Her hair had been dyed blond and cut in the style of the film star Alice Faye. Bryant leaped up from behind his desk and slapped his arms on the policewoman’s shoulders.
“Forthright! Bless my old socks! What are you doing back here? You’re supposed to be getting hitched and living with the land girls.”
The sergeant pulled off her jacket and gloves, and threw them into a corner. “I had a bugger of a time getting here. The trains are up the spout. I slept in Chatham station last night.” She sighed. “At least I didn’t get around to posting a wedding list. It would have been embarrassing having to send gifts back.”
“What happened?”
“He didn’t want to go through with it.”
“The absolute bastard,” cried Bryant, barely able to conceal the pleasure in his voice. “What reason did he give, if I may be so bold?”
“Oh, the war, of course. He says it’s not right to be thinking about ourselves when there are so many in difficulties all around us. We shouldn’t bring babies into such uncertain times, et cetera. It was me who wanted to make us legal. I didn’t want to risk dying a spinster. We drove down to his parents’ on the last of his petrol, and I suppose I did talk about work quite a lot. We had a bit of a row, and finally came to an agreement. He promised not to mention his constabulary so long as I didn’t talk about the unit. But I couldn’t stay where I wasn’t needed, like some kind of evacuee. I rang the unit to explain and spoke to Mr Biddle. I wanted to warn you that I was coming back.”
“He didn’t tell me,” said Bryant indignantly.
“That’s odd. How’s he working out?”
“He’s not. Look at this, I’m making my own tea from reused leaves.” He fished a half-dissolved sugar cube out of his mug with the pointy end of a dart. “We have to make one lump go around the whole unit because it’s against Biddle’s principles to buy blackmarket demerara. His trial period ends today, thank God. He wants to leave us and go back to the Met, and the feeling’s mutual. Here, I kept your mug just in case.” He poured her half his tea. “Arthur, did you put him off?”
“I bent over backwards to make him feel welcome, the ungrateful little sod.”
“How’s the case?” asked Forthright.
“I’ll have to take you back, I suppose. Just until you can get yourself sorted out.” Having answered an entirely different question, he turned to the window and warmed his hands round his mug, smiling to himself.
“I thought you’d need me,” Forthright said, “what with this latest development.”
He turned, the smile fading. “What do you mean?”
“I picked up the call just as I was coming in. Something strange has happened again.”
? Full Dark House ?
39
THE ABDUCTION
The house in Lissom Grove was set back from the road and surrounded by battered birches. The hedge leading to the front door was so overgrown that it soaked May and Forthright as they passed. They were met by PC Crowhurst, who appeared from the shadowed porch and unlocked the front door for them.
“When was she last seen?” asked May, stepping into the gloomy Lincrusta-papered hall.
“The evening before last, sir. The girl she shares with was away for the night, but the next-door neighbour saw her coming in with shopping bags. She didn’t turn up for rehearsals yesterday. They thought she was taking a day off sick, but when she failed to show again this morning, the other girl who boards here rang the police. I came round and found – well, you’ll see.”
“Who is she?”
“A member of the chorus, name of Jan Petrovic. Sixteen years old. This is Phyllis.”
A slender girl held out her hand. She had ragged blond hair cut to her jawline, and was wearing a man’s rowing sweater several sizes too large for her. “Hello, you’d better come through.” She held open the door to a front room that was cluttered with the possessions of young girls living away from their parents for the first time: dinner plates, stockings, magazines, half-burned candles, a radiogram, some dance records out of their cardboard sleeves. “In there, next door,” said Phyllis, wrapping her thin arms round herself. “I can’t bring myself to look.” Her voice had a soft Wiltshire burr. In the kitchen, a back door led to a small yard. The window above the sink had been shattered. There were several small drying spots of blood on the wooden draining board. May turned and found himself confronted by a shocking crimson smear that arced across the whitewashed wall.
“When did you last see Jan?” asked Forthright.
Phyllis chewed her lip nervously and stayed in the doorway.
“Two days ago. In the morning. I went to visit my boyfriend in Brighton. He’s studying at Sussex College. Jan was getting ready to leave for her rehearsal.”
“How did she seem to you?”
“Pretty much in the pink. We talked about what we were going to do this weekend. She was fed up, but that’s because she’s worried about performing in the show. She’s talked about leaving it before the opening night.”
“Why would she do that?”
“The schedule’s too hard on her. I mean, she’s just a kid, and she bluffed her way into the part. She didn’t think she could handle it. Then this week’s goings-on have been the last straw for her.”
“Have you known her long?”
“No, only a few weeks. I don’t think Petrovic is her real name. She doesn’t like people to know where she’s from. I wondered if she might be Jewish.”
“Do you have a photograph of her?”
“No, but I think they took some publicity shots at the theatre.”
“John, look at this.” Forthright pointed into the corner behind the sink. Two halves of a cup lay in shadow. Beside them stood a short, wide-bladed knife, its tip stuck in the tiled floor, its handle darkly smeared. The DS stepped out of the kitchen, called the unit and asked to speak to Dr Runcorn. “I’ll get someone from FS over right now,” she told May, her hand over the mouthpiece. “You’d better make sure Phyllis is all right.”
May gingerly stepped out of the kitchen’s narrow corner and returned to the lounge.
“I’ve been calling her aunt’s number, but there’s been no answer,” said Phyllis, pacing along the edge of the carpet. “She sometimes goes there when she gets fed up. I didn’t know what else to do. Her mother rang to speak to her and I just couldn’t say where she was.”
“When did you first think she was missing?” asked May.
“I tried calling her when I arrived in Brighton, but assumed she had gone to the theatre. Then when I got back and went into the kitchen I saw the mess.”
May took another look inside the kitchen. “Odd. The break in the window isn’t big enough to let anyone in, so why are there signs of a struggle? It’s not near enough to the back door for anyone to be able to reach in and undo the latch.”
Forthright tested the lock. “The door’s still locked.” She carefully turned, studying the walls. “Maybe he was already inside and she was trying to get out, away from him.”
May returned to the front room. Phyllis was seated with her hands pressed on her thighs, staring blankly at the floor. “When you came in,” he asked, “did you have to unlock the front door from the outside?”
“Yes. The latch is faulty, so you have to double-lock it as you leave or it comes open by itself.”
“What about the back door? Have you touched it?”
“No. I took one look at the kitchen and backed off. Then I called the police and was put through to your department.”
“When was this?”
“About two hours ago.”
“Hang on.” May called his constable in from the front garden: “Crowhurst, come in here for a second.”
“Sir?”
