Ken McClure - Wildcard

‘I think the way the authorities dealt with the problem at Heathrow demonstrates that we can have confidence in the defences currently in place,’ said Rosen.

‘Maybe you should talk to Fred Cummings,’ said Steven under his breath. He watched the rest of the news, then switched off the set. He decided to pack his bag for his trip up to Scotland tomorrow. He made a mental note to buy presents for Jenny and Sue’s children after he’d talked with Macmillan in the morning.

Manchester, England

Miss Warren looked at the luminous numerals on her bedside clock: it was 2.35 a.m. She tried once more to get to sleep by turning on her side and pressing one ear to the pillow while holding the bedcovers to her other but it was no use; the music was too loud. She didn’t know what it was (it was Bruce Springsteen’s ‘The River’) but it had been playing non-stop for the last two hours. She looked up at the ceiling and sighed, feeling more puzzled than annoyed because this was all most unusual; in fact, it had never happened before. It was just not the sort of thing one expected at the Palmer Court flats.

When the music started she had assumed that her upstairs neighbour, Ann Danby, must be having a party. That in itself would be unusual, but maybe it was a special occasion, a birthday, perhaps, or job promotion? But as time went on Miss Warren came to realise that there was no sound of people in the flat above, no clinking of glasses, no party chatter, no intermittent gales of laughter, just that loud, unremitting music.

Although younger than most of the other residents in the flats — somewhere in her mid-thirties, she would guess — Miss Danby had always seemed to fit in so perfectly at Palmer Court. She dressed well, had an executive job — although Miss Warren didn’t know exactly what — and was always polite and courteous when they met in the hall. More than that, she was usually the first to pay her resident’s fees for grass-cutting and lift maintenance and could always be relied upon to turn up at meetings of the residents’ association — which was more than could be said for some of the others.

Miss Warren decided that she couldn’t stand the noise any more: she would have to go upstairs and have a word. She got out of bed, put on her slippers and dressing gown, fastening the belt with a firm tug and a large bow. She stopped to glance at herself in the hall mirror and primped her hair before opening the front door and padding along the landing to the doors leading to the fire-escape stairs. She almost turned tail when she heard voices and concluded that perhaps there was a party after all and the guests were now leaving, but then she recognised a man’s voice, that of George Dale, Miss Danby’s neighbour.

Miss Warren climbed the stairs and pushed open the landing door. George and Lucy Dale turned round. They wore matching dressing gowns in navy with green piping.

‘Whatever’s going on?’ she asked.

‘She won’t answer the door,’ replied Lucy Dale. ‘George has been knocking for the past five minutes. The noise is driving us mad.’

‘It’s not like Miss Danby at all,’ said Miss Warren. ‘Can you see anything through the letterbox?’

George knelt down with some difficulty, holding his right knee and lowering himself gently. ‘Bedroom light’s on,’ he said. ‘God, I feel like a peeping Tom… No sign of movement, though. Miss Danby! Are you there?’

There was still no response after several tries.

‘She hasn’t been well, you know,’ said Lucy. ‘She told me she thought she had flu coming on when I spoke to her the other day.’

‘Do you think we should call the police?’ asked Miss Warren.

Lucy looked doubtful. ‘I don’t like the idea of that,’ she said. ‘Policemen clomping their big boots all over the place. Maybe she just took a sleeping pill and fell asleep with the music on.’

‘If she can sleep through that, she’s the only one!’ snapped her husband. ‘I agree with Miss Warren. I think we should call the police.’

‘Oh dear, I hope it won’t cause bad feelings,’ said Lucy. ‘One hears such dreadful things these days about neighbours falling out.’

‘We’re doing it with the best of intentions,’ Miss Warren reassured her. ‘We’re worried about her welfare.’

As agreed, Miss Warren called the police when she went back downstairs. She did so in a very apologetic way, as she did most things in life, and was told that a Panda car would shortly be on its way. She gave the operator details of her buzzer number so that she could admit the officers when they arrived and then sat by the window. Her heart sank when she saw the flashing blue light appear. Drama was the last thing she or any of the other residents of Palmer Court would welcome, but at least the police car wasn’t making that awful noise.

Miss Warren admitted the two constables and briefed them on what had been happening.

‘And you say there was no response at all?’ asked the elder, PC Lennon.

‘None, and Mr Dale tried several times.’

‘Right, then, Miss Warren, leave it to us.’

The two officers went upstairs, their personal radios crackling with the static created in the steel-framed fire escape.

‘Nice place,’ remarked PC Clark as they climbed.

‘You’d need a few bob to live here,’ replied Lennon. ‘Come back when you’re a chief super.’

They went through the same routine that George Dale had before deciding to force an entry. Lennon, the beefier of the two, crashed his shoulder into the door three times before the lock gave way and splintered wood fell to the ground around their feet. The door swung open and the sound level went up even more. The two policemen entered and heard Bruce Springsteen going mournfully ‘down to the river’. They made their way slowly through the hall but did not call out, knowing that they could not compete with Bruce.

Lennon signalled to Clark to kill the music and watched as the younger man tried to figure out the controls on the front of the expensive sound system. In the end, he lost patience and pulled the plug out of the wall. A respectable silence was restored to Palmer Court.

‘Miss Danby? Are you there?’ The two policemen walked through to the bedroom and found a woman on the bed. She was wearing a nightdress and lying on top of the covers with her eyes closed. Her pillow was stained with vomit and her nightdress soaked in sweat.

‘Miss Danby?’

They moved closer and saw an empty whisky bottle on the bedside table. An empty pill bottle lay on its side next to it.

‘Oh, love, was life really that bad?’ murmured Lennon as he felt for a pulse at the woman’s neck.

‘Is she dead, Tom?’

‘Yeah, poor lass. Just shows you, money can’t buy you happiness.’

Both men looked around at the expensive furnishings.

‘This is my first,’ said Clark, looking down at the body. ‘She looks just like she’s sleeping.’

‘She’s not been dead that long, she’s still warm. Wait until you see them pulled out the canal after a week or lying on the floor in summer for a month because they didn’t have anyone to check on them.’

At that moment the ‘corpse’ moved its head and Clark jumped back. ‘Jesus, she’s alive!’

‘Christ!’ exclaimed Lennon. ‘I couldn’t feel a pulse. Get an ambulance. Miss Danby! Miss Danby, can you hear me?’

The woman groaned quietly.

‘Come on now, waken up! D’you hear me, Miss Danby? Waken up!’

‘Men…’

‘What’s that? What about men?’

‘All men… are bastards.’

‘Come on now, Miss Danby, waken up. Don’t go to sleep again.’

Her head slumped back on to the pillow.

‘Shit! Maybe her airway’s blocked. It’s the sort of thing that happens when drunks throw up. Come on, son, give me a hand here.’