Bryant & May 01; Full Dark House

∨ Full Dark House ∧

39

THE ABDUCTION

The house in Lissom Grove was set back from the road and surrounded by battered birches. The hedge leading to the front door was so overgrown that it soaked May and Forthright as they passed. They were met by PC Crowhurst, who appeared from the shadowed porch and unlocked the front door for them.

“When was she last seen?” asked May, stepping into the gloomy Lincrusta-papered hall.

“The evening before last, sir. The girl she shares with was away for the night, but the next-door neighbour saw her coming in with shopping bags. She didn’t turn up for rehearsals yesterday. They thought she was taking a day off sick, but when she failed to show again this morning, the other girl who boards here rang the police. I came round and found – well, you’ll see.”

“Who is she?”

“A member of the chorus, name of Jan Petrovic. Sixteen years old. This is Phyllis.”

A slender girl held out her hand. She had ragged blond hair cut to her jawline, and was wearing a man’s rowing sweater several sizes too large for her. “Hello, you’d better come through.” She held open the door to a front room that was cluttered with the possessions of young girls living away from their parents for the first time: dinner plates, stockings, magazines, half-burned candles, a radiogram, some dance records out of their cardboard sleeves. “In there, next door,” said Phyllis, wrapping her thin arms round herself. “I can’t bring myself to look.” Her voice had a soft Wiltshire burr. In the kitchen, a back door led to a small yard. The window above the sink had been shattered. There were several small drying spots of blood on the wooden draining board. May turned and found himself confronted by a shocking crimson smear that arced across the whitewashed wall.

“When did you last see Jan?” asked Forthright.

Phyllis chewed her lip nervously and stayed in the doorway.

“Two days ago. In the morning. I went to visit my boyfriend in Brighton. He’s studying at Sussex College. Jan was getting ready to leave for her rehearsal.”

“How did she seem to you?”

“Pretty much in the pink. We talked about what we were going to do this weekend. She was fed up, but that’s because she’s worried about performing in the show. She’s talked about leaving it before the opening night.”

“Why would she do that?”

“The schedule’s too hard on her. I mean, she’s just a kid, and she bluffed her way into the part. She didn’t think she could handle it. Then this week’s goings-on have been the last straw for her.”

“Have you known her long?”

“No, only a few weeks. I don’t think Petrovic is her real name. She doesn’t like people to know where she’s from. I wondered if she might be Jewish.”

“Do you have a photograph of her?”

“No, but I think they took some publicity shots at the theatre.”

“John, look at this.” Forthright pointed into the corner behind the sink. Two halves of a cup lay in shadow. Beside them stood a short, wide-bladed knife, its tip stuck in the tiled floor, its handle darkly smeared. The DS stepped out of the kitchen, called the unit and asked to speak to Dr Runcorn. “I’ll get someone from FS over right now,” she told May, her hand over the mouthpiece. “You’d better make sure Phyllis is all right.”

May gingerly stepped out of the kitchen’s narrow corner and returned to the lounge.

“I’ve been calling her aunt’s number, but there’s been no answer,” said Phyllis, pacing along the edge of the carpet. “She sometimes goes there when she gets fed up. I didn’t know what else to do. Her mother rang to speak to her and I just couldn’t say where she was.”

“When did you first think she was missing?” asked May.

“I tried calling her when I arrived in Brighton, but assumed she had gone to the theatre. Then when I got back and went into the kitchen I saw the mess.”

May took another look inside the kitchen. “Odd. The break in the window isn’t big enough to let anyone in, so why are there signs of a struggle? It’s not near enough to the back door for anyone to be able to reach in and undo the latch.”

Forthright tested the lock. “The door’s still locked.” She carefully turned, studying the walls. “Maybe he was already inside and she was trying to get out, away from him.”

May returned to the front room. Phyllis was seated with her hands pressed on her thighs, staring blankly at the floor. “When you came in,” he asked, “did you have to unlock the front door from the outside?”

“Yes. The latch is faulty, so you have to double-lock it as you leave or it comes open by itself.”

“What about the back door? Have you touched it?”

“No. I took one look at the kitchen and backed off. Then I called the police and was put through to your department.”

“When was this?”

“About two hours ago.”

“Hang on.” May called his constable in from the front garden: “Crowhurst, come in here for a second.”

“Sir?”

“How did this get put through to us?”

“The station rang Miss Petrovic’s work number, sir. As soon as they realized it was the theatre, the call was transferred to the unit.”

I bet it was, thought May. They couldn’t get rid of it fast enough. He looked at the chaotic front room, at Phyllis, who seemed close to tears. “Would you care to show me the other rooms?”

“Of course.”

Two small bedrooms, bathroom and toilet. An attempt had been made to brighten them up, the bedrooms painted a hopeful yellow, the bathroom pink, but the flat needed more than a lick of cheap paint to make it comfortable.

“Which one is Miss Petrovic’s bedroom? No, just show me, don’t touch anything.”

An unmade bed, socks and a sweater lay on the floor. A crumpled bath towel at the foot of the eiderdown. Stacks of books, undisturbed. If there had been violence, it hadn’t reached here. He made a slow tour, checking the window frames and door handles. The flat reminded him of his own room.

“You think she’s been abducted?” asked Phyllis, following behind him. “Something terrible’s happened to her, I’m sure of it.” She wiped her nose on the back of her hand. “I should have been here.”

“We’ll have to see what turns up from the kitchen,” May replied. “We’re going to have to take some items away with us.”

When he caught Forthright looking at him, he saw the same question in her eyes. If she’s been abducted, her look said, how did he get her out of the house without opening any of the doors or windows?

The pattern, such as it was, had been broken, yet felt strangely consistent. There was the same kind of arrogant theatricality; the evidence of the abduction reminded May of the blocking rehearsals he had witnessed. It’s deception practised in public view, he thought as he left the house. The interpretation of gestures, wasn’t that what acting was all about?

But who was providing the direction?