The Danger Within

Four

Early the following morning, after a fitful night’s sleep, Lilian decided to dress and hobble to the nearby twenty-four-hour store. She was desperate for a cup of tea, and there was no milk in the fridge.

He stepped in front of her just before she reached the lift. A big man with an incongruously small head. She turned towards the stairs. Even though she had no idea how she could manage them. Another man stood looking at her impassively. Broad-shouldered and hairy. Except for the top of his head which was bald, pink and shiny. His arms hung loosely at his side, like a boxer. Both men were clichés of their kind.

‘We have a message from Mr St John,’ said the one with the small head.

She nodded. Afraid and weary at the same time.

‘He says we’re to look out for you. Stick around, make sure you’re OK.’

Lilian knew full well what that meant. Kurt had sent two of his goons to watch her. To make sure that he would always know where she was and what she was doing.

She said nothing.

‘So,’ Small Head continued, glancing pointedly at her crutches, ‘is there anything we can do to help?’

Lilian managed to find some spirit. ‘Yes, you can ask Mr St John to restore my credit cards and my access to our joint account.’

Small Head shrugged. ‘Mr St John says, withdraw the charges and everything can go back to normal.’

‘You mean he can use me as a punch bag again?’

Small Head was impassive. ‘He’s your husband.’

‘Not for much longer.’

‘That ain’t what he says.’

‘Please get out of my way?’ she instructed, not very optimistically. ‘I need to go to the shop.’

Rather to her surprise the man moved.

‘Got enough to pay, have you?’ he asked.

Lilian ignored him.

Small Head pushed the lift button for her and leaned his huge bulk against the door to ensure it stayed open as she shuffled awkwardly in.

‘Allow me,’ he said, stretching his lips into what presumably passed for a smile. It still looked like a leer.

He did not attempt to follow her in. Downstairs in the foyer there was no sign of the basketball player. In one way this was a relief. But it did mean she had to struggle with those stupid revolving doors on her own.

She needed to cross the lower side of Berkeley Square to get to the shop, which was tucked away up a little alleyway off Fitzmaurice Place. It was less than two hundred yards away. Nonetheless, getting there was a considerable challenge.

A vehicle, a big black SUV, slowed alongside her. The tinted window slid down revealing a male head, orange hair cropped close over bony features, pale eyes staring levelly at her.

The head spoke softly. ‘Can I give you a lift?’

She heard herself reply politely, almost as if everything were normal.

‘No, thank you.’

But, instinctively, she backed away from the street side of the pavement. Orange hair stared for several long seconds more, then the SUV, a Range Rover she now registered, pulled smoothly away. She continued her short journey shakily, hurrying as best she could.

The lift offer could, of course, have been just the kindness of a stranger. But she didn’t think so for one moment.

When she emerged from the shop onto Fitzmaurice Place again she glanced up and down the street. The same black Range Rover was illegally parked on the corner of Berkeley Square. She had to pass it in order to get back to the flat. She was soon aware of the engine starting and the purr of the big motor crawling along behind her. It took a great effort of will not to look around.

She had bought more than she had intended to, filling two plastic carrier bags not just with food — she supposed she’d have to eat at some stage — but with other necessities. There hadn’t even been any toilet paper in the flat. She held one bag on each side while at the same time manipulating her crutches. The bags swung awkwardly every time she took a step.

The thought occurred to her obscurely that if orange hair pulled alongside her and offered her a lift again she might well accept the invitation. After all, it would probably make no difference. Kurt’s goons were all over her like crows pecking at a carcass.

In the foyer of Penbourne Villas, the basketball player was now at his desk. This at least meant that he once again sprang to his feet, helped her through those blessed doors, took the carrier bags from her and offered to carry them upstairs.

She agreed with alacrity.

The basketball player was the very picture of consideration. She decided to take the initiative.

‘What’s your name?’ she asked.

‘Warren, ma’am,’ he replied, smiling the warmest and widest of smiles.

‘And where’s Ben?’

‘I understand he resigned, ma’am.’

‘So, you’re the new head porter?’

‘Yes I am, ma’am.’

The man was infuriatingly polite. Probably quite unfairly, Lilian wanted to slap him.

She remembered with fondness the way Ben had been far from obsequious, a small, chirpy, jockey-like man, always ready with a wry remark or a spot of banter. And she remembered how he’d looked at her on those occasions when even heavy make-up and dark glasses could do little to conceal the beating she’d received at her husband’s hands the night before.

‘Do you know what happened to Ben?’ she asked.

‘No idea, ma’am. I was just told there was a vacancy for the job here, and applied. That’s all.’

The phraseology struck Lilian as being not quite right. I was just told there was a vacancy for the job...

‘Who told you?’ she enquired sharply.

Warren was no longer smiling his big warm smile. ‘Uh, I don’t really know, ma’am.’

‘What do you mean, you don’t know?’

‘I... it was just the Job Centre, ma’am. I mean I don’t know who exactly, you don’t, do you...’

Warren’s voice tailed away. His body language screamed out his unease. He probably wasn’t such a bad bloke. Just another piece of flotsam struggling to keep afloat in murky, wreckage-strewn waters.

‘I see,’ she said as they stepped from the lift onto the fifth floor. ‘So, as head porter can you please tell me what you were doing this morning allowing strangers to wander around the place accosting residents?’

‘I don’t know what you mean, ma’am. I didn’t see any strangers come in. No visitors at all. Not today. Not yet.’

‘What about two extremely large men who look exactly like the thugs they undoubtedly are?’

Warren shook his head. His expression was one of exquisite puzzlement. But she reckoned he was definitely squirming.

She swiftly took in the empty corridor ahead. Not a goon in sight. Of course there wouldn’t be, would there? Not while she was in the company of the erstwhile porter. She heard a dull clunk, the sound of a door closing. But she had no idea which apartment the sound had come from. Indeed everything seemed as normal on the fifth floor. She had nothing more to say to Warren. She watched in stony silence as he dropped her carrier bags in the hall of number fifty-six and beat a swift retreat. This time she didn’t even consider tipping him.

She slumped into the nearest chair. Any remaining hope that she might have been clinging to had been emptied from her.