Michael Ridpath - Free To Trade

I could hear the muffled sounds of a baby crying, probably from the back of the house. I rang the doorbell. No reply. The baby had heard, though, and put new force into its screams. Hoarse and angry, they cut through the stifling silence of the close.

Had Joe left his child to scream alone in the house? Possible, but what about his wife? I picked my way through the beds in front of the house to look in the windows. I saw a large kitchen with the debris of a half-prepared meal all over the counter. On the floor were scattered pieces of chopped onion, and a kitchen knife. Some mincemeat bubbled over the edge of a frying pan on the cooker, dripping meat and grease on to the gas flame.

I moved on to the next window. There she was, huddled up on a sofa in the living room, a woman sobbing silently. Her knees were pulled up to her chin, and I couldn't see her face, but her shoulders were shaking unevenly.

I knocked on the window. No response from the body on the sofa. I knocked again, hard, rattling the glass. A thin, tear-stained face looked up between damp wisps of light brown hair. Her eyes struggled to focus on me, and then she let her head flop back on to the cushions.

I saw some french windows at the back of the room, opening out on to a small garden. I walked round the side of the house and climbed over a locked side gate into the garden.

I stood at the threshold of the french windows, the evening sun streaming over my shoulder into the prettily decorated sitting room. I could just see the woman's sandalled feet from where I stood. The baby had shut up for a moment, no doubt listening for more signs of adult life. I could hear the woman sobbing, deeply, quietly. I coughed. 'Hallo?'

No reply. She must have heard, but she was ignoring me.

I moved round to the front of the sofa. 'Are you all right?' I said, touching her gently on the shoulder.

She pulled herself up awkwardly, so she was sitting upright on the sofa, her arms still wrapped round her knees. She took some deep breaths and the sobbing stopped. 'Who the hell are you?'

She had a thin face that was pretty but pale and washed out. It was a face that had felt tears many times before. Now they streaked her cheeks, running in thin rivulets from her red, puffed-up eyes down to her quivering lips. As she rocked backwards and forwards, I could see that one hand was grasping her upper arm, and the other her ribs. She was in pain.

'My name is Paul Murray. Can I get you a cup of tea?'

She looked at me doubtfully, clearly weighing up whether to tell me to go to hell. In the end she nodded.

I went into the kitchen, turned off the mince, and put on the electric kettle. The baby was silent. It must have finally gone to sleep. I stayed in the kitchen waiting for the kettle to boil. I didn't hear anything from the woman.

I found a tea-bag, threw it in a mug, poured boiling water over it, added some milk from the fridge, fished out the bag and took the tea through.

I handed it to her. 'Sugar?'

She looked at me, not seeming to hear what I had said, and then reached up for the mug. She winced as she stretched upwards. I sat down in the armchair opposite.

'Are you hurt?'

She didn't answer, just hunched over her tea.

I was quiet for a minute or so. 'Shall I call a doctor?'

She shook her head.

'Are you sure? That rib might be broken.' I got up to move to the phone by the desk.

'No.' Her voice was suddenly clear. 'No,' she said again, this time in a whisper. 'Please.'

I left it and sat down again. I made my voice as quiet and comforting as I could. 'What's your name?'

'Sally. Sally Finlay.'

'Did Joe do this?'

Sally didn't answer, but her shoulders began to shake, and she let out another deep sob.

I walked over to her and touched her shoulder. I could feel her relax just slightly.

'Where has he gone?'

She wiped her nose with the back of her hand. 'To the off-licence. To get some beer. He always likes to drink after…' Her voice trailed off.

I felt useless standing there. I lifted my hand off her shoulder.

'Stay,' she said, looking up at me, pleading. She attempted a smile but her lower lip shook too much.

So I just stood there, not saying anything, my hand resting on her shoulder, waiting for Joe.

I wanted to leave. Common sense told me to go. But I couldn't bring myself to abandon Sally to Joe. I had to stand there and wait for him. And I had no idea what I would do when he came.

So we waited, Sally's hand pressing mine on to her shoulder, determined not to let me go, both of us listening to the tick of a clock in the hall and the birds squabbling in the garden.

I was just about to pull myself free from her and leave when I heard the quick crunch of hurried footsteps on the path outside. A pause. The rattle and click of a key in the front-door lock. The squeak of the hinges as the door opened and the muffled crash as it shut. Light footsteps in the hallway.

I stood watching the open door. Beneath my hand Sally tensed up and then went absolutely still.

He was surprised to see me but only for the barest of moments. His eyes flicked quickly from my face to Sally's and then rested again on mine. A cold, unmoving, lifeless stare.

Sally's hand fell away from mine, and her eyes dropped to the floor.

Joe smiled his thin smile. 'I see we have a guest. Can I get you a beer? Let me put these in the fridge.' He showed me the six-pack in his hand and disappeared into the kitchen.

Sally and I waited, motionless.

He was back in an instant with a knife. It was the one that had fallen to the floor in the kitchen. It was small, but I could see it was sharp. Two cubes of onion clung to the lower edge of the blade.

'Why don't you go up to bed, darling? You look tired,' he said.

Sally stood up shaking, threw me a glance which mixed fear with pity, and slunk out of the room into the hall. I heard her feet tapping quickly up the stairs.

Joe had a knife, and he probably intended to use it. I couldn't kid myself that I could protect his wife, and this wasn't the time to ask difficult questions.

Stay calm and get out.

Joe blocked my path to the french windows. My eyes flickered over his shoulder. Three strides would take me to the hallway. I took two of them, but Joe had seen my eyes move. I stopped my headlong dive for the door just in time to avoid impaling myself on his knife.

Joe slowly waved the knife in front of me, forcing me to back up into the corner. The sun flooded into the room, bathing Joe's face in a yellow light. His eyes narrowed, and the pupils shrunk to tiny black pinpricks. The knife flashed white in the sun.

The clamour of the blackbirds' furious evening chorus rang in my ears from the garden. I could feel the fabric of my heavy white cotton shirt, sticky under my suit jacket. A bookcase jutted into the back of my legs. And my eyes kept following the knife.

Dive for his knife hand. It's only a small knife, it wouldn't hurt much if it grazed me, would it? Unbalance him and then run. Fast.

His wiry frame was perfectly weighted on the balls of both feet. The knife was held loosely in his right hand. Relaxed, but ready to move in an instant. Joe knew how to fight with a knife.

I looked at Joe's eyes. He's daring me. He wants me to jump him.

So, I let my hands flop down by my sides. 'Just let me go,' I said in as reasonable a voice as I could muster. 'I won't tell anyone about Sally.'

'You annoy me, Murray,' hissed Joe. 'Why did you come here anyway?'

'To talk to you about Debbie's death,' I said.

'And what should I know about that?'

'I was with her when you walked past her on the boat. The night she died.'

Joe chuckled. 'I thought I recognised you. So you think I killed her, don't you? Well, if you want to know whether I killed her, ask me.' He was smiling now. Enjoying himself.