Peter Guttridge - City of Dreadful Night

I smiled at my thought processes, since I was worrying that the second was a bit crude for a family pub, but I was having no such worries about the first option, which was, ultimately, cruder.

‘You don’t know me,’ he said. ‘But you’re the guy who backs murderers.’

I was drinking a glass of Zinfandel and I had been enjoying the taste of it and the memories it evoked – I had spent a year on a police exchange in California. I took a healthy mouthful.

‘That’s under investigation,’ I said calmly, although already I was irritated by the gel in his hair, the suede jacket and the way he was pushing his cock in my face.

This guy was muscular but paunchy. I could drive my fingers up beneath his diaphragm and he’d be crippled for the rest of the day and unable to draw a proper breath for a week. I could kick his feet from under him and as he fell… Frankly, I could do anything.

‘You’re blocking my view of the fire,’ I said.

‘You policemen think you own the world.’

One or two people could hear and turned their heads but mostly the boisterousness of the pub hid what he was saying.

‘Ex-policeman,’ I said, my fists clenching. ‘Do you want to get to the point?’

I think he must have glimpsed something in my eyes, or seen my body tense. He took a step back but he held his ground. I felt my anger bubble. But I was also conscious of the situation. I hadn’t reamed anyone out in a pub since I was in the military, and even then it was before I made rank.

Fuck it. He wasn’t who I wanted to lash out at, but he’d do. I started to rise.

‘Mine’s a cranberry juice – sorry I’m late.’

We both looked. Molly was standing beside me. She sat down in the chair opposite. The paunchy guy and I looked at each other. The steam went out of both of us, though neither was going to admit it.

‘OK, then,’ I said to him, turning to Molly. He shuffled past me back to the bar.

I sat down opposite her.

‘How are you doing?’

She laughed at the incongruity. She’d always had a lovely laugh.

‘I mean, thank you for turning up when you did,’ I said. ‘And how are you doing?’

‘How do you think I’m doing?’

‘A glass of wine?’

She shook her head.

‘I told you – cranberry juice.’

She saw something in my face.

‘Surprised?’ There was an edge to her voice but not the hostility I’d been used to lately.

‘A little,’ I admitted.

‘It’s been a week.’

I reached for her hand but she pulled it back into her lap.

‘Must be tough,’ I said.

‘It’s nice to start feeling things again.’

‘Really? I thought the point of drink-’

‘Was to stop feeling? Well, yes, but that’s not a good way to live your life. And there’s not enough alcohol in the world to shut out some feelings.’

‘I’m so sorry about what happened. If we could talk-’

Molly pushed the palm of her hand at me.

‘It’s too late for talk.’

I looked at the fire.

‘So why did you come in here?’

She shrugged and looked down at the table.

‘Sentiment? I saw your car in the car park.’

I nodded and smiled. She looked at me.

‘Of course, I was also prepared to find you in here with her.’

There was little intensity in her voice, but even so I reared back.

‘I wouldn’t do that,’ I said.

‘What – you have no problem shagging her but you draw the line at going to the local with her?’

Her voice had risen. One or two people looked over again.

‘I didn’t mean that.’

She looked at her hands.

I’d always put my work before my marriage and my kids. Molly was a woman I’d pursued and wooed (after a fashion) and swore to spend the rest of my life with, even before we got married. But I hadn’t kept that promise.

I wanted to. When I thought about it – and given that I was a man, I tried not to think about it very often – I was desperate that we were not still together. Oh, I missed Molly. She was difficult, but when we chimed we could talk for hours, laugh for hours over the littlest things.

‘Molly.’ I leant across the table but she stood up.

‘Take care, Robert.’

‘You too,’ I murmured as she walked out of the pub.

Kate had decided against seeing her father in London. Not cowardice, she told herself, just timing. She was curled up on the sofa in her flat sipping a mug of green tea. Her head was spinning from what she’d stumbled on in the National Archive. She was excited about the discovery of a suspect, Dr Massiah, and the possibility he was the Dr M referred to in the memoir. She was frustrated that she could find no other documents about him.

And she was knocked sideways to have found at the back of the second file a memo about the discovery of the torso at the left luggage office that mentioned in passing the names of the police officers present.

Knocked sideways because there were two names she recognized.

Her doorbell rang. It made her jump – she still wasn’t over the scare she’d had – but then she heard someone climbing the stairs and the insertion of a key in the lock. A moment later, Sarah Gilchrist came through the door.

‘Hi,’ Kate said, sitting up.

‘Didn’t want to startle you with the key in the door, so thought I’d scare you with the bell,’ Gilchrist said.

They both smiled.

‘There’s some green tea,’ Kate said, indicating the teapot on the table.

Kate watched as Gilchrist went into the kitchen and returned with a mug. It had hit her with some force today that she had a major crush on Gilchrist.

‘Did you get any clothes today?’ Kate said.

‘Didn’t have time,’ Gilchrist said, pouring her cup of tea.

‘I bought you some underwear in M amp;S,’ Kate said. Gilchrist looked at her. Kate felt suddenly embarrassed.

‘There was a store right next to the Archives and I was buying myself some and thought that just in case you didn’t have time. I guessed your size and they’re probably not very flattering-’

Kate realized she was blushing.

‘Thanks,’ Gilchrist said, sounding distracted. ‘That was thoughtful of you. How was your day in Kew?’

‘Great,’ Kate said. ‘I’ve got a new suspect and my grandfather may be the mystery memoirist – or possibly Bob’s father.’

Gilchrist laughed.

‘You’re going to have to run all that by me again.’

‘I found a police report about the original discovery of the body and it listed the policemen who were in attendance. Our autobiographer described how he was there. One of the names is that of my grandfather. And another is called Donald Watts.’

‘Crikey. And who is the new suspect?’

Kate told her about Dr Massiah and the Dr M in the memoir.

‘But I don’t know what happened in the investigation,’ she ended. ‘There were no more documents about him.’

Gilchrist was paying more attention now. She sat in the armchair opposite the sofa, balancing the mug on her knee.

‘You’re thinking that the Frenchy referred to in the memoir may be the victim?’

Kate nodded.

‘That’s great.’

‘Maybe,’ Kate said, standing up. ‘But then there’s this.’

She went over to the table and brought back the fragment of memoir about the older woman who looked like Carole Lombard. Gilchrist read it.

‘I was wondering why the head was cut off,’ Kate said. ‘Was it because she would be instantly recognizable?’

‘That he cut the head off meant the killer was worried someone would recognize her. And looking like a movie star would make it more likely.’

‘I’d assumed Frenchy was young, but there’s no reason why she shouldn’t be this older woman. Especially if Tingley is right and Spilsbury got it wrong.’