‘The evil that men do lives after them …’
— Julius Caesar, Act III, Scene II
At 6.35 David Blake walked from his house, climbed into the waiting XJS and started the engine. Despite the relative warmth of the evening, the sky was a patchwork of mottled grey and blue. Away to the north clouds were gathering in unyielding dark formations and Blake wondered how long it would be before the impending storm arrived. As if to reinforce his supicions, a distant rumble of thunder rolled across the sky.
He guided the Jag out into the street and swung it right.
He didn’t see Kelly.
She had been standing about twenty yards further down the street for almost an hour, watching and waiting, the key to Blake’s front door clutched in her hand.
Now she watched as the XJS pulled away, disappearing around the corner.
As if fearing that he might return, she paused for another five minutes then began walking briskly towards the house, not hesitating as she made her way up the path, attempting to hide the anxiousness in her stride. She reached the front door and pushed in the key.
‘He’s just gone out.’
She gasped aloud as she heard the voice, turning to discover its source.
Kelly saw the middle-aged man who lived next door to Blake. He was struggling to hold his Alsatian under control, the large dog pulling on its leash as if threatening to tug the man off his feet. He stood there, watching as Kelly turned the key in the lock.
‘! don’t know where he’s gone,’ the man persisted.
She smiled as politely as she could manage.
‘It’s all right, I’ll wait,’ she told him and stepped inside.
Through the bevelled glass of the front door, Kelly could see the distorted image of the man next door. He appeared
to be standing staring at the house but, after a moment or two, he moved on.
She sighed and moved quickly across the hall to the staircase, scuttling up the steps towards Blake’s bedroom.
She paused outside the door, aware of a slight chill in the air but she ignored it and walked in. The silence swallowed her up and she was aware only of the sound of her own heart beating.
Kelly moved around the bed to the cabinet, her eyes fixed on the ornate gold key in the lock of the bottom drawer. She dropped to her knees and turned it.
It was almost seven o’clock by the time she left the house. As she clambered into the Mini she guessed that the drive across London would take her forty-five minutes if she was lucky. She prayed that the traffic wouldn’t be too heavy. Her heart was still thumping hard against her ribs and she took a tissue from her handbag to wipe the moisture from the palms of her hands.
As she dropped the bag on to the passenger seat she noticed how heavy it was.
The .357 Magnum nestled safely inside.
Blake turned up the volume on the casette and drummed on the steering wheel as he waited for the lights to turn green. Traffic in the centre of London was beginning to clog the roads but the writer seemed unperturbed by the temporary hold-up. The show he was due to appear on was going out live but he looked at his watch and realized he’d make it in time. He smiled as he saw the traffic lights change colour.
Another fifteen minutes and he would be at the studio.
Another ominous rumble of thunder shook the heavens. The storm was getting closer.
Kelly looked first as the dashboard clock and then at her own watch. She drove as fast as she was able in the streams of traffic, slowing down slightly when she saw a police car cruise past in the lane next to her. Almost without thinking, she reached over and secured the clasp on her handbag, ensuring that the revolver didn’t fall out. Kelly could feel the perspiration on her back and forehead, clinging to her like
dew to the grass.
She guessed that Blake must have reached his destination by now.
Another glance at her watch and she estimated it would be over ten minutes before she caught up with him.
The first spots of rain began to spatter her windscreen.
By the time Kelly reached the Thames Television studios in Euston Road the rain was falling in torrents. Large droplets of it bounced off the car and she squinted to see through the drenched windscreen. Her wipers seemed quite inadequate for the task of sweeping away the water which poured down the glass.
She found a parking space then jumped out of the car, picking up her handbag.
She sprinted towards the main entrance, slowing her pace as she saw a uniformed doorman barring the way. A thought crossed her mind.
What if he wanted to search her bag?
She held it close to .her and looked at him warily but his only gesture was to smile happily at her. Kelly smiled back, as much in relief as anything else.
The man opened the door for her and she walked inside the vast entry-way.
‘Could you tell me which studio David Blake is in?’ she asked.
‘Who?1 he said.
‘David Blake,” she repeated. ‘He’s a writer. He’s taking part in a discussion programme tonight at eight. I hope I’m not too late.’
‘Oh yes, that’s Studio One, they started about ten minutes ago. It’s that way.’ He hooked a thumb in the general direction.
Kelly walked past him.
‘Just a minute. Miss,’ he called.
She froze.
‘Have you got a ticket?’ he wanted to know.
She opened her mouth to speak but he continued.
‘There’s a few seats left. If you see that young lady behind the desk, I’m sure she’ll be able to help you.’ He smiled and indicated a woman who was sitting beneath a large framed photo of a well-known comedian.
Kelly asked for a ticket.
‘I’m afraid that the programme in Studio One is being transmitted live,’ said the other woman, apologetically. ‘It’s not normal policy to allow members of the audience in while the show is on.’
‘Damn, my editor will kill me,’ said Kelly, with mock exasperation. ‘I’m supposed to cover this show for the paper, talk to the guests afterwards.
We’re doing a feature on one of them this week.’
‘Do you have your press card with you?’ asked the receptionist.
‘No, I don’t, I was in such a rush to get here I …’ She shrugged, wondering if the ruse would work.
The woman ran an appraising eye over her.
‘Which paper?’ she asked.
‘The Standard,’ Kelly lied, it is very important.’ She played her trump card.
‘You can call my editor if you like.’
The woman thought for a moment then shook her head.
‘No, that won’t be necessary. I think we can get you in.’ She called the doorman over. ‘George, can you show this lady into Studio One. But they are on the air at the moment.’
The doorman nodded, smiled politely at Kelly and asked her to follow him. She swallowed hard, trying to control her breathing as they made their way up a long corridor. The walls on either side bore framed photographs of celebrities past and present. Kelly felt as if she were being watched, scrutinised by each pair of monochrome eyes, all of whom knew her secret. The .357 suddenly felt gigantic inside her handbag and she hugged it closer to her, watching as the doorman paused beneath a red light and a sign which proclaimed: STUDIO ONE. He opened the door a fraction and peered inside.
‘Keep as quiet as you can,’ he whispered and led Kelly into the studio.
