5

Terror

 

“Are you there?” Roger forced himself to be brisk. “Did you hear me?”

After another pause, a girl said huskily, “Yes. Yes, I heard you. Do you—do you know about my sister’s photograph?” The words seemed to come reluctantly, as if she were too tired to speak clearly.

Roger could pretend not to know that the photograph had been this girl’s ‘sister,’ or he could make her realise he knew a great deal. She could ask questions afterwards.

“Yes, I do,” he said. “Where are you?”

She didn’t speak.

“Did you hear me?” Roger felt acutely frustrated, and cold with anxiety. There was no way of checking the telephone she was speaking from unless she gave the exchange and number.

She seemed to stifle a yawn. “I don’t—I don’t know where I am.”

It was almost as if she did not know what she was saying, as if her mind or her memory had gone. The vital thing was to find her, and this might be his only chance.

“Miss Morrison, listen very carefully, will you?” Roger said.

There was a sound like a sigh. “Yes.”

“Is there a number on the telephone in front of you?”

“A—what?”

“A number.”

She paused again, and he had to wait for her. Then she answered, for the first time she seemed to b“Yes, it’s Notting Hill 4785 – I think the last number is 3. Yes, it’s 3. Notting Hill 47853.”

“If we get cut off I’ll know where to telephone you,” Roger spoke quite matter-of-factly, a reassurance in itself. “Are you all right?”

“I—I’m frightened,” Doreen Morrison said. “I’ve been—I’ve been frightened for so long.” There was another pause, before she burst out, “Is Denise all right? Please tell me. How did you get her photograph? Is she all right?”

“I’m going to tell you all about it as soon as I can,” Roger said. “I don’t want to talk much on the telephone. Are you indoors or out of doors?”

“Out of doors,” Doreen said. “I got away from—”

She broke off, with a little gasp.

“Oh, please,” she gasped. “Please.”

Roger felt quite sure that she wasn’t talking to him. For the first time urgency touched with alarm sounded in his voice.

“Doreen! Stay where you are. I will be with you in—”

The line went dead, and stayed dead for perhaps fifteen seconds, before the Yard operator spoke in an agitated voice, “She’s gone, sir.”

“Did you talk to Information?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Put me through to—”

“The Inspector-in-charge is on the line for you, sir.” The girl broke off and Robinson’s calm voice replaced hers.

“I’ve two squad and two patrol cars converging on the call-box. We’ll pick her up. Don’t worry.”

“Where was she speaking from?”

“A call-box at the corner of Nash Street, near—“

“I know Nash Street,” Roger said. “I’ll go straight there.”

He rang off, stretched for his hat, and hurried out. A minute later he was at the door of the nearest sergeants’ room. Three men in a huddle, probably over a smutty joke, all straightened up.

“One of you, take over in my office,” Roger said. “Tell the operator to put anyone who calls about Denise Morrison – know whom I’m talking about?”

“Yes, sir – this morning’s unknown.”

“Right. Have all calls about her put through to you. I’m interested in anyone who knows her as Morrison or Brown, and I want to be able to talk to them tonight. Got that?”

Three big men spoke like eager schoolboys. “Yes, sir.”

Roger went hurrying on.

A constable was standing by his car, and opened it as Roger reached it.

“A bit late going home, sir.”

‘If only I was,’ Roger almost groaned.

In fact, the thought was little more than a reaction; he wanted only to be at Notting Hill Gate for the next half-hour. If anything had happened to the other sister—

Surely it couldn’t.

If Kebble or anyone else said that to him, he would rasp, ‘Don’t be a damned fool.’

Of course it could.

He could hear the girl saying she was frightened; he could hear her saying, “Please, oh please,” in a tone of horror and in desperate pleading.

 

“Please,” Doreen Morrison said with a catch in her voice. “Please don’t take me back to that room.”

The man at the door of the telephone kiosk, a small man with thin, dark hair and a thin, pale face and wishy-washy blue eyes, smiled at her. He had a charming smile; it seemed intended to take a load of anxiety off her.

“You will be all right,” he assured her. “Don’t you want to see your sister again?”

“Yes, yes, but you promised I would see her this afternoon.”

“She was delayed,” the small man said. He took Doreen’s arm, and held it very tightly, tucked under his elbow, so that she had to keep pace with him; if she didn’t, it would hurt. She knew, because he had held her like that before.

He hurried along the narrow street – Nash Street, which led off the main road from Bayswater. There were tall, narrow houses all joined together. Many people thronged the streets, most of them black-skinned. No one took any notice of Doreen or the man. They reached a corner of a street which was even narrower. Here the dim lights at windows and the slightly brighter ones at the street lamps showed the dilapidated houses, front rooms overcrowded with people but with very little furniture.

“Please—” Doreen began.

The man gave her arm a twist. Pain streaked from her wrist to her elbow, shot up to her shoulder. “Oh!”

“Don’t talk any more,” the man ordered roughly.

A car passed. In it were two men who looked like policemen. They glanced at her. She knew that she appeared to be walking happily arm-in-arm with her companion. He twisted again, and she turned her head away from the police involuntarily, because the pain was so great.

The car was a long way off when she was able to look straight ahead again. Fewer people were here – and fewer houses. This was a deserted area, with few buildings standing after the bombing which had devastated so much of London before she had been born.

One house had two lighted windows and a light at the front door; otherwise it was in darkness. The man propelled her towards it. As she drew nearer she felt panic born of the quiet terror which had been with her for so long. She had been in that house for two weeks, almost a prisoner, believing that she had to stay if she wanted to help Denise.

Suddenly, awfully, she knew that Denise was dead.

In that moment, walking against her will through the semi-darkness of the street, she seemed to see the photograph which had been in The Daily Globe more vividly than she had before. Denise was dead; Denise, sleeping, had never looked like that.

They were close to the front door of the house. The small man’s grip on her slackened because they were so near. Out of panic and desperation Doreen felt an upsurge of courage. She must not go with this man. Denise was dead, and anything might happen to her.

She pulled herself free.

She pushed the man and kicked him. He went staggering to one side. She began to run, skirt riding up her slim legs, higher, higher, giving her greater freedom of movement. She raced along. Not many months ago she had run in the State Championships at Adelaide, third in the two thousand yards. She felt like the wind. She did not look round, it might lose her precious seconds. She heard no sound of footsteps in pursuit. As she began to gasp for breath, she felt a great sense of elation.

He wasn’t chasing her. He—

He appeared in front of her, from a side alley. There was a smear of blood on his forehead. He wasn’t smiling; he looked as if he could kill.

“No!” she cried.

She dodged to one side, but he shot out his leg and she tripped. She had not a second to prepare herself, and just crashed down. Surprise and shock were so complete that she did not know even a spasm of fear. She struck her head against the pavement and lost consciousness. She was not even aware that the little man bent down, picked her up, and began to carry her towards the alley which led round the back of the derelict houses.

 

A police car waited at the corner of Nash Street as Roger drew up. A Divisional detective sergeant, a man in his fifties, came up and put his head through the open window.

“Any luck?” Roger demanded.

“Not yet,” the sergeant answered casually.

Roger said harshly, “You mean you’ve lost her.”

“Never had her to lose,” the Divisional man retorted; he was too old a hand to worry too much or be too troubled by a Yard officer in a bad temper.

“Has anyone seen her?” asked Roger.

“Can’t be sure,” the Divisional man replied. “Our chaps and the Flying Squad boys are following several leads. Only a matter of time, Super.”

“Time,” Roger echoed. He sounded as bitter as he felt, and the Divisional man realised something was seriously wrong but did not know what it was. It did not seem to trouble him. Roger opened the door of his car and got out. There was no sense in antagonising this man, who was simply doing a routine job.

His radio sounded, “Calling Superintendent West. Calling . . .”

Roger stretched inside and picked up the receiver.

“West speaking.”

“Information here,” a man said. “Two messages for you, sir. Detective Sergeant Kebble is on his way back from the airport, and will be in your office whatever time you return.”

“Yes.”

“A Mr Lancelot Smith is coming to see you in about an hour’s time – he will have the list of passengers and officers of the SS Kookaburra with him. Should have said that was a message from the city chaps, sir.”

“Good,” said Roger. “Thanks.”

He put back the receiver, only a little less gloomy. They had lost the girl, and there could be no doubt of danger to her. He turned away from the telephone as a car drew up just behind him. He recognised a sergeant of the Flying Squad, but the puzzling thing was that the man was on his own.

As he got out, obviously in a hurry, he recognised Roger.

“Evening, sir. I think we might know where that girl is.”

Roger’s heart began to thump.

“Where?”

“I was going along with another sergeant, and saw her and a man who fits the description put out earlier – the man of London Airport, sir. Short, small chap, pale, thin dark hair. Fair girl was with him. They were walking very close together. She didn’t look as if she was having fun, though.”

“Where’s the other sergeant?”

“Keeping track of them. They’re in Johnson Street.”

“Take me there, will you?” Roger said. He saw the Divisional man’s eyes brighten, and suddenly remembered his Christian name. “Charley, spread the word round – and close in on Johnson Street.”

“Right away!” Charley looked delighted.

Roger got in with the Flying Squad man, who started off as if he would ram any car which got in his way. He swung round one corner, then another, driving with the effortless ease of the expert.

“Describe the girl,” Roger ordered.

“Fair, about five-four, good figure, rather full calves – very general I know, but so was the description.”

“Could be the right one,” Roger agreed.

He was aware of the number of coloured people staring, because the car was moving so fast. They took another corner, missing a cyclist by a foot or so. Roger bit his lip. The squad man slowed down perceptibly, and by the time they reached the next crossroads, they seemed to be crawling. A man appeared from the doorway of a house which was in utter darkness.

Roger recognised a sergeant of the Flying Squad, who spoke before anyone had a chance to speak.

“They’re in that house across the road.”

“Sure?” demanded Roger.

“Positive. Two local uniformed men are at the back, sir.”

The house across the road had lights at two ground floor windows; everywhere else was in darkness except the front door, where a dim light shone through frosted glass panels.

“I’m going over,” Roger said. “Don’t stand on any ceremony if there seems to be any trouble.”

The sergeant who had brought him here said hastily, “Let me go, sir.”

“Not this time.” Roger smiled, and turned in the near-darkness. Nothing would release him from his present tension except action.

The other man was right, this wasn’t a job for a senior officer. But he felt a strange sense of personal involvement, an irresistible compulsion to go himself. It was as if he accepted the full responsibility for making sure that Doreen Morrison did not suffer the same fate as her sister.