Duffy (2 page)

Then he walked over to the sink and ran the cold tap. First he washed the blood off his hand, and held it there for a couple of minutes to try and stop the bleeding. After that he filled a kettle and set it to boil. When the steam began to rise from the spout, he took his blue knife, unsheathed the blade, and held it in the steam for about a minute.

When he got back to the lounge the tall man was looking impatient for the first time that afternoon. The back of the woman’s dress was now open.

‘Took yer time.’

The little man held out his right hand and spoke the only two words Rosie McKechnie ever heard him say.

‘Focking caht.’ It was a lighter voice than the other man’s with a strong flavour of Irish in it. A few fresh beads of blood were beginning to pop on his hand as he took the knife in his right hand, laid his left flat on the middle of the woman’s back, bent her forwards, and made a sudden but careful vertical incision in her right shoulder a couple of inches away from the strap of her bra. The pressure on the knife made the blood run again from the little man’s hand; automatically, he brushed it off on the back of the woman’s dress.

The tall man was speaking again.

‘Three inches. The boss said three inches.’ Rosie was bent right forward now, hunched with pain. ‘And three inches it seems to be.’ He crouched down beside the gagged woman and spoke to her almost gently. ‘Lean back, love, you’re only making yourself bleed more like that.’ She sat up, trying not to pull on the wound. ‘Eight to ten, you’ll need, I reckon. Maybe twelve. You’ll be O.K. We could give you some drink if you like.’

She shook her head. She didn’t drink spirits; never had. A glass of brandy now was more likely to make her throw up than the taste of hair cream from the little man’s mask.

‘We’ll be off soon,’ said the tall man.

The little man took the knife back to the kitchen to wash it off. He turned on the cold tap, held the blade under it for a minute or so, dried it on a J-cloth, and returned the knife to his pocket. Then he put his hand under the tap again, though the blood by now had almost stopped coming. With his handkerchief he dabbed dry the three parallel red weals on the back of his hand, and walked across to the cooker with the eye-level spit-roaster. He turned one of the switches to Full, and then wandered thoughtfully across towards the fridge-freezer.

Back in the lounge, the tall man was loosening the stocking over Mrs McKechnie’s eyes.

‘Now, if you shake your head a lot, this should work itself off in a bit,’ he said. ‘Sorry we can’t do more for you, but you must understand our position. We gotta do what the boss says. It isn’t worth anyone’s while not doing what the boss says.’

She heard the sound of the little man returning from the kitchen.

‘All cleared up in there?’ the tall man asked, and got a grunt in reply. ‘Yeah, I’ve wiped here as well,’ he went on, and then turned towards Rosie McKechnie for the last time.

‘Well, so long, Rosie, we’ll be off now. Oh, and, er, hope the stockings fit. Fit someone, anyway.’

A few seconds later the front door closed quietly. Mrs McKechnie felt her dress wet to the waist with her own blood. She scarcely had the strength to shake the gag free from her eyes. Eventually it fell off, and she found herself staring out of the window at her back garden. At least, she thought, they haven’t cut my face. At least they haven’t taken anything. At least they haven’t smashed things out of malice, like burglars are supposed to do. But then, were they burglars anyway? Brian would be home in a few hours; he would be able to tell her what had happened; to tell her why.

When Brian got back from London he thought his wife had burnt the dinner again. A heavy, slow, red-faced man, he stood in the hall puffing from his walk from the station, uncertain whether to go into the kitchen or the lounge first. From the kitchen came a pungent smell of burning, though somehow it wasn’t the charred-dinner smell he’d had to get used to over the years; it was something odder, sharper. It smelt as if mattresses were being singed. From the lounge he could hear muffled sobs: Rosie blubbing again about having spoiled his dinner. Her tears always disarmed whatever irritation he felt on these occasions.

Brian was a considerate husband, and he headed for the lounge rather than the kitchen. A few more minutes’ charring wouldn’t make much difference. Then he saw Rosie tied to the chair. He rushed across to her and was about to put his heavy arms around her when he saw the blood. He untied her mouth gag, then freed her wrists and feet. As he held her head between his palms and kissed her on the cheeks and forehead, she looked at him with the eyes of a lost child and couldn’t manage a word. After a minute or so of this traumatised silence he went to the phone and called his private doctor; then he called the police. As he put the phone down and walked back towards her, Rosie suddenly spoke.

‘Who’s Barbara?’

‘Barbara? I don’t know. Why?’

But she merely replied, ‘Who’s Barbara?’ in a distant voice.

McKechnie frowned and hurried off to try and rescue what was left of the dinner. Barbara was the name of his current mistress. But she was a mistress of only a few weeks – how could anyone have found out? And why bother? What had it got to do with his wife being assaulted? Why were the Georgian candlesticks still safely on the lounge table? Why had nothing been touched?

When he reached the kitchen, he discovered there was something in the house which had been touched. What was revolving slowly on the eye-level spit-roaster was definitely not Brian McKechnie’s dinner.

2

T
HE DOCTOR CAME, INSERTED
thirteen stitches, sedated Mrs McKechnie, and put her to bed. An hour later two policemen arrived, apologising for the delay and blaming it on undermanning; they discovered that the victim was heavily drugged, asked Mr McKechnie a few questions without getting anywhere, told him not to touch anything – ‘What do you mean,
anything?
’ he replied – took a cursory look at doors and windows, and said they would be back the next day.

Mr McKechnie sat over a bowl of Heinz oxtail soup wondering why anyone should want to attack his wife and tell her the name of his mistress at the same time. He wasn’t aware of having any particular enemies. His mistress, who doubled as his secretary, wasn’t married; and though she wore her hair prettily coiled up on the top of her head, smiled at strangers and waggled her bottom more than she needed to when she walked, he wasn’t aware of having any rivals for her affections. Besides, if a rival did come along, Brian wasn’t that attached to her: if she wanted to go, she could. His days of fighting to keep a woman were over. Not, for that matter, that he was in any state to fight. The only exercise he ever took was with a knife and fork; he panted after climbing stairs, sweated a great deal, was moderately overweight, and only the previous year had had a minor, admonitory heart attack.

The next day a detective-sergeant from the Guildford C.I.D. sat on Rosie McKechnie’s bed with a colleague. Gradually they pieced together what she knew; though mostly it was what she didn’t know. A tall man with a roughish Cockney accent and a brown pullover; a short man with a possibly Irish accent who had ‘passed a remark’, as Rosie delicately put it, about Godfrey. The short man might have been called Stanley. There had been two – almost three – deliberate mentions of someone called Barbara. There had been mentions of someone called the Boss.

‘Had any quarrels, Mrs McKechnie?’

‘No – I don’t quarrel. Except with the char. What sort of quarrels?’

‘Oh, arguments, disagreements, you know,
words,
that sort of thing.’

‘No.’

‘Know anyone called Stanley?’

‘Well, there’s Brian’s uncle, but…’

‘We understand, madam. What about Barbara?’

‘I’ve been trying to think. No, no one, absolutely no one.’

‘Well, looks like we’ll have to rely on forensics. Unless your husband can give us any assistance, of course.’

The two policemen walked slowly downstairs with Mr McKechnie.

‘Problems, sir,’ said Bayliss, the detective-sergeant, a sandy-haired, slightly truculent man in a blue suit. ‘Problems. No identification; or none that doesn’t leave us with most of the population of England under suspicion. No dabs, according to my colleague. No theft. No obvious motive, you’ll agree?’

‘None that I can see.’

‘And a particularly vicious crime. Not forgetting the cat, of course. Now the problem is, work of a maniac, pair of maniacs, or not? If it were just the cat, I’d say yes. There are some pretty sick people about. I’ve known maniacs toss cats off high buildings, just for kicks. But spitting and roasting, that’s something new to me. What about you, Willett?’

His colleague thought for a bit about the crimes against felines that he’d come across. ‘I’ve had drownings, and I’ve had, you know, mutilations,’ he replied. ‘I’ve heard about a jerry-can job, but that was some time ago. Nothing like this.’

‘But then you see, sir,’ went on Bayliss, ‘the injury to your wife seemed planned, didn’t it? I mean, they knew her name, they seemed to know when she’d be in, and, if you’ll excuse me, they knew exactly what they intended to do to her. Didn’t they?’

‘You’re the experts.’

‘Yes, I suppose we are. Kind of you to say so, sir. So what I’m driving at, sir, is motive. Now, Willett, what did Mrs McKechnie say they said about this Stanley fellow?’

Willett opened his notebook and turned back a few pages. ‘Something like, “Time for Stanley”, she said she thought the tall one said.’

‘“Time for Stanley”. Almost sounds as if he was letting the other one loose. Sort of letting him off the leash, almost. Know any Stanleys, sir?’

‘My uncle, but…’

‘No, quite. No one else?’

‘Afraid not.’

‘All right. Now, let’s turn to the easy one. Who’s Barbara?’

‘I’ve no idea.’

‘You a bit of a ladies’ man, are you, sir?’

‘What do you mean? Certainly not.’

‘Never played around at all, sir? You must have had your chances, if you don’t mind the phrase. Never stepped out of line?’

‘Certainly not. I’m fifty-five. I had a heart attack last year. I should think the exercise would kill me.’ (It was true, Barbara and he did have to take it a bit easy every so often; it would be a great way to go, he used to think, if only he were able to face the embarrassment. Though of course, he probably wouldn’t be there to face it.)

‘So you and Mrs McKechnie…?’ Bayliss was doubtless referring to the fact that Rosie had her own bedroom.

‘Since you seem to get a kick out of knowing that sort of thing, the answer’s no, actually, we don’t any more. We’re still great friends, though.’

‘I don’t doubt it sir, not for a minute. Now what about your wife? Does she…have any callers?’

‘What the hell makes you think you’ve got the right to ask that sort of question? My wife’s been knifed, she hasn’t been raped. Why don’t you look for the weapon or something? What on earth is the point of this sort of questioning?’

‘Well, you don’t always know that till you get the answers. So, no Stanley, no Barbara; no fannying about; and what about this person called the Boss?’

‘Could be anyone. Everyone’s got a boss.’

‘I suppose that’s true, Mr McKechnie. It’s a funny tale though, isn’t it? I mean, here are these two people who break into your house, assault your wife, kill your cat, and mention three people’s names, and nobody seems to know anything about any of them. Who’s
your
boss, Mr McKechnie?’ Bayliss didn’t seem particularly friendly.

‘I’m my own boss.’

‘Tell us about what you’re boss of, Mr McKechnie.’

McKechnie and Co Ltd. Registered company. Trading head office Rupert Street, W. 1. Importers and distributors of toys, jokes, novelties, disguises, indoor fireworks, magic kits and funny masks. Policemen’s helmets for sale, though strictly in junior sizes. Trade a bit seasonal, low in summer, high towards Christmas, naturally. No business difficulties. Turnover in six figures. Stock in trade held in two small warehouses, one in Lexington Street and one in a little courtyard off Greek Street. A small, profitable, honest business. That was McKechnie’s story.

‘Sounds almost too good to be true, sir. You wouldn’t mind if we came up one day and talked to you at your office?’

‘Of course not. I’m going to stay at home and look after my wife for the rest of the week. You can come and see me, if there’s any point in it, early next week.’

‘That’s very co-operative of you, sir. Now about this end of things. I’ll be sending the police surgeon round tomorrow to have a look at your wife’s wound – see if he’s got any sort of an idea what the weapon was. We’ll take away the cat, if that’s all right with you; and we’d like the dress your wife was wearing too. And if you do remember about any of those names, you’ll let us know, won’t you, sir?’

‘Of course.’

As soon as the police had left, McKechnie called his office. Barbara answered the phone; she was bound to – she was the only person there. He asked her if he hadn’t always been nice to her, and she said he had. He asked her if she’d do him a favour and she said she hoped it was the same one as usual because she enjoyed it. He said no, not this time, you little temptress, it was a bit different. He’d had a few problems which he’d explain to her some other time. He wanted her to close down the office and take three weeks’ paid holiday. No, she could still have her annual three weeks as well, at a later date. No, he wasn’t trying to tell her she was being sacked. Yes, he was still very fond of her. Yes, they’d do that again soon too. Soon, soon. And he’d send a cheque for a month’s salary to her home address.

He made a second phone call, to a temp agency in Shaftesbury Avenue, and asked for a secretary for a couple of weeks, starting the following Monday. Then he sat down and wondered whether he was doing the right thing.

This was on a Tuesday. On the Wednesday the police surgeon came, examined Mrs McKechnie, offered his condolences about Godfrey, and left, muttering about Islamic methods of punishment.

On the Thursday two things happened. The
Guildford Advertiser
came out, with a headline halfway down Page Seven reading:
BIZARRE PET DEATH IN MYSTERY BREAK-IN: MANIACS HUNTED
. And Det-Sgt Bayliss turned up again with Willett in tow.