Michael Ridpath - Free To Trade

I said nothing.

'What's the matter? Are you afraid that if I killed the slut, I might kill you? Perhaps you are right. Go on. Ask me. Ask me!' he shouted.

I was scared. Really scared. But I thought I had better humour him. I swallowed. 'Did you kill her?'

'Sorry, I didn't hear you. What did you say?' Joe said.

I stood up straight. 'Did you kill Debbie?'

He smiled. There was a long pause. He savoured it. 'Perhaps,' he said, and chuckled to himself. 'But let's talk about you. I don't like you very much, Murray. I don't like you nosing round here talking to my wife. I think I will have to give you something to remind you to keep out of my way.'

He moved closer to me. I stayed absolutely still. He slowly raised the small knife towards my neck. The bottom of the blade had the grey-white shine of truly sharpened steel. I could smell the chopped onion inches from my nose.

I didn't move.

Panic. Stay calm. No panic! Don't just stand there whilst he cuts your throat. Move!

I snatched at the knife. As I moved my hand up, he caught it with his free left hand, twisted and pulled me over his shoulder. I found myself pinned to the floor.

He grabbed the little finger of my left hand. 'Spread out your fingers,' he ordered. I tried to clench my fist, but he pulled back on my little finger. 'Spread out your fingers or I will break it!'

I unclenched my hand. 'You don't really need that little finger do you?' Joe chuckled. 'You don't use it for anything. You wouldn't miss it. I want to give you a little reminder to stay clear of me.'

I tried to move my hand, but it was pinned tight to the floor, right in front of my face. I saw the blade move down until it gently brushed the skin below the knuckle. I felt a small sharp stab of pain as my skin was lightly punctured. A line of little droplets of blood welled up across the back of my finger.

Then he leant down on the knife, and very slowly moved it backwards and forwards, carving into the skin. The pain shot up my hand. I clenched my teeth, and pushed my chin into the carpet, determined not to cry out, my eyes still fixed on the blade. I tried to wriggle, but Joe had me pinned to the floor. My legs were free, and I kicked them uselessly.

There was nothing I could do but watch Joe cut my finger off.

Suddenly he removed the knife and laughed. 'Go on, piss off out of here,' he said, standing up.

The relief rushed through me. I did exactly as he said, picking myself up off the floor, and running for the door, gripping my bloody finger with my right hand. I left Sally's sobbing behind me, as I sped out of the house, ran down to the end of the street and into the main road.

As I came to a row of shops I stopped running. God, that man is a psychopath, I thought, as I gathered my breath. And a strong one too. I could feel the blood from my finger trickling down my forearm. The wound was deep and it hurt. I noticed a chemist over the road. In a couple of minutes my finger was clean and bandaged.

I sat down on a low wall to collect myself. My finger throbbed with pain, but at least I was still attached to it. My heart was beating wildly, and not just from the running. It took ten minutes for my hands to stop shaking, and my heartbeat to slow to its normal rate.

I was very tempted just to go home and forget about Joe. But I could still hear Sally Finlay's deep sobs of pain, and see her face racked with tears of misery. What I had seen of Joe made me feel physically sick. He was inhuman. I couldn't let him just hit his wife whenever his sick mind felt like it. God knows what he did to the child. Like it or not, I was the one who could do something to stop it, and if I didn't it would be my conscience which would suffer. So, I resolved to tell the police about him. I hoped that he would never find out who had told them, but I knew I was kidding myself. At any rate, I resolved to make sure never to find myself alone with Joe again.

I asked an old lady for directions to the local police station. The nearest one was only a quarter of a mile away.

I told the desk sergeant about how I had found Sally beaten up. I didn't tell him about the struggle I had had with Joe. He seemed efficient and concerned, which was a relief. I had half expected a brush-off. The sergeant did say it would be difficult to prove anything, unless the wife was willing to testify. He said that the station had set up a Domestic Violence Unit recently, and he would pass on what I had reported to them. He assured me that they would get a WPC round to the Finlays' house that evening.

I then asked if I could phone Inspector Powell, since I had some information relating to a murder investigation. This took the desk sergeant back a bit, but once he had decided I wasn't just another nutter, he found me a small room with a phone, and after a few minutes had located Powell.

'Hallo, it's Paul Murray. I am ringing you about the death of Debbie Chater.'

'Yes, Mr Murray. I remember you. What have you got for me?' Powell's voice was impatient.

'You remember the man I told you about, who groped Debbie the night she died?'

'Yes?'

'Well, I met him a couple of days ago. His name is Joe Finlay. He's a trader at an investment bank called Bloomfield Weiss. He had an affair with Debbie about a year ago.' I gave Powell Joe's address in Wandsworth.

'Thank you very much, Mr Murray. We will follow up this lead. However, it seems clear that we are looking at an accident, or perhaps suicide. I will be in touch with you in the course of the next few days.' The note of irritation in Powell's voice was clear. He had probably dismissed my description of Joe as unimportant, and made up his own mind about how Debbie had died. He would have some more work to do now.

'I will be happy to help any time,' I said, and put the receiver down.

As I left the police station and headed home, I wondered what Joe's reaction to being questioned by the police would be. He wouldn't be very pleased with me, I was sure. Still, I hoped they would nail the bastard.

I was right on time for my appointment with Robert Denny. Denny Clark's offices were in Essex Street, a tiny lane winding down towards the river from the Strand. They were in an old red-brick Georgian building, with only a small brass name-plate to identify them. The receptionist, a well-groomed blonde with a plummy accent, took my coat and asked me to take a seat. I found a comfortable leather armchair and sank into it.

I looked around me. Books rose from floor to ceiling, old leather-bound books. In front of me on the mahogany table, next to a vase of orange lilies were copies of Country Life, the Field, Investors Chronicle, the Economist and The Times. It was clear what kind of client Denny Clark catered for. I was not surprised that Irwin Piper would seek the firm out. I was slightly surprised that they would feel comfortable with him, but then a fee is a fee.

After five minutes I was ushered into Mr Denny's office by the efficient secretary I had spoken to on the phone earlier. It was on the first floor, large and airy, with a view out on to the quiet street below. More bookcases with stacks of leather-bound books, although these looked as though they were actually used from time to time. On one wall, above a long conference table, hung a portrait of an imposing-looking Victorian gentleman, brandishing a quill. A former Denny, I assumed.

The current Denny was sitting behind his huge desk, finishing off a note. After a couple of seconds, he looked up, saw me, smiled and got up from behind his desk to welcome me. He was a neat, grey-haired, slightly small man. Although he was clearly in his sixties, there was none of the wise old senior partner put out to grass about him. His movements were agile, his eyes quick, his manner assured. A competent lawyer at the height of his career.