Dead Gorgeous Read online

  She emptied his pocket and placed the loose change in the ashtray on the chest of drawers. She smoothed the trousers and lined up the creases.

  ‘You don’t have to explain.’

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Some time after midnight.’

  ‘Quite a bit later than usual.’

  ‘Yes.’

  She clamped the trousers in the wooden press beside the tallboy. She knew why he was late. Not because he had had a few whiskys after work. The drinking was incidental to his pursuit of women. She knew all about his infidelities. She was used to being looked at by friends in a certain way and told that her husband had been sighted again in the bar of the Strand Palace Hotel. They didn’t have to say any more. The entire scene was in the look.

  What had delayed him then? One thing was certain: it wasn’t an excess of passion. He couldn’t contain himself for more than a minute even when sober. He was late because he’d gone to a different hotel, in Hammersmith. Presumably he’d failed to find a pick-up in the West End. So he’d started again. More whiskys. More than he could handle.

  He was making an effort to sound rational.

  ‘Did you get worried about me?’

  ‘Worried?’

  ‘I mean, did you think I’d had an accident?’ ‘An accident?’ Her conversation with Antonia outside the Ritz flitted into her mind and out of it. ‘No.’ ‘Callous bitch.’ ‘Barry, you’re in no state—’

  ‘I could have been dead for all you care. You don’t bloody care, do you?’

  He was working himself up. She was angry, too, and entitled to be. What was picking his clothes off the floor if it wasn’t caring? Rescuing his clothes that reeked of some woman and dutifully hanging them up for him. Yet she didn’t want an argument. She took her dressinggown off the hook.

  ‘I’m going to sleep in the spare room.’

  She reached to pick up her pillow and with surprising speed he grabbed her wrist and jerked her off balance. She fell across the bed.

  ‘You’re staying here and that’s an order.’

  ‘Barry, let go of my arm.’

  He started wrestling with her. She was pushed face down into the eiderdown. She was shocked by the force of the attack. He had never been violent before. She twisted her head for breath and she felt her nightdress tearing at the armpit. He clapped his hand on the back of her neck.

  ‘Don’t you dare move, woman.’

  ‘Barry, you’re hurting.’

  ‘You don’t know what it is to be hurt.’

  His voice had a cruel edge she had never heard from him. A horrid possibility crept into her mind. His imagination had been stoked up by the newspapers reporting those vile murders by Heath.

  ‘Please, Barry.’

  ‘Getting above yourself, aren’t you? Bloody vicar’s daughter. Need bringing down a peg or two.’

  He slid his hand upwards, took a grip on her hair and twisted her head with such force that her shoulders and torso followed the movement. She was turned face up like a playing card. His leg straddled her thighs and trapped her. Whisky fumes gusted into her face.

  She was rigid with fear, certain he meant to bite her. She could see the teeth bared.

  ‘Barry, no!’

  ‘Shut up.’

  His face moved closer, rasping her cheek with his moustache. He spoke in her ear.

  ‘You’re a sanctimonious bitch. Admit it. Out with it, loud and clear.’

  ‘Please—’

  ‘Say it.’

  ‘I’m a sanctimonious bitch.’

  ‘Louder. Tell the neighbours what you are. Tell the whole bloody street.’

  She shouted the words.

  ‘Better. And you were worried sick when I was late.’ ‘I was worried sick.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why what?’

  ‘Come on. Why were you worried sick?’

  He was speaking between clenched teeth. He expected an answer fast. And this time he expected her to supply it.

  Her face twitched. She was too terrified to think.

  ‘Come on!’

  ‘I thought . . . ’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I thought you must have had an accident.’

  ‘What sort of accident?’

  ‘What sort?’

  ‘I want to know if you’re speaking the truth. You say you thought I had an accident.’

  She couldn’t fathom what satisfaction this gave him and she dreaded where it was leading. She just hoped to God she could keep the right answers coming. If it spared her from physical pain she was willing to supply whatever he wanted to hear.

  She blurted out the first thing she could think of. ‘Er – an accident on some stairs. You fell down some stairs and broke your leg.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘I don’t know – the office.’

  ‘They’d have let you know. Someone would have let you know by seven, easily. Better think again.’

  ‘You fell off a bus. You hit your head on the road and got concussion. Nobody knew who you were.’

  ‘So what did my poor distracted wife do about it?’

  ‘Phoned the police. And all the hospitals.’

  ‘How touching. And all this is true, isn’t it, Rose, darling, because you were brought up to believe that lying is a sin before God?’ He pressed his forefinger under her chin and pushed upwards. ‘Have I caught you out?’

  ‘I’m confused. I don’t know what you want me to say.’

  ‘Say you were lying through your teeth.’

  ‘All right, I was.’

  ‘And I caught you at it.’

  ‘You caught me at it.’

  This appeared to satisfy him, because he gave a grunt and withdrew the leg that was pinning her down. He rolled right away from her and sat up.

  ‘I’m going for a piss. Don’t move a muscle.’

  Rose’s nerves gave way to the stress. She shivered uncontrollably. Too fearful to run out, she dreaded his return. She listened to him pass water, then flush the cistern. It was all she could do to stop from whimpering when he came back. Yet she still had sufficient detachment to despise herself. That made it harder to endure, knowing what a spineless creature she had become.

  He turned out the light as he came in. Then he dropped on to the bed like a felled tree, on his own side, close to Rose, without touching. She prayed that he might sleep now, but he still wanted to taunt her.

  ‘What a flaming liar! I said what a flaming liar! Lord bloody Haw-Haw isn’t in it. Let’s face it, you wouldn’t lose any sleep if I ended up in hospital. You were nicely tucked up in bed when I finally got in, weren’t you? Weren’t you?’

  ‘Is that what upset you? I didn’t realize.’

  She felt slightly easier in her mind for finding a reason for his behaviour. She hadn’t pictured it from his point of view. He wasn’t home by midnight so she had gone to bed. Evidently he regarded this as a betrayal. It was the silliest nonsense considering how he had spent the evening, but that was the way his mind worked. He felt rejected. God, what she was reduced to!

  ‘Shall I make you some coffee?’

  ‘Coffee be buggered.’

  ‘Just as you wish.’

  ‘I’m accident-proof, if you want to know. I got through the war without a prang, didn’t I? Over seven hundred flying hours. After that I’m not going to fall down the moving staircase at Victoria, am I? Or walk into a lamp post.’ He made a smug chuckling sound. ‘The only accident I ever had was with a certain WAAF sergeant at Hornchurch.’

  She tensed again. ‘What do you mean?’

  He could hardly speak for laughing now. The words came out in a wheeze.

  ‘You know what I mean. An accident. One that got away. A bun in the oven.’

  ‘You got her pregnant?’

  ‘That was the upshot, so to speak.’

  Rose’s hands crept up to her neck.

  ‘She had a child?’

  ‘A bouncing baby boy.’

  ‘At Hornc
hurch? After we were married.’ She sat up in bed in the dark. ‘You had a child after we were married? You’re lying.’

  ‘Who are you calling a liar? There’s only one liar in this house, and it isn’t me.’

  4

  Antonia was emphatic. ‘Darling, he made the whole thing up.’

  ‘Don’t you believe it?’

  ‘It’s absolute rubbish.’

  ‘Listen, he told me the woman’s name – Stella Paxton. She was in the MT section at Hornchurch, driving the officers about.’

  ‘Does that prove anything?’

  ‘But Barry’s quite open about his affairs. Why would he lie about this?’

  ‘Men have fragile egos, my flower. He came in late expecting a scene and you put him to bed like your tame teddy bear. He was insulted.’

  ‘You think he wanted a scene?’

  ‘A fight, more like.’

  ‘That’s rich. Here am I wondering where I went wrong and you tell me I didn’t pick a fight. We’ve never had fights.’

  ‘And look at the result.’

  In spite of her distress, Rose smiled. She’d phoned because she needed to speak to someone. It wasn’t the sort of problem you could take to your mother and father. She knew she could rely on Antonia for a heart-to-heart and some cogent advice.

  ‘Would you have given him a telling-off?’

  ‘A telling-off! A punch in the kisser. He wanted a reaction.’

  ‘He’s got one now – I’m devastated.’

  ‘Of course you are, poor lamb. You’ve taken it all to heart.’

  ‘He hurt me. Physically held me down and hurt me. I was terrified and he knew it.’

  ‘It’s just a game to them. They don’t know their own strength.’

  ‘Not Barry. He isn’t like that. I thought he was going to strike me.’

  ‘But he didn’t?’

  ‘Well no.’

  ‘All right, he scared you a bit. Didn’t the boys at school ever chase you with a spider or something? It’s horrid, but it’s not without excitement.’

  ‘You don’t understand. There was nothing playful about this. It was vile, as if . . . Oh, I don’t know. Perhaps it’s my imagination. That beastly murder in the newspapers is giving me ideas.’

  ‘Heath?’

  ‘I told you. Barry’s fascinated by it.’

  ‘Sounds as if he was the one who got ideas.’

  ‘Antonia, I don’t believe he made it up about Stella Paxton and the baby.’

  ‘If that’s what worries you, you’d better find out for sure.’

  ‘Yes, but how?’

  ‘Go through his things, for heaven’s sake.’

  ‘I can’t do that.’

  ‘Don’t be naive, flower. If he has another woman and child and he’s thinking of ditching you . . . ’

  ‘Oh, I didn’t say that.’

  ‘ . . . don’t you think you have a right to know? Does he keep letters, photographs, anything like that?’

  ‘He keeps the bills in the writing desk. I’ve no idea what else is in there.’

  ‘Better get busy then. Is it locked?’ ‘The lock isn’t very good.’

  ‘Well, then. Put down the phone and do it now. Barry isn’t there, is he?’

  ‘Of course not, but I’ve always respected his privacy.’ ‘Did he respect you when he got Stella Paxton pregnant?’

  Rose closed her eyes tightly. ‘Now you’re telling me it’s true. I don’t know what to believe. Antonia, what do you really think?’

  ‘Never mind me, sweetie. It’s obvious you’ve got to find out for yourself.’

  She still hesitated when it came to forcing open the desk. Her throat went dry and her hand on the kitchen knife trembled.

  She hesitated because the act of breaking into Barry’s desk was underhanded. She had been deceived; now she was trading deceit for deceit.

  ‘Did he respect you . . . ?’

  She tightened her grip, slid the knife in and pressed on it, supporting the flap with her left hand as it came open. Everything was stacked in front of her in the slots and shelves – bills, chequebooks, bank statements, payslips, his demob papers, photos, marriage certificate and bundles of business letters. There were fountain pens, bottles of ink, a glass paperweight and the case containing his DFC.

  Ashamed of herself, she snapped the desk shut again.

  She returned to the kitchen, put the knife back in the drawer and took out the small bottle of brandy that she kept in the larder. It was supposed to be for Christmas puddings, but she usually forgot to use it. It had come in useful when her mother stayed with her during the bombing. She poured some into a medicine glass.

  The phone rang. She knew it would be Antonia again.

  ‘What did you find, darling?’

  ‘Nothing at all.’

  ‘Really? You did get into the desk, I hope?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m surprised, then. Did you find his address book?’

  ‘Address book? No.’

  ‘Diaries, letters?’

  ‘Nothing of a personal nature.’

  ‘He keeps them somewhere else, then. Can you think of any other place?’

  ‘Not at the moment. Look, I’m going to give it some thought before I do anything else.’

  ‘We’ll work something out between us.’

  ‘Thanks awfully, Antonia, but I ought to think this out carefully before I do anything at all.’

  ‘Don’t be so daft, darling. What are friends for? We’ll sort it out tomorrow.’

  ‘Tomorrow?’

  ‘Elevenses in the Corner House.’

  ‘Would you mind terribly if we didn’t? I’m still rather shaky. I don’t feel up to going out.’

  ‘You poor wee thing – of course. How about Thursday?’

  ‘I’d rather leave it for the present if you don’t mind. Perhaps in a week or two.’

  She wasn’t too proud of herself for putting Antonia off so soon after turning to her for support, but she didn’t want to be hustled into doing things against her conscience. It hadn’t been right to force open the writing desk. She would find out the truth by some less underhanded means. The most obvious way was to ask Barry straight out, but she couldn’t face that. It would be laying herself open to more hurt. She wanted to know, but not in the heat of argument.

  5

  Antonia didn’t hang up the phone directly. She rang for a taxi. There was just time to change into a blue double-breasted suit and pink frilly blouse and to touch up her lips before the cab pulled up at the door.

  ‘The tobacconist’s in Sloane Square.’

  There, she winked at the solemn old Scot who supplied her with ciggies.

  ‘Have they come in yet?’ She could always rely on him for a packet of some brand or other, even with the shortages. Today it was ten Escudos, passed over the counter in a brown paper bag.

  ‘They’re one and threepence, I’m afraid.’ ‘That’s all right. How are your Hearts, Mr MacDade?’ ‘Disappointing, madam. They lost four nil at home last week.’

  ‘Just what they needed, darling. Football players are like carpets – they need the occasional beating. They’ll score a hatful on Saturday.’

  ‘Is that a fact?’

  She got back into the taxi.

  ‘Pimlico, please.’

  ‘What address, lady?’

  ‘Perhaps you can tell me. A street where a flying bomb fell.’

  ‘I’m a cabbie, love, not the ARP.’

  ‘It can’t be so difficult to find. The house I want is in a terrace opposite the bomb site. And it faces the river.’

  They drove to Pimlico and looked for someone to ask. Every street was a porticoed terrace. A woman with a pram knew of two bomb sites. An entire terrace had been flattened in Sutherland Street and twenty people had been killed, but that was in the Blitz. Her second suggestion turned out to have been the result of highexplosive bombs in 1943. A milkman suggested Oldfield Gardens. He thought it was a doodlebug that ha
d flattened the end house there.

  Oldfield Gardens had a down-at-heel look. Some of the shabbiness was the result of war damage; much more could be put down to neglect. The houses had once looked smart with their casement windows, solid front doors and iron railings around the basement steps. Cheap replacement doors had spoilt the effect and the once-white fronts were chipped and stained.

  She asked the driver to wait by the corner shop at the end of the street farthest from the bomb site. The smell of cats crept into her nostrils.

  A wolf-whistle greeted her as she approached the bomb site. Some workmen were fixing posts into what had once been a front garden. She gave them a wave and crossed the road.

  The last house was unusual for not having an array of doorbells. The doorstep was polished to inspection standard. She pressed the bell.

  She flung out her hands and embraced Rose the moment she opened the door.

  ‘My poor flower – I couldn’t abandon you at a time like this. I’ve brought you some ciggies.’

  Rose muttered some words of thanks as Antonia broke off the embrace and headed for the scullery.

  ‘What a sweet house, and so tastefully furnished. Is it all yours? I love it.’

  ‘I’ve got rather a headache.’

  ‘I’ll make you some tea. No, I insist. You sit down and I’ll do everything. Have you got any aspirin? I can bring it upstairs if you’d like to lie down.’

  She filled the kettle and lit the gas and then wandered out to look at the other rooms, calling out her observations as she went.

  ‘Oh, a piano. Do you play, darling? I can’t believe Barry likes Sigmund Romberg. He said a beautiful thing – Romberg, not Barry – “A love song is just a caress set to music.” Isn’t that romantic? And this must be the writing desk you mentioned.’

  ‘Please don’t touch the writing desk.’

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’

  ‘I don’t mean to be rude.’

  ‘Be as rude as you like, my pet. That’s what I keep telling you – you’re too polite for your own good.’

  The phone rang in the front room where Antonia was.

  ‘Leave it to me, darling.’ She picked up the receiver and put it to her ear.

  A man’s voice, cautious and well-spoken. ‘Good morning, is that Wing Commander Bell?’ ‘I’m afraid not. Can I help?’

  ‘Roberts here. Manager of the Westminster Bank.’ ‘Yes?’