On the Edge [= Dead Gorgeous]

23

A policeman in braces and with his sleeves rolled up opened the door of the room where Rose had been sitting for longer than she could estimate, bent forward with her face in her hands. He stood just inside, taking stock.

‘Ready to talk now?’

She raised her head. She had panicked when they had brought her in and now despair had set in. She felt too exhausted to protest. Her brain rebelled at concocting a story that would satisfy them. She was certain she would get confused and blurt out the whole devastating truth.

‘What time is it?’

‘Just gone six.’

‘Six in the morning?’

‘You are in a state.’

‘I’m thirsty.’

He went out, leaving the door open. Although she wasn’t being kept in a cell, she was resigned to being transferred to one shortly. She had been driven here in a Black Maria with barred windows. This was just a place where they questioned people, somebody’s office, with a desk and several chairs and hooks on the wall for coats. She’d kept hers on. The coke stove in the corner wasn’t giving off much heat.

She had got off to a bad start with the desk sergeant by refusing to answer his questions. It was the first time she’d ever been in a police station. She hadn’t trusted herself to say anything that wouldn’t get her into trouble. Her silence had made the sergeant hostile. She was convinced that whatever she said he would keep her in custody. Up to now they didn’t know anything about her except her name and where they had found her, but they’d break her down. It wouldn’t take much.

A man she hadn’t seen before brought in some tea in a chipped enamel mug. He had his jacket on, with a sergeant’s stripes. He was silver-haired and his smile didn’t sit well with his toothbrush moustache and drooping eyelids. He tried to pitch his voice to sound reasonable. And failed.

‘So your name is Bell.’

‘Yes.’

‘Christian name?’

‘Rose. I told the other man.’

‘Mrs Rose Bell.’ He’d noticed her ring, of course. ‘Living with your husband?’

She didn’t like the tone he used. It stung her into a response. ‘He’s dead.’

‘The war?’

‘No. Last month.’

‘As recently as that?’

‘It was an accident.’ She stopped. She needn’t have come out with this. She’d meant to say the minimum. Her nerves had betrayed her.

‘Bad luck.’ He didn’t sound sympathetic. ‘A road accident?’

No use denying it now. ‘The tube. He fell off the platform.’

‘Nasty. Not uncommon, though. Do you have any other family? Children?’

‘No.’

‘Have you got a permanent address, Mrs Bell?’

‘Yes.’

He waited a moment. His voice slipped into a harder register. ‘Come on, now. Let’s have it. You’re wasting police time.’

‘In Pimlico. Oldfield Gardens.’

‘Pimlico. Yet one of our patrols found you on Paddington Station in the small hours of the morning. Is that where you normally spend the night? It’s a long way from Pimlico. I’d have thought Victoria Station was more convenient.’

He kept looking at her legs. The ruins of her stockings hung in ribbons.

He developed his theme. ‘It all depends what you were up to, doesn’t it? I’m told by certain ladies who parade there that Paddington is better for business than any other London terminus.’ Seeing the outrage in her eyes, he smiled. ‘But they don’t take kindly to newcomers, as you appear to have discovered. What happened to your shoes?’

She was bitterly insulted. ‘That’s a filthy suggestion! I demand an immediate apology.’

‘Do you now? What are you wearing under that coat, then? It looks pretty tarty to me.’

‘Bloody hell!’ Her anger galvanized her. She was damned if she’d give in to personal abuse. She’d grown up in awe of policemen. They were fatherly figures who helped you across the road and told you the time if you asked, but she would cut this bastard down to size because she didn’t see a decent London bobby standing in front of her; she saw a reincarnation of Barry, a sneering, sarcastic bully, who despised and resented women. She wasn’t putting up with any more of it.

‘Fetch your superior, please.’

The grin vanished. ‘Hold on, Mrs Bell. There’s no need for that.’

‘I want to make an official complaint.’

‘All right. I spoke out of turn. I withdraw everything I just said.’

She glared at him. ‘You were asking about my shoes. I lost them on the train.’ The lie came readily to her lips. She would lie and lie to this sadist.

He asked which train.

‘The tube.’

‘So you took the tube?’

‘Yes.’

‘You bought a ticket, I hope.’

‘Of course I did.’

‘Where would that have been? Victoria?’ She nodded.

‘Right, then.’ He folded his arms aggressively. He was looking for an opening and when he found it he would be ruthless. ‘Just tell me how you were able to pay for the ticket without possessing a handbag or even a purse?’

‘I lost my bag on the train.’

‘Along with the shoes, I suppose. London Transport Lost Property Office is having a busy night. I presume you had your Identity Card in the handbag?’

‘Yes — and it might be a damned sight more useful if instead of persecuting me you got on with the job you’re paid to do and found my things for me.’ With that, she put her hands over her face and sobbed loudly. See how he coped with that, the swine.

He tried without much success to sound like an uncle. ‘Well, my dear, I’ve got to get the facts to know the rights and wrongs of it, haven’t I? Where were you going on the tube?’

She sniffed. ‘Nowhere in particular.’ She had a good thought. ‘I was on the Circle Line. I was depressed. I couldn’t stand it at home when I thought of what had happened to...’

‘Your husband?’

‘Yes.’ Another sob. ‘So I went down the tube, meaning to — oh, I don’t know what I meant to do, I was in such a state.’ The lies were coming fluently. She’d needed that stinging reminder of her late husband. Barry had got no more than he deserved. But the police wouldn’t see it that way. She was fighting to get out of this place.

‘And you got off at Paddington?’ His probing was more conciliatory.

‘Great Portland Street.’ Her brain was working better. From the state of her feet it was obvious that she’d done some walking. ‘I got off at Great Portland Street and walked to Paddington.’

‘Did you have any reason to make for Paddington?’

‘No particular reason. I just kept walking in the fog.’ Rose gave a little-girl-lost look. She decided to consolidate. ‘Could I have some tea, please?’ She put her hand to her head. ‘And some aspirin?’

He ignored the plea. ‘You didn’t get those scratches on your neck by walking.’

She’d been aware of some discomfort, but then her entire body was aching. She found the scratches and traced them with her fingers.

‘They’re fresh. And what happened to your cheek? It’s bright red.’

The place where the chloroform had made contact. ‘I must have walked into something.’

‘A right-hander, by the look of it. There’s no two ways about it — you were in a fight, and you didn’t come off best. Look at your coat.’

‘I was attacked in the tube. They stole my bag.’

‘And your shoes?’

‘To stop me giving chase.’

‘This is more like it. Description?’

She shook her head. ‘I fainted. I don’t remember.’

‘Then how do you know you were in a fight?’

‘You just told me.’

The sides of his mouth turned down and he marched out and slammed the door.

Presently a constable came in with a tray. When Rose saw the aspirin and the two biscuits, elation flooded into her weary body. She knew she was winning.

In about twenty minutes the sergeant returned. ‘Your husband was Wing Commander Bell who was killed on Knightsbridge Underground Station on October 10th?’

‘Yes.’

‘I want you to give the constable a description of the things you lost, the bag and the shoes. Then we’re sending you home. I suggest you see your doctor next time you feel depressed. It’s better than travelling the Circle Line.’