“Never get me up in one of them things,” remarked the taxi driver.
Frank Mordant was on the telephone when she arrived at the office but he beckoned her in.
“No, Malcolm,” he was saying. “It’s absolutely out of the question. Well, tell him that’s the lowest I’ll go. Ninepence a unit? Who does he think I am? Father Bloody Christmas?”
He cradled the phone and leaned back in his chair. “Well, then,” he said. “You managed to get here all right.”
“I’m looking forward to it.”
“As I say, the work’s pretty humdrum. Pretty run-of-the-mill. Typing, filing, all the usual. Have you ever used a manual typewriter? Good exercise for the fingers, I can tell you.”
“I’m sure I’ll pick it up.”
“Jolly good.” He looked at his wristwatch and said, “We’ve just got time for me to show you the flat. If you like it, you can move in today. If you don’t – well, don’t feel embarrassed to tell me. I can always help you find diggings somewhere else.”
He ushered her downstairs, and out into the car park, opening the door of his Armstrong-Siddeley for her. “By the way,” he said, as they drove out of the factory gates, “I made one or two enquiries about Julia for you.”
“That’s kind of you.”
“I talked to her landlady, in case she’d been back to pick up any more of her stuff, but no joy there, I’m afraid.”
You liar, thought Nancy, picturing Mrs Marmion’s body hanging over her bathtub. She must have been discovered and buried by now.
“I talked to some of her chums in the office. One of them said that Julia was always keen on going to Scotland, so we might have a lead there.”
“I see,” said Nancy. “Scotland’s a pretty big place, though, isn’t it?”
“You never know. If she took the train from King’s Cross, somebody in the ticket office might remember her.”
“Kind of a long shot.”
“I suppose so. But I got back to an old pal of mine at Scotland Yard yesterday afternoon, to find out if he had any ideas.”
They reached the Sir Oswald Mosley pub and Frank Mordant parked outside. “It’s like I tell all the girls … it’s a little noisy here, but it’s cheap, and it’s close to the office.”
“All the girls?”
“They come and they go. Little boats bobbing past on the river of life, if you don’t mind me being poetic.”
He opened the front door and led her up the steep flight of stairs. “It’s very private … I put down a nice thick underlay so that you couldn’t hear too much noise from the pub underneath. In fact I think you could scream your head off in here and nobody would hear you.”
He led the way past the kitchenette and into the living room. “It’s a great place,” said Nancy. But she wasn’t telling the truth, either. The second she walked into the room, she could feel a wave of desperation, and pain, and cruelty. People had been killed in this room, and monstrously killed. This was more than a crow-feather aura. This was an atmosphere of sheer terror that she could almost smell.
With a salesman’s grin, Frank Mordant opened the bedroom door. Strangely, there was nothing there, no bad karma at all. Everything evil that had happened in this flat had happened in the living room.
“What do you think?”
“I like it. How much are you asking for it?”
“To you, £1.15s.0d a week.”
“Out of a salary of how much?”
“Seven pounds fifteen shillings. So you’ll have plenty of money left over for all of the things that girls like to buy. Brassieres, frilly garter belts, that kind of thing.”
“I don’t wear frilly garter belts, Mr Mordant,” she replied, sharply. “Frilly garter belts went out with the Ziegfeld Follies.” She knew that she shouldn’t have said it. She wanted him to go on thinking that she was weak and pliable. But Frank Mordant didn’t seem to notice; or, if he did, he didn’t take exception.
He went into the kitchenette and started opening and closing the cupboard doors. “Sandra’s left a few things. Tea. Packet of sugar. Couple of jars of raspberry jam.”
“You were saying about some friend of yours at Scotland Yard.”
“Oh, yes. So I was. Not Scotland Yard here, though.”
“You mean Scotland Yard back through the door?”
“That’s right. New Scotland Yard. I’ve always made a point of cultivating friends in the Met.”
Nancy felt her heartbeat slow down. “I guess you have to wait twenty-four hours for an answer. You know, wait for the world to turn around.”
“Oh, no. I sent a lad over with a message and a couple of hours later he sent another lad back. That’s how we communicate through the doors. Give a lad a couple of quid and a cheap digital watch, that’s all you have to do. Almost as good as e-mail.”
Nancy didn’t say anything. Frank Mordant came out of the kitchen. He was still smiling but there was an odd, vindictive look in his eyes. “My pal’s only a woodentop. Not CID or anything. But you can’t beat him when it comes to inside information. Police Constable Bob Smart – smart by name and smart by nature. Mind you, I don’t know why I’m telling you this, darling. You met him yourself, when you and Julia’s brother went to the hospital to identify her mortal remains.”
He stayed where he was, blocking her escape route to the stairs. “Do you know what I ask myself?” he said. “I ask myself why you came to see me, pretending to be looking for Julia, when all the time you knew she was dead? Now, why did you do that?”
“I thought you might know how she died,” said Nancy, with a dry mouth.
“What are you saying? You’re not saying I did away with her, are you?”
“If you didn’t, why did you lie about her landlady? Mrs Marmion’s dead, you know that. And why did you say that Julia might have gone to Scotland?”
“Because I knew you knew. And I just wanted to see how far you were prepared to keep up this little act of yours. What were you going to do? Trick me into making a confession? Rifle through my desk for incriminating evidence? Try to get me back through the door, and hand me over to Detective Sergeant Paul? You must think I was born yesterday.”
“You murdered her and you murdered her right here, in this room. You hanged her, I’ve seen it for myself. Seen her legs kicking.”
“You couldn’t have done.”
Nancy touched her fingertips to her temples. “The Hoodies aren’t the only people in this world with psychic powers, Mr Mordant. I saw Julia Winward die, and I know that you did it. Just like you murdered John Farbelow’s girlfriend Winnie and who knows how many others. Where’s Sandra, for example? Isn’t it amazing how she conveniently managed to disappear as soon as I arrived on the scene?”
Frank Mordant let out a snort of amusement. “Actually, darling, Sandra didn’t disappear. I gave her the day off. After I heard from Police Constable Smart I wanted to find out what you were up to. And now I know.”
He slowly rubbed his hands together, around and around. “The only trouble is, you’ve put me in a bit of an awkward spot. If I let you go back through the door, who knows what mischief you’ll get up to. If I keep you here … well, I can’t do that, either. You’re wanted by the Hoodies, you and Mr Winward. Subversion, conspiracy and murder. It’s been in all the papers. Lucky for you they didn’t publish a very good likeness. Made you look like Daryl Hannah.”
“What murder? I haven’t been involved in any murder.”
“Oh … a very serious murder. Master Thomas Edridge, chief proctor of the Masters of Religious Observance. His throat was cut when John Farbelow and his scruffs managed to rescue that chap of yours.”