‘That’s right, yes.’
A daze of realization filled the Chief Inspector’s features as he mentally began piecing things together.
‘Gerry Laytham. Gerald
‘Has Gerry done something wrong?’ the neighbour asked. But Broderick was already waving the other police officers away as he ran to his car.
Sullivan awoke. She had no idea how long she had been under since last she was conscious. The music was still playing, but a different, slower jazz number now filled her awakening senses. She immediately felt less calm and more than a little disoriented. Across the room she could see the back of a man standing by the windows. He seemed to be inspecting a large knife, which glistened in the light of the late afternoon sun. The man turned to reveal himself. Professor Gerald Laytham smiled across at her.
‘Ah, welcome back, Detective Sergeant,’ Laytham said softly. ‘Or may I call you Tamara?’
Sullivan could not speak. Her throat was parched and her heart was pounding.
‘Don’t rush,’ Laytham advised as he walked towards her. He reached for a glass of water from the bedside table and brought it to her lips. Sullivan drank. At last she mustered speech.
‘What do you want?’ she asked.
‘Right now I’ll settle for you changing into the clothing I’ve arranged on the bed for you, Tamara.’ He nodded to the scarlet silk nightdress and dressing gown spread neatly beside her.
‘Why are you doing this?’ Sullivan murmured.
‘Just do as you’re told and change into the clothes. Or believe me, I will kill you where you lie.’ He raised the knife a little. ‘Forgive me for not averting my eyes, Tamara.’
Sullivan pulled herself up to the side of the bed.
‘Look, I really think...’
‘Do it!’ came the ordered response. Laytham’s normally warm, avuncular tone had been replaced by something coldly detached and menacing.
Sullivan recognized the tone. She had interviewed psychopaths in the line of duty and Laytham was clearly in a place where reasoned argument would never reach him.
Moving slowly around the side of the bed, Sullivan looked down at the silk nightdress. As she struggled to control her breathing, she slowly began to unbutton her blouse.
Across the room, Laytham poured himself a large glass of single malt scotch from a bottle on the dressing table. He then turned to watch Sullivan as she disrobed. Sullivan felt his cold intrusive stare upon her as she delicately pulled the nightdress over naked shoulders and slipped on the silk slippers that had been laid out on the floor by the bed. Somehow she had to escape. She glanced towards the bedroom door.
‘Oh, I really wouldn’t contemplate it if I were you, Tamara,’ Laytham said, raising his glass. ‘To your very good health.’ He took a sip of his drink and swallowed. He now moved closer, but stopped a few feet from Sullivan and looked up at a large picture hanging upon the wall. It was a full length portrait of an extremely glamorous woman in a scarlet dress. ‘That’s my mother, you know. They kept that picture hidden away up in the attic.
‘She’s...’ Sullivan tried to speak.
‘Beautiful? Indeed she was Tamara. Indeed she was.’ Laytham mused, his eyes gazing upwards at the picture in an almost trance- like state.
‘Does she remind you of anyone?’he asked.
Sullivan looked once again at the striking portrait hanging above them. The subject of the picture gazed down at them with an imperious look. Her long dark, curling hair tumbled over her shoulders. Her eyes were bright and her lips scarlet and full. She looked every inch a Hollywood movie star. A woman used to getting her own way. But the artist had also managed to capture something else about his subject. There was the slight look of the trapped about her. A wild animal caged.
‘No.’ Sullivan shook her head. ‘I don’t recognize her.’
‘Then you should look in the mirror more often, Tamara. The moment I saw you I felt I had gone back in time. You look just like her.’ Laytham smiled as though this gave him some comfort.
Sullivan looked again, but could not see any real resemblance at all. But it was enough that Laytham had and did. Whatever his warped mind was seeing, she knew it would be best not to disagree with him.
‘Ah, yes’ she responded. ‘ I can see something, now you mention it.’
Laytham stayed looking at his mother’s image as if unable to break the spell it had put him under. Meanwhile, Sullivan weighed up her chances of getting to the door. She might have tried it had her captor not suddenly downed his scotch and moved to the door himself. ‘Shall we, Detective Sergeant?’
Sullivan thought for a moment, then followed Laytham out onto the landing and down the large staircase that led to the main entrance hall of the house. At the bottom of the stairs, Laytham waited for her and then gently took her by the elbow to guide her into the the drawing room. It was a room that Sullivan imagined only existed in stately homes - large, imperious and like everything that was happening to her - frightening. Laytham gestured for her to sit down on the large chaise which dominated the centre of the room. Once more observing the knife in his hand, she quickly obliged. Laytham moved to a large gramophone in the corner of the room and placed a needle on the record spinning on the turntable. Once again the sound of jazz filled the air.
Sullivan was now drawing on all her reserves. She knew she had to do everything in her power not to upset Laytham. One false move and he might lose it and lash out. Staying calm and engaging him in conversation offered her the best chance of gaining time and achieving escape.
She now watched as Laytham moved slowly across the room towards her. As he reached the back of the chaise, he reached out to touch her hair. If the knife had not been held inches away from Sullivan’s throat, she might have taken her chances there and then. Although Laytham was a big man, Sullivan had deduced that she stood as good a chance as any of tackling him successfully. She guessed that Laytham had figured this out also and was taking no chances.
As Laytham continued to stroke his prisoner’s hair, the room suddenly exploded around her. Both the main door to the hall and the French windows, which Sullivan presumed led to the garden, burst open with terrific force and several police officers, led by Broderick and Calbot stormed into the room.
With practised ease and speed, Laytham grabbed Sullivan around the neck, holding the blade of the knife inches from her throat. Broderick immediately waved for his fellow officers to stand back. Both he and Laytham stared into each other’s eyes.
‘Oh, you’re a little early, Inspector Broderick,’ Laytham said, showing no hint of panic or emotion. ‘I’d hoped to have finished my work here before you arrived.’
‘Put the knife down, Laytham,’ ordered Broderick. ‘Let her go.’
‘I’d love to oblige, old chap, but I’m afraid no can do. Please feel free to change the record.’
Broderick nodded to Calbot and watched him move over to the gramophone and stop the record it its tracks.
‘Nice house your cousin had here,’ Broderick said.
‘Evelyn? Oh, yes. Had to do her post-mortem this afternoon. Least I could do for her, really.’
‘Useful, that. Being the pathologist in charge of your own murder victims’ Broderick observed.
‘Oh, yes!’ Laytham smiled. ‘It’s come in rather handy, I must say.’
‘Bryant? Ferra? I take your late cousin as a given, of course.’
‘Oh, no. She was an unfortunate, not to say inconvenient accident. Stupid woman must have taken a tumble. Nothing to do with me.’
‘She wrote ‘help him’ in the dust beside her before she died. I presume she was referring to you, Gerry.’
‘Oh, how sweet. Pure remorse, I’m sure. Pity she and her husband couldn’t have been a little more understanding when I was younger. But I suppose that was because of the shame.’
‘The shame of your father’s conviction?’ Broderick asked.
‘That and the fact that he hung himself,’ Laytham replied. ‘Not the done thing for a pillar of the community, is it? The murder happened in here, you know. In this room. My mother. Stabbed with a knife. In many ways not dissimilar to the one I’m holding to your colleague’s throat at this very moment, Inspector.’
‘Leave her be, Laytham’ Calbot pleaded. ‘ Please.’
Laytham laughed. ‘And why should I do that? I think my feelings about the police are fairly clear by now. It was you and those like you who took my father away from me in the first place.’
