Free To Trade

CHAPTER 7

I was still furious the next day. I had seen that bastard at the scene of Debbie's death. He was obviously the violent boyfriend Felicity had referred to. The one who had ordered Debbie around and who had beaten her when she had confronted him about his marriage.

The more I thought about it, the more annoyed I was that I had walked out the night before without hitting him. I resolved to go round to his house that night and find out what had really happened. I knew it was stupid, but I was determined to do it.

I called Cash for Joe's address. He didn't want to give it to me, but I insisted. I waited until seven o'clock, by which time I judged Joe would be home, and set off for the Wandsworth address.

He lived in a cul-de-sac. The small road was lined with large red Edwardian houses, the dwellings of middle-ranking bankers at the turn of the century.

It had been a hot day, and the air was still stifling. It was very quiet in the little road. The houses were not in good repair, windows were smudged and dusty and some were cracked, paint peeled from doors and sills. Most had been converted into flats for single people or unmarried couples commuting into the City. I was startled by something small and lithe darting between some dustbins. A cat? An urban fox?

I began to feel uneasy. I had no idea what Joe's reaction to me would be when I met him. All I knew about him was that he was unpredictable, and sometimes violent. All day the words I would use to confront him had been running through my mind; suddenly they had lost their conviction. I stopped in the middle of the silent street. Then I saw Debbie leaning back at her desk, the Mail spread out in front of her, her eyes shining and her broad grin teasing me. The anger welled up in me again.

I strode up the road. Joe's house was at the end. Tall, thin and red, it stood alone, decorated with two miniature Victorian-Gothic turrets. I walked up the short drive, and was immediately hidden from the street by a cluster of large rhododendron bushes, their shiny dark green leaves providing some shade.

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.

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.