Authors: Merryn Allingham
F
or several minutes after it happened, Sweetman found himself in a state of panic. A double murder was something he hadn’t foreseen, but he’d had no choice. He’d tried hard to persuade Mishra that his plan was the very best, better by far than the failed kidnapping. But his companion had been stubborn, had threatened to go to the police, give himself up, rather than be implicated in Chandan Patel’s death. He shouldn’t have been surprised. For some time he’d fancied the man felt no real commitment to the cause, not in the way he did. And, when it came to the crunch, his fellow conspirator had flunked it, as he’d always suspected. Sweetman had been left alone to carry out orders. Better alone, though, better than having Mishra alongside, constantly questioning, constantly squeamish. But if the man wasn’t with him, he was against him, and a danger that had to be stopped. He hadn’t meant to kill, not really. But he’d been in a fury and the knife had been to hand and … it was better like that. It had a certainty about it and he liked certainty.
Hari Mishra wouldn’t be missed. Since they’d been in
England, the man had hardly gone out of the door. Just that one journey when they’d tried to kidnap Patel. No one even knew he lived here, only the man above and he was in no position to squeal now. He’d been frantic, wondering how best to dispose of the body when Minns had walked down the stairs and spoiled everything. Why choose to arrive at just that moment? It was almost as though the man had been trying to catch Sweetman out. There’d been nothing for it but to silence him immediately. He couldn’t have him go to the police, any more than he could have allowed Mishra. He’d be a wanted man, watched for by every blue helmet in London. It was crucial to keep a low profile, if he was to do what he intended. Remain anonymous. Until the day after tomorrow. But how, with two dead men on his hands? He had to get rid of them, cover his tracks, until he’d accomplished his mission. After that, he didn’t care what happened to him.
He forced himself to be calm. His face was running with sweat, his hands shaking and sticky. But a few swigs from the whisky bottle he’d kept hidden set him straight. He slumped down in the chair and thought very hard. The old woman on the ground floor had been moved last week into a nursing home. If she’d been around, he’d have had no chance. That at least was good news. If he could have just walked out of the house and left the bodies behind a slammed door … At any other time he could have done that, but by ill chance tomorrow was the day of the week that the landlord collected his rents each week. The man
was meticulous in his timing, letting himself in to the house and knocking at the door of each lodging room at three in the afternoon to demand his money. There was blood everywhere, in the room, on the stairs, by the front door. He couldn’t risk the landlord seeing and going to the police before he’d had time to deal with Patel. Somehow he had to stop him coming.
Then he knew what he had to do. He could always count on his brain to come up with the right solution. Really, he’d been wasted trying to train that idiot, Mishra. He would set off a bomb. There were hundreds of bombs all over London, dropped by the Luftwaffe but lying dormant until disturbed by some unfortunate. He would keep the landlord at bay with a bomb blast. For a while it would cover up the murders, hopefully leaving the dead men in fragments and making identification difficult. The post-mortems would eventually show they’d been murdered, though post-mortems were sketchy these days when so many people were dying, but even if that happened, the bomb would confuse matters and the police enquiry would be delayed. He took another swig of whisky. He’d do more. He’d make it look like the Minns chap had killed his fellow tenant by putting the gun in his hand, and then set off the bomb to cover the evidence. Eventually, they would discover there’d been a third tenant, but it would sow more confusion and more delay. And delay was what he needed.
It was lucky that he hadn’t told Hari about the bomb.
Each night after his companion had gone to bed, he’d assembled it bit by bit from the instructions he’d been handed. He’d had an idea that if all else failed, they might use it to deal with the envoy. But he couldn’t be sure that Patel would be near enough to the explosion to be injured, and he’d abandoned the idea in favour of a kidnapping. Now the bomb could come into its own. He only hoped it was big enough to tear the house apart.
Daisy saw him almost immediately, walking towards her across Charterhouse Square, weaving a path through the newly leafing trees. As he drew near, he held out his arms to her, but she didn’t respond and he allowed them to fall slackly by his side.
‘Daisy?’ He seemed nonplussed.
‘I’m afraid I can’t talk for long. I’ve only a few minutes and then I’m due back on the ward.’ Her voice was deliberately controlled and she stopped several feet away, looking past him and across the square.
‘I don’t pretend to know what’s going on,’ he said quietly, ‘but at least look at me.’
That forced her to face him directly and his expression, stunned, hurt, made her stomach clench. ‘Something has happened,’ he said. ‘Tell me.’
‘It’s nothing … No, it’s everything.’
She couldn’t tell him about Willa. He would say all the right things, of course. How sad, such a tragedy, so
young, but he wouldn’t understand. Not how despairing she felt. Not how meeting again, she was riven with guilt at how much time she had lavished on him and how little on Willa.
‘You’re sounding cryptic. How about some explanation?’
‘I don’t mean to be. I’ve had time to think, that’s all.’
‘And what have you thought?’ His expression was anxious but the words were sharp-edged.
‘I enjoyed our evening at the Ritz,’ she began.
‘Night,’ he put in.
‘Night then.’ She dug her toes into the grass. ‘I’m truly grateful for what you’ve done for Gerald. And for me. With Gerald gone, I can get on with my life again.’
She stopped speaking and the silence was intense. Even the birds had ceased chattering to listen. ‘I
am
grateful,’ she repeated, and then in a rush, ‘but I don’t think we should see each other again.’
She was stumbling, she knew, acting blindly, but she had to find a way out. All the bad things that had ever happened to her were forcing her to walk away.
‘You surely don’t mean that.’ His bafflement was complete.
‘I do. I think it’s best—for both of us. Please don’t be angry or try to persuade me differently.’
‘But why? Why this complete change? Two days ago I thought …’ His voice trailed off. He was struggling to make sense of the situation and not doing very well.
‘I thought so too,’ she said. ‘But I’ve decided otherwise.
When I had time to think more clearly about the future, our being together didn’t seem such a good idea.’
‘But why for God’s sake?’ He was still struggling. ‘Is it because you’re still married? I know there are difficulties, but they’re not insurmountable. There is such a thing as divorce. It’s not pleasant, I grant you, but sometimes it’s the right thing to do.’
‘It’s not because of Gerald.’
Grayson deserved an explanation but she couldn’t give one, not one that he could understand. Not one, even, that she could understand. Taking a deep breath, she began again, ‘I can’t say more but please accept my decision.’
‘I should be able to, shouldn’t I? After all, it’s not the first time you’ve changed your mind.’ There was the very slightest tinge of bitterness to his voice and she saw his lips tighten into a thin line. He was hurting, she knew, hurting badly, and her determination almost buckled.
‘I know it’s not what you want to hear,’ she hurried on, ‘but in time you’ll come to see it’s the right thing—for both of us.’
He walked a few paces away, his hands thrust deep in his pockets. Then he turned and walked back to her. ‘I really don’t understand you.’ His clear blue eyes were unreadable. ‘I thought I did. I hoped I did. But this—’
‘Goodbye, Grayson.’ She held out her hand but he refused to take it. ‘I hope you have a good war. Keep safe.’ There was nothing more she could say or do.
‘That’s it, is it?’ His tone was cold and crisp as she turned to go.
‘Yes, that’s it,’ she said, and walked back into the Home, her tears beginning in earnest as the door shut behind her.
Bertie Sandford looked up surprised when Grayson strode into their shared office the next morning looking like thunder.
‘Lost half a crown and found sixpence?’ he asked.
Grayson didn’t answer, but sat down at his desk, and began to thump through a pile of papers without reading a word.
‘You met your girl then?’ Sandford sucked lazily at his pipe. When Grayson remained mute, he tried again. ‘Don’t tell me, she’s given you the heave-ho. Well, what do you know?’
‘What
do
you know?’ Grayson asked belligerently.
Bertie leaned against the sludge-coloured wall, one hand opening a box of matches and the other waggling his pipe at Grayson. ‘Only that you’ve been chasing a dream, old man, and one that was bound to end in disaster.’
Grayson’s shoulders hunched. He didn’t need this, particularly from a man who’d only ever felt love for himself.
‘I told you,’ Bertie went on unwisely, ‘it’s never a good thing to venture too far out of your circle. I’m sure this Dora—’
‘Daisy,’ he snarled.
‘This Daisy, then, is a nice enough girl, a good-looker too no doubt, but she’s not right for you. Never has been.’
‘Would you care to elaborate?’ Grayson’s tone suggested this was unlikely to be a sensible thing to do.
‘I tried to tell you weeks ago. When she swanned into your life again but you were so puffed with excitement at meeting her, you wouldn’t listen. You’ve been a crazy man, getting involved in her schemes, risking your career, your future. Madness! If Carmichael hadn’t given you
carte blanche
, you’d be stuffed good and proper.’
‘But I’ve not been.’
‘Luckily for you. My point is that you could have been. And still might be. And this girl, Daisy, now she’s got what she wanted, is off. I’m right about that?’
When Grayson didn’t answer, Bertie nodded sagely. ‘I thought so. That type of girl always is.’
‘What type of girl?’ His voice was dangerously brittle.
Bertie got up from his desk and strolled across to his colleague. ‘It’s not her fault that she’s used you.’ His voice oozed unwanted sympathy. ‘That’s how her sort operate. Let’s be frank, old man, she’s not your class. She wouldn’t fit in. You’d never be able to take her home to Mother, would you?’
‘You talk bullshit, Sandford. And you’re a raging snob.’
‘I’m just being realistic. Think about your home, your school, your career. It’s not exactly on a par with hers, is it?’
Grayson had never given it much thought. Up until now
it hadn’t mattered. Now suddenly it did. Was Sandford right? That he and Daisy were so far apart they could never make a good future together?
The thought stirred him to anger. ‘What the hell has my background got to do with anything?’ He jumped up from his desk and started across the room.
Seeing the normally cool Grayson striding in his direction, a murderous expression on his face, Bertie abandoned his indolence. Hurriedly, he began to back out of the open doorway and cannoned into the man who was just then coming into the room.
‘Mike, there you are,’ he said with obvious relief. ‘Our friend has a little problem. Perhaps you can help.’ And with that, he glided away.
Michael Corrigan tilted his head to one side. ‘A problem?’
Grayson sighed and walked back to his desk. He slumped into the chair and swung from side to side. ‘She’s dumped me,’ he said baldly.
‘Daisy?’
‘Who else?’
‘Phew. That’s a cruncher.’ Mike walked towards his friend and perched himself on the edge of his desk. ‘I’m sorry, old chap. But how, why?’
‘Will you believe me if I say I’ve no idea? All she’ll say is that she’s thought about the night we spent at the Ritz and no longer feels it’s a good idea we’re together.’
‘Cold feet,’ Carmichael proclaimed. ‘That’s cold feet. She’s dipped her toes and liked the water but now—’
‘She’s got cold feet. I don’t think so, despite your entrancing metaphor.’ For the first time since he’d left Daisy, Grayson’s face wore a slight smile.
‘So why suddenly decide to give you the elbow?’
‘I don’t have an answer. Unless Bertie is right.’
‘Highly unlikely. What does our beloved Bertie say?’
‘That she’s got what she wants from me—the papers for her appalling husband. I handed them over at the Ritz, remember. So she doesn’t need me any more. I can be cast adrift.’ The bitterness was back.
‘That doesn’t sound like the girl you’ve described to me.’
‘It doesn’t, does it, but perhaps I don’t really know her. She comes from a completely different background, as Bertie has been at pains to remark. He can never forget he’s an Eton and Oxbridge man, I know, but he may have a point. Daisy hasn’t talked much about her early life, but quite enough for me to see that it was an “everyone for themselves” kind of set-up. You did what you had to, to survive. Maybe that’s exactly what she’s been doing this time. She needed Mortimer, Minns, out of the way or her life would be in pieces. And I was the only person who could get him out of her life. So she came to me, and when she’d got what she wanted, she left.’
‘But to—to sleep with you. That’s pretty drastic.’
‘It just happened,’ Grayson said wearily. ‘She probably didn’t mean it to go that far, but we were caught in a huge air raid and she was genuinely scared, and …’
He stopped speaking for a moment as a thought caught
at him. ‘Of course, at that stage I hadn’t handed over the papers. That wasn’t until we left. Perhaps she thought sleeping with me would seal the deal.’ There was another pause. ‘I don’t know what to think,’ he finished miserably.
‘You’re suggesting that when she made love to you, she was pretending to care?’
‘No.’ Grayson almost shouted the word. Then repeated more quietly, ‘No. I refuse to believe she was pretending. But whether she was or not, the end result is the same.’