Peter Lovesey - Upon A Dark Night

She made it to the other side. Doreen had already secured the cab. They collapsed into the rear seat. The taxi moved off.

She grasped Doreen’s arm. ‘Thank God for that.’

Doreen did not respond. She had turned and was staring out of the rear window.

‘What is it?’ Rose asked, alarmed again.

‘Nothing.’ Doreen turned to face the front, flicking the loose hair from her face. ‘Just my nerves.’

Not entirely believing her, Rose took a look herself. There was only a blue mini behind them, followed by a white van. It was a red car she dreaded seeing. A big red Toyota.

‘The way he looked at me,’ she said aloud, with a shudder.

When they drew up outside the house in St James’s Square, there was no other car behind them.

‘You’ll come in, won’t you?’ Rose insisted.

Doreen nodded whilst finding her money for the fare.

Rose waited, looking sharply left and right. Just then a red Toyota saloon nosed into the Square from the St James’s Street side.

‘Doreen!’

Doreen heard the shout and guessed what it meant. She didn’t wait for change from the note she’d given the driver. Without even a glance along the street, she stepped to the front door, unlocked and ushered Rose inside and slammed the door.

‘I think it was him.’

‘Darling, red cars are two a penny.’

They went down the stairs to the basement. ‘How are you doing? I’m shattered,’ said Rose.

‘Me, too. I’ll make tea. Calm our nerves.’

‘Don’t you dare put anything in it. He’s out there somewhere and I want to be alert.’

‘Now cut the crap, Rose. You’re safe with me.’ For the normally demure Doreen, this was strong talk.

Over tea, they assessed the position. Rose insisted she had seen the red car entering the Square as they were getting out of the taxi. Doreen pointed out that even if it were the same car – which was unlikely – and even if the driver had spotted them going into the building – which she doubted – he had no way of entering without a key and he didn’t know which flat they were using. There was someone else’s name against the doorbell, two names, in fact, left by the previous tenants.

‘Could I move in to your boarding house?’

‘Not possible,’ said Doreen. ‘All the other rooms are booked.’

‘Is it nearby?’

‘Of course. Just round the corner, in Marlborough Street. I was going to show you, wasn’t I, but we missed the chance.’

‘It isn’t safe here any more. I’m going back to Hounslow.’

‘We’ve been through that, Rose. You’re not going anywhere without us, and Jerry’s in no state to travel. I’ll tell you what I’ll do. In the morning, I’ll ask at the tourist office. They may have another flat on their list. But you’ll be lucky to get a place as nice as this.’

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.