going for a few years yet.’

  ‘I don’t know how to thank you,’ I said, reaching for my wallet.

  Spotting this gesture, he held up his hand. ‘No, no. I don’t need thanks. It was a pleasure for me to get my hands on one of these old machines again. I don’t get a chance these days. It’s shank’s pony for me now. It was my pleasure.’ He patted the bonnet affectionately. ‘Goodbye, sir, and happy motoring.’

  Without another word he walked off stiffly down the street with a jaunty gait.

  I did not wait until my mechanical good Samaritan had disappeared into the throng of pedestrians, before revving up my old jalopy and driving off at speed. My watch informed me that I had less than ten minutes to reach Lambeth Bridge.

  I could hear the sonorous tones of Big Ben striking the hour as I raced down Horseferry Road, my heart beating like a rumba band and a fine sheen of sweat on my brow. At the junction with Millbank, I pulled in at the kerb and jumped out. I soon clocked the telephone box across the road and there was someone inside. From where I was standing I could not make out whether it was David or not. With as much nonchalance as I could muster, I crossed the road and made my way towards the box. As I sauntered past, I saw, to my relief, that the occupant was indeed David. I hadn’t missed him. I sent up another prayer of thanks to my mechanical good Samaritan.

  I returned to my car and sat inside watching the box.

  Time moved on, but David remained where he was. Was it a very long call or no call at all? Was the whole thing a trick? Only time would bring the answers; all I could do was sit and wait.

  And then at about ten past six, a heavily built man approached the telephone box and entered. His actions were so deliberate and calculated, that it was clear to me that he knew that David was in there. My God, I thought, it’s Northcote. He’s come in person for David. There was to be no phone call. My mind was a whirl. What was I to do? Attempting to rescue David from this situation would bring its own problems. Northcote still had Sheila somewhere and we had to find out where.

  After a while the door of the telephone box opened and David and Northcote emerged. They walked slowly across the road towards the bridge and then stopped at the rear of a car. Northcote opened the boot, said something to David who then appeared to be inspecting inside it. He leaned forward so that half his body disappeared from view. Then to my horror, I saw that he clambered inside the boot and Northcote with a triumphant gesture slammed the lid down imprisoning my friend.

  Gazing around him briefly to see if he had been observed, he got in the car. Immediately, I switched on my engine and revved up. I must not lose this monster: two people’s lives depended on me.

  As Northcote pulled away from the curb into the thin stream of traffic, I shot forward at some speed so that by the time we were across the bridge I was only one car away from him.

  Luckily for me, Northcote did not seem to be in a hurry and he drove at a moderate speed. This was reassuring for it meant that he had no idea that he was being followed.

  We passed the Oval cricket ground and headed in the direction of Kennington and the maze of domestic avenues in this area. Northcote had just turned down one of these streets when it happened. Or to be more precise: it happened again. The strange gurgling and hissing sound under the bonnet returned with even greater ferocity than before. This then was followed by the strange juddering motion of the whole vehicle. Suddenly, I was driving a bucking bronco. These gyrations were a brief precursor to the whole machine gasping to a full stop. Obviously, my mechanical good Samaritan had only managed a temporary repair.

  I pulled the little lever to release the bonnet and peered inside. There was no way I was going to be able to repair the fault this time. I could not even identify the carburettor.

  I swore. Northcote’s car had disappeared from sight. I had lost him. And I had lost any chance of saving David and his wife from fates that were unimaginable.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  David lay in the back of the swaying vehicle in a cramped foetal position. He had never felt as helpless in his life. He had no idea where he was being taken or what fate was in store for him. He was fairly sure that Johnny was not on his tail. There had been no sign of him when he and Northcote had left the phone box. Only a bloody miracle could save him and Sheila now and as he wasn’t the least bit religious, he didn’t believe in miracles.

  After about fifteen minutes, Northcote’s car came to a stop. David could hear the scrunch of tyres on gravel as it did so. He waited in tense anticipation for the boot lid to rise, for the evening light to flood in and for Northcote to release him from his cramped prison. But nothing happened.

  He banged on the boot lid but there was no response.

  There was no response, because Northcote had gone into the house. He wanted to check on his prisoner inside first, to be certain that everything was as he had left it. He opened the bedroom door and saw that Sheila was lying on the floor. She obviously had made some desperate attempt to free herself of her bonds and in doing so had toppled off the bed. He found this amusing and chuckled in response.

  Sheila, still hooded with the pillow case aware of a presence in the room wriggled and made a gagging sound but because of the tape across her mouth the words were indistinguishable.

  Northcote pulled the pillow away from her head and lifted Sheila back onto the bed. Her eyes were wide with fear and wet from crying. This also pleased Northcote. Inducing fear was always a delight to him. He smiled as he ran the back of his hand down her cheek.

  ‘Not long now,’ he said softly.

  Sheila gave a croak of fear.

  ‘Now you stay there like a good girl and then I’ll give you a big surprise. One I’m sure you’ll like.’

  His smile broadened as he left the room. He was pleased with himself. This was all going rather well, he thought. He couldn’t remember when he had felt so happy, so fulfilled. And soon, he was sure, he would feel even happier when he was cutting up the flesh of Mr and Mrs Llewellyn.

  * * *

  In the sitting room, he poured himself a drink and lit a cigarette. With a sigh of pleasure, he slumped in an armchair. A moment’s relaxation, contemplation before the fun of the evening. But he was too excited to relax fully. He stubbed the cigarette out before it was half-smoked and he abandoned the drink after only a few sips. He really wanted to get on with the show.

  It was quite dark out now. The moon was hidden by clouds and there were few stars visible; it was onl
y the lights from the house that dimly illuminated the drive way and the car. Knife in hand, Northcote raised the lid of the boot. The sight that met his eyes made him gasp and almost drop his weapon.

  The boot was empty.

  * * *

  After the car had been standing still for some minutes, David called out. At the top of his voice, he bellowed out the word, ‘Help!’ several times. The word reverberated dully in the airless confined space. There was no response. No rescue. But then again there was no attempt to silence him. Northcote must have left him for some reason – abandoned him.

  That was good news.

  Somehow David knew he had to take advantage of this hiatus. He reckoned that Northcote would not leave him there for long and so he had to do something quickly. David swivelled his body round in the cramped space so that he had his back against the inside of the boot lid and his feet were pressing on the partition between the boot and the rear seats. With as much force and as much leverage as he could muster he began kicking this partition with both feet. Surely, he thought, it cannot be that secure. At first his blows met with strong resistance, but he persisted, aiming at different portions of the partition to gauge which was likely to be the weakest. Then at last he heard a slick crack, a kind of tearing sound.

  Bingo!

  In the darkness, he grinned and renewed his efforts.

  Slowly but with a pleasing surety, the partition began to give way.

  The more he was able to drive it forward, the greater the force he was able to use to break down this barrier. Finally, with a satisfying crack, David’s particular wall of Jericho came tumbling down. The seat fell forward providing a jagged aperture through to the rear of the car.

  He swivelled his body round, and like a burrowing mole, pushed his way through. Within seconds he had clambered over into the front seat and was out of the car.

  He stood briefly to catch his breath and fill his lungs with the cool evening air. And then, as he gazed around, he was amazed to find himself in his own driveway. He was back home. What the hell? For a moment, he thought he was having an hallucination, but a movement inside the house brought him rapidly to his senses. It was probably Northcote coming for him. He dodged to the side of the door of the house out of sight and waited.

  * * *

  The boot was empty. Northcote leaned forward and saw the gaping, damaged partition – his prisoner’s escape route.

  ‘You won’t find me in there,’ said a voice behind him.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  I swore again and to ease my frustration further I kicked the bumper of the accursed car. Both actions did not really help my sense of despair – and I hurt my foot in the process. Foolishly, in desperation, I looked under the bonnet once more. It was pointless. I certainly couldn’t work the conjuring trick that the bowler-hatted gentleman had performed so niftily and effectively. Clean the carburettor or whatever he’d done. Perhaps I should have watched him carefully and then I could try to mimic his actions. I should have taken Barry Forshaw’s advice and taken the little sporty number. I bet that little thing wouldn’t have let me down, like this old crate. For a few seconds my mind whirled around such stupid thoughts while my heart thumped desperately within my breast. A little confused, I may have been, but I was fully aware how desperate and apparently hopeless my situation was. What on earth was I going to do?

  The road was quiet. There was no traffic. No motorist chugging by whom I could flag down and persuade to give me a lift. Give me a lift? Where on earth to?

  I had no idea.

  Then my eyes fell upon the road name plate on the wall opposite. Sycamore Rise.

  They lingered on it for a while and then a certain dim recognition came to me. Sycamore Rise.

  Sycamore Rise!

  The name reverberated in the cobwebbed passages of my memory. I knew that name. Somehow. I had heard it before. Where? How?

  I was aware of the phrase ‘to cudgel your brains’ before but I’d never really known what it meant – or the real effect of it until that moment. Here I was on a dark spring evening staring at a road sign, repeating it over and over again, cudgelling my tired brains in an attempt to remember…

  Sycamore Rise.

  It was a misnomer as the road did not ‘rise’ perceptively and certainly from where I was standing there were no sycamores in view. This was an observation that I’d had before. Sycamore Rise – silly name, I’d thought.

  Of course!

  The cudgelling had worked. It came back to me. I had been down this road before. And, yes, suddenly I knew that it led into Chestnut Avenue from which one could reach Oak Road and from thence one could turn down Larch Close.

  And Larch Close was where Detective Inspector David Llewellyn lived! I could see it now in my mind’s eye: a very smart modern villa situated down a long tree-lined drive. I knew because I had visited him on a couple of occasions in the early days of the war just after setting up as a private detective.

  Then the terrible implication struck me. My God, I thought, the fiend was taking David home. He must be holding Sheila prisoner there. As this notion came to me as frighteningly fast and violent as a lightning flash, I felt both excited and horrified in equal measure.

  It was then that my natural instincts took over from my brain and within seconds I found myself running – running as if all the devils in hell were on my trail. The neat suburban houses of Sycamore Rise swept past me in a blur as I raced along the pavement heading for Chestnut Avenue, my feet pounding hard on the flagstones. Inconsequently, I chided myself for being so unfit. Fags and booze had certainly taken a toll on my fitness. Nevertheless, I increased my speed, sweat drenching my shirt and my heart fighting to burst free of my chest. I ran that evening as I have never run in my life before.

  At least now I knew where I was going. What I would find when I got there I did not know, but the thought filled me with dread.

  THIRTY-SIX

  The boot was empty. Northcote leaned forward and saw the gaping, damaged partition – his prisoner’s escape route.

  ‘You won’t find me in there,’ said a voice behind him.

  David had not expected Northcote to react with such speed and violence. He had thought that the shock of finding the boot empty would have confused his captor and therefore slowed his reactions.

  But this was not the case.

  Swiftly and with a nimbleness that belied his size, Northcote swung round on the balls of his feet with great alacrity and lunged at David with the knife. To his dismay, David was the one who was caught by surprise and although he pulled back swiftly and dodged sideways in an attempt to avoid the sharp blade, he was not quick enough to go beyond Northcote’s reach. The knife pierced his shoulder, the blade going in deep. David felt a searing hot pain and he dropped to his knees, his vision blurring. Suddenly he was aware that his mouth was filled with vomit and before he could expel it, he collapsed unconscious on the gravel drive.

  Northcote stood over him, legs apart like a grisly colossus and laughed.

  * * *

  When David recovered consciousness, the first thing that he became aware of was the searing pain in his shoulder. Gradually as his vision and memory asserted themselves, he became aware that he was in his own kitchen. He was sitting facing the table on which lay the body of his wife, Sheila. She was dressed only in her brassière and knickers and had tape across her mouth. She wasn’t moving but it was clear from the rise of her chest that she was alive.

  David made to go to her. It was only then he realised that he was bound tightly to the chair.

  ‘Just sit where you are. Don’t try to move, Inspector. I’ve had enough trouble with you already.’

  The voice came from behind him. It was Northcote.

  ‘I’ve arranged a ringside seat for you, Inspector,’ said Northcote, moving round to face him.

  ‘You swine, let me go.’ David knew that his words were impotent. The man was cruel and he was mad. Nothing but a bullet through the heart would stop hi
m now.

  ‘Let me explain what I intend to do so that the anticipation of the event will bring you as much anguish, discomfort and pain as possible. Almost as much as the event itself. But I can assure you that it will be spectacularly upsetting. You see, I really want to make you suffer, really suffer. It is because of you I festered away in a little white cell for eight years – eight long years. Have you any concept what that is like? To wake up each morning knowing that you will be staring at the same blank four walls for the rest of the day. There will be no one to talk to or be with. The same – day after day after day. That is your life, if you can call it life. There is no one to talk with. No one to share things with. There is just nothing. The brain atrophies and the bitterness grows. It festers, Inspector and becomes focused. It focused on you – because it was you who gave me that fate and indeed nothing I can do to you can possibly make up for the pain and distress I suffered. They say that revenge is a dish best served up cold. Well, Inspector, this one is going to be particularly icy.’

  Northcote chuckled at his own conceit and walked over to a kitchen cabinet near the sink. Here rested an instrument case which he opened and extracted a long shiny scalpel. He ran it gently across face of his thumb causing fine line of scarlet to appear. He sucked it noisily.

  He grinned. ‘Nice and sharp. A very efficient slicing tool.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’ David could hardly make his mouth work and these words emerged almost as a hoarse whisper.

  ‘I am so glad you asked me that. Fear not, it is my intention to explain everything to you in great detail.’

  Holding the scalpel aloft, he moved to the kitchen table and stood over the inert form of Sheila Llewellyn. For a moment he looked down at her, lost in dark thoughts his eyes lit with a wild fire and then after a moment he broke his gaze and turned to David.

  ‘Lovely smooth arms your wife has got, Inspector. And that is where I intend to start.’