To her credit, she stayed for over an hour.
‘Got a grip on your nerves?’ Doreen asked.
‘I’m not nervous,’ Rose retorted. ‘I can assess my situation, can’t I?’
‘You still want to move out?’ Doreen enquired before leaving.
‘Definitely.’
Left alone, she admitted to some qualms, putting out the living-room light in case it could be seen through the high, barred windows at the front. After fixing the safety-chain, she went into the bedroom and tried to interest herself in Georgette Heyer’s regency romance. Another night in this regency basement exercised her imagination much more.
A few times she heard other tenants use the front door of the building and hoped that they closed it properly behind them. There seemed to be people living in the two top flats, but she’d heard nothing from the ground floor above her.
After an hour or so, more to occupy herself than because she fancied food, she went into the kitchen and selected a meal from the packets Doreen had stacked in the fridge. The yogurts, the apple juice and half a dozen eggs hadn’t made it back to the flat; they must have been in the bag she had dropped outside Jolly’s. A happy find for someone, or a nice gooey mess, she thought, trying to smile.
In the twenty minutes it took to heat a quiche, she prepared a salad, taking her time, washing each leaf and chopping everything finely, humming to drown the silence. She had no liking for television, but if the flat had contained a set, it would have provided some background sound.
When it was ready she had only a little of the food, sitting on a stool facing the window over the draining- board. She could be reasonably confident that the grinning man wouldn’t appear on that side of the house. The kitchen was at the rear of the terrace, overlooking an enclosed yard. And since the house was built on a sloping site, the window was a good ten feet above the ground outside. Even so, she glanced at it from time to time.
She threw most of the meal away, washed up and returned to the bedroom to read the book. The evening was passing. In a while she would change into her night clothes. I slept here last night, she told herself, and I can do it again. But you were given a sedative last night, another inner voice reminded her.
She made a pledge with herself that she would read one more chapter before undressing. The clock showed 9.45.
She turned the page and her doorbell rang.
She went rigid.
Be sensible. Think this through. Doreen is the only person who knows you’re here. It’s not that late. Very likely she’s had her evening meal and decided to call in and make sure you’re all right.
She got off the bed and went into the living-room without switching on the light.
But Doreen has the keys, her panicky inner voice reminded her, so she has no need to ring. She could let herself in through the front door.
On the other hand, Doreen may have rung as a kindness to me, just once, to let me know she’s out there, and coming in.
It rang again. Rose’s heart gave such a thump it was painful.
Not Doreen, then. It has to be a mistake, someone pressing the wrong button in the dark. Ignore it. They’ll find the right bell in a moment. Or they’ll give up and go away.
They did neither. There was a pause of about half a minute and then she heard a new sound, of footsteps crossing the pavement. Heavy steps. Surely a man. The visitor had given up ringing and was walking off.
Or was he?
Instead of getting fainter, the steps increased in strength, coming closer. Then she realised why the sound appeared so close. Level with the top pane of the living-room window was a section of the street. Against the railings right outside the window she could see his shoes and the part of his trousers below the knees, caught in the street light. And as she watched, petrified, the legs bent like a drawbridge. First a hand appeared, dangling below the level of the knees, and then a face, at an angle, straining to see into the room.
The grinning man.
She reacted by taking a step backwards. The back of her leg touched a chair and she cried out in terror. The light was off, so it was unlikely he could see her, but she could see him. She dared not move again.
He shone a torch into the room.
The beam picked out the bits of furniture, flicking up and down. Then it found her feet and moved up her body, dazzling her.
She bolted through the door.
He had seen her for sure.
There were iron bars across the living-room window, so he could not possibly get into the flat that way, she told herself, standing in the kitchen, shaking, her hands clasped in front of her.
The bell rang again.
Some chance.
Then she heard a sound like an echo, a fainter ringing, somewhere else in the house. He must have pressed someone else’s doorbell.
It sounded again, faintly, higher in the house.
Then there were footsteps on the stairs. One of the other tenants was coming down to open the door. This was a danger that hadn’t crossed her mind. She had to stop them. They were quick, light steps, still descending.
She ran to the door of the flat and felt for the handle. The door would open only a fraction because the safety chain was in place. She fumbled with the chain in the darkness, wasting precious seconds. When she managed to release it and look out, she was too late. The person from upstairs was at the front door, opening it. She heard him say, ‘Yes?’
She tried slamming her door, but it came to a grating stop – the dangling safety chain caught between the edge and the frame. With a cry of terror, she abandoned it and ran through the flat to the kitchen. There was no back door to this basement. The only means of escape was through the window over the draining board. She didn’t hesitate. The fastening was stiff, but her strength was superhuman at this minute. She thrust the window open, climbed on the draining board and jumped into the dark back yard.
Part Two… Either by Suicide…
Fifteen
Ten days after his hypertension due to underwork was diagnosed, Diamond did something about it. He went to work on a Sunday morning. The average Sunday in a police station is busier than outsiders realise. The rowdies and the drunks emerge from a night in the cells and Saturday night’s alarms and indiscretions are sorted out. Occasionally a serious incident needs investigating. On the other hand, the phone rings less and the top brass are not around. Or not expected to be. Diamond was surprised, not to say shocked, to have the new Assistant Chief Constable walk into his office. On a Sunday morning a man of his rank ought to be sitting in the Conservative Club knocking back malt whisky.
The ACC parked himself in the armchair and said as if he had just discovered the origin of the universe, ‘Have you ever noticed that people here get depressed?’
Diamond frowned. ‘Can’t say I have.’ In case the question was meant personally, he stopped frowning and put on a cheerful front.
‘It’s something to do with the air quality,’ the ACC explained, ‘the fact that we’re surrounded by hills. The air gets trapped. People get listless. Lethargic. Haven’t you ever felt that you needed to get away?’
‘Every day around four-thirty.’
