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About the Book

About the Author

Also by Ruth Rendell

Title Page


Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19


About the Book

Why did he do it? Why had it happened? What sort of fiend was he? Why should Victor Jenner, the child of happily married, middle-class parents, succumb to such violent rages? Why should he have needed to make motiveless attacks on women? Victor didn’t know.

But Victor did know that the last ten years – the years in prison – had been a mistake. He had never intended to harm anyone. It had all been an accident. In fact, his life had been a series of accidents, one mistake leading to the next.

Now, out of prison at last, Victor still isn’t free. The past hold him so he can’t go forward. So Victor goes back – and begins a chain of accidents, a new string of tragic mistakes.

About the Author

Ruth Rendell was an exceptional crime writer, and will be remembered as a legend in her own lifetime. Her ground-breaking debut novel, From Doon With Death, was first published in 1964 and introduced readers to her enduring and popular detective, Inspector Reginald Wexford.

With worldwide sales of approximately 20 million copies, Rendell was a regular Sunday Times bestseller. Her sixty bestselling novels include police procedurals, some of which have been successfully adapted for TV, stand-alone psychological mysteries, and a third strand of crime novels under the pseudonym Barbara Vine.

Rendell won numerous awards, including the Sunday Times Literary Award in 1990. In 2013 she was awarded the Crime Writers’ Association Cartier Diamond Dagger for sustained excellence in crime writing. In 1996 she was awarded the CBE, and in 1997 became a Life Peer.

Ruth Rendell died in May 2015.

By Ruth Rendell


Collected Short Stories

Wexford: An Omnibus

The Second Wexford Omnibus

The Third Wexford Omnibus

The Fourth Wexford Omnibus

The Fifth Wexford Omnibus

The Ruth Rendell Omnibus

The Second Ruth Rendell Omnibus

The Third Ruth Rendell Omnibus



The Fallen Curtain

Means of Evil

The Fever Tree

The New Girl Friend

The Copper Peacock

Blood Lines

Piranha to Scurfy




The Thief



Ruth Rendell’s Suffolk

Ruth Rendell’s Anthology of the Murderous Mind



From Doon with Death

A New Lease of Death

Wolf to the Slaughter

The Best Man to Die

A Guilty Thing Surprised

No More Dying Then

Murder Being Once Done

Some Lie and Some Die

Shake Hands For Ever

A Sleeping Life

Put On by Cunning

The Speaker of Mandarin

An Unkindness of Ravens

The Veiled One

Kissing the Gunner’s Daughter


Road Rage

Harm Done

Babes in the Wood

End In Tears



To Fear a Painted Devil

Vanity Dies Hard

The Secret House of Death

The Face of Trespass

A Demon in My View

A Judgment in Stone

Make Death Love Me

The Lake of Darkness

Master of the Moor

The Killing Doll

The Tree of Hands

Live Flesh

Talking to Strange Men

The Bridesmaid

Going Wrong

The Crocodile Bird

The Keys to the Street

A Sight for Sore Eyes

Adam & Eve and Pinch Me

The Rottweiler

Thirteen Steps Down

The Water’s Lovely

Live Flesh

Ruth Rendell

For Don


THE GUN WAS a replica. Spenser told Fleetwood he was ninety-nine per cent sure of that. Fleetwood knew what that meant, that he was really about forty-nine per cent sure, but he didn’t attach much weight to what Spenser said anyway. For his own part he didn’t believe the gun was real. Rapists don’t have real guns. A replica does just as well as a means of frightening.

The window that the girl had broken was a square empty hole. Once since Fleetwood arrived had the man with the gun appeared at it. He had come in answer to Fleetwood’s summons but had said nothing, only standing there for perhaps thirty seconds, holding the gun in both hands. He was young, about Fleetwood’s own age, with long dark hair, really long, down on his shoulders, as was the prevailing fashion. He wore dark glasses. For half a minute he stood there and then he turned abruptly round and disappeared into the shadows of the room. The girl Fleetwood hadn’t seen, and for all he knew she might be dead.

He sat on a garden wall on the opposite side of the street, looking up at the house. His own car and the police van were parked at the kerb. Two of the uniformed men had succeeded in clearing away the crowd which had gathered and keeping it back with an improvised barrier. Even though it had now begun to rain, dispersing the crowd altogether would have been an impossible task. Front doors stood open all the way down the street with women on the doorsteps, waiting for something to happen. It was one of them who, hearing the window break and the girl scream, had dialled 9–9–9.

A district that was neither Kensal Rise nor West Kilburn nor Brondesbury, a blurred area, on the borders of nowhere in particular. Fleetwood had never really been there before, had only driven through. The street was called Solent Gardens, long and straight and flat, with terraces of two-storey houses facing one another, some Victorian, some much later, from the nineteen twenties and thirties. The house with the broken window, number 62 Solent Gardens, was one of these newer houses, the end of a terrace of eight, red brick and pebble dashing, red pantiles on the roof, black and white paintwork, a pale blue front door. All the houses had gardens at the back and gardens at the front with lonicera or privet hedges and bits of lawn, and most of them had low brick or stone walls in front of the hedges. Fleetwood, sitting on a wall in the rain, began to wonder what he should do next.

None of the rapist’s victims had mentioned a gun, so it would seem as if the replica had been recently acquired. Two of them – there had been five, or at any rate five who had come forward – had been able to describe him: tall, slim, twenty-seven or twenty-eight, olive skin, dark longish hair, dark eyes and very black eyebrows. A foreigner? Oriental? Greek? Perhaps, but perhaps just an Englishman with dark-skinned forbears. One of the girls had been badly hurt, for she had fought him, but he had used no weapon on her, only his hands.

Fleetwood got up and walked up to the front door of number 63 opposite to have another talk with Mrs Stead, who had called the police. Mrs Stead had fetched out a kitchen stool to sit on and put on her winter coat. She had already told him that the girl’s name was Rosemary Stanley and that she lived with her parents but they were away. It had been at five minutes to eight in the morning, one and a half hours ago, when Rosemary Stanley had broken the window and screamed.

Fleetwood asked if Mrs Stead had seen her.

‘He dragged her away before I got the chance.’

‘We can’t know that,’ Fleetwood said. ‘I suppose she goes out to work? I mean, when things are normal?’

‘Yes, but she never leaves the house before nine. Ten past as often as not. I can tell you what happened, I’ve worked it all out. He rang the doorbell and she went down in her nightie to answer it and he said he’d come to read the electric meter – they’re due for this quarter, he’d know that – and she took him upstairs and he had a go at her, but in the nick of time she bashed the window out and uttered her desperate cry for help. That’s the way it’s got to be.’

Fleetwood didn’t think so. For one thing the electricity meter wouldn’t be upstairs. All the houses in this part of the street were the same and Mrs Stead’s meter was just inside the front door. Alone in the house on a dark winter morning, Rosemary Stanley would hardly have opened the door to a caller. She would have leaned out of the window to check on him first. Women in this district had been so frightened by tales of the rapist that not one of them would set foot outside after dark, sleep alone in a house if she could help it, or open a front door without a chain on it. A local ironmonger told Fleetwood that there had been a boom in the sale of door chains these past few weeks. Fleetwood thought it more likely the man with the gun had forced an entry into the house and made his way to Rosemary Stanley’s bedroom.

‘Could you do with a coffee, Inspector?’ said Mrs Stead.

‘Sergeant,’ Fleetwood corrected her. ‘No, thanks. Later maybe. Still, we must hope there won’t be a later.’

He crossed the road. Behind the barrier the crowd waited patiently, standing in the drizzle, coat collars turned up, hands in pockets. At the end of the street, where it turned off the main road, one of the PCs was having an argument with a driver who seemed to want to bring his lorry down here, Spenser had predicted that the man with the gun would come out and give himself up when he saw Fleetwood and the others; rapists were notorious cowards, that was a well-known fact, and what did he have to gain by holding out? It hadn’t been like that, though. Fleetwood thought it might be that the rapist. still believed he had a chance of escape. If he was the rapist. They couldn’t be sure he was, and Fleetwood was a stickler for accuracy, for fairness. A few minutes after the 9–9–9 call a girl called Heather Cole had come into the police station with a man called John Parr, and Heather Cole had said an attack had been made on her in Queens Park half an hour before. She was exercising her dog when a man had seized her from behind, but she had screamed and Mr Parr had come and the man had run off. Had escaped this way, Fleetwood thought, and entered 62 Solent Gardens for refuge from pursuers rather than with the intention of raping Rosemary Stanley because he had been baulked of Heather Cole. Or that was Fleetwood’s guess.

Fleetwood came the nearest he had yet been to the Stanley house, opening the small ornate wrought-iron gate, crossing the square of wet bright-green grass, making his way round the side. There was no sound from the interior. The exposed side wall was sheer, without drainpipes or projections, with three small windows only. At the back though, the kitchen had apparently been extended and the roof of this extension, which was no more than eight feet from the ground, could be reached by scaling the wall against which grew a sturdy thornless climber – a wisteria probably, thought Fleetwood, who in his leisure hours was fond of gardening.

Above this low roof a sash window stood open. Fleetwood was proved right. He noted access to the garden from a lane at the back by a path of concrete slabs leading past a concrete garage. If all else failed, he thought, he or someone could always get into the house by climbing up the way the man with the gun had.

As he came round the front again, the voice shouted at him. It was a voice full of fear but it was itself none the less frightening for that. It was unexpected and it made Fleetwood jump. He realized he was nervous, he was afraid, though he hadn’t thought of this before. He made himself walk, not run, on to the front path. The man with the gun stood at the broken window, the window from which he had now knocked out all the glass into the flowerbed below, holding the gun in his right hand and the curtain back with his left.

‘Are you in charge here?’ he said to Fleetwood.

As if he were running some sort of show. Well, perhaps he was, and a successful one to judge from the avidity of the audience, braving rain and cold. At the sound of the voice a noise came from them, a crowd-sigh, a collective murmur, not unlike wind in the treetops.

Fleetwood nodded. ‘That’s right.’

‘So it’d be you I’d have to make terms with?’

‘No terms are going to be made.’

The man with the gun now appeared to consider this. He said, ‘What’s your rank?’

‘I’m Detective Sergeant Fleetwood.’

Disappointment was apparent in the thin face, even though the eyes were hidden. The man seemed to think he merited a chief inspector at least. Perhaps I’d better tell Spenser his presence is required, thought Fleetwood. The gun was pointing at him now. Fleetwood wasn’t going to put his hands up, of course he wasn’t. This was Kensal Rise, not Los Angeles, though what real difference that made he didn’t know. He looked into the black hole of the gun’s mouth.

‘I want a promise I can come out of here and have half an hour to get away in. I’ll take the girl with me and when the half-hour’s up I’ll send her back here in a taxi. OK?’

‘You must be joking,’ said Fleetwood.

‘It’ll be no joke to her if you don’t give me that promise. You can see the gun, can’t you?’

Fleetwood made no reply.

‘You can have an hour to decide. Then I’ll use the gun on her.’

‘That will be murder. The inevitable sentence for murder is life imprisonment.’

The voice, which was deep and low, yet colourless – a voice which gave Fleetwood the impression it wasn’t used much or was always used economically – turned cold. It spoke of terrible things with indifference.

‘I shan’t kill her. I’ll shoot her from the back, in the lower spine.’

Fleetwood made no comment on this. What was there to say? It was a threat which could provoke only a moralistic condemnation or shocked reproach. He had turned away, for he noticed out of the corner of his eye a familiar car arriving, but a gasp from the crowd, a kind of concerted indrawing of breath, made him look up at the window once more. The girl, Rosemary Stanley, had been pushed into the empty square from which the glass had gone and was being held there, her stance suggesting a slave pinioned in a market place. Her arms were grasped in other arms behind her back and her head hung forward. A hand took hold of her long hair and with it pulled her head back, the jerking movement causing her to cry out.

Fleetwood expected the crowd to address her or her to speak, but neither of these things happened. She was silent and staring, statue-still with fear. The gun, he thought, was probably pressed into her back, into her lower spine. No doubt she too had heard the man’s statement of intent. So intense was the crowd’s indignation that Fleetwood fancied he could feel vibrations of it. He knew he ought to say words of reassurance to the girl but he could think of nothing not absolutely false and hypocritical. She was a thin little girl with long fair hair wearing a garment that might have been a dress or a dressing gown. An arm came round her waist, pulled her back, and simultaneously, for the first time, a curtain was drawn across the window. This was in fact a pair of thick-looking lined curtains that drew tightly together.

Spenser was still sitting in the passenger seat of the Rover reading a sheet of paper. He was the kind of man who, when not otherwise occupied, is always to be found perusing some document. It occurred to Fleetwood how subtly he was grooming himself for future commander-hood: his abundant thick hair just silvering, his shave cleaner that ever, the skin curiously tanned for deep midwinter, his shirt ice-cream transmuted into poplin, his raincoat surely a Burberry. Fleetwood got into the back of the car and Spenser turned on him eyes the blue of gas flames.

In Fleetwood’s view, his reading had, as always, informed him of everything that was irrelevant while contributing nothing to the cooling of crisis.

‘She’s eighteen, left school last summer, works in a typing pool. Parents went to the West Country first thing this morning, left in a taxi around half-seven, a neighbour says. Mrs Stanley’s father in Hereford had a coronary. They’ll be informed as soon as we can reach them. We don’t want them seeing it on TV.’

Fleetwood immediately thought of the girl he was to marry next week. Would Diana find out he was here and worry? But no TV camera crew had appeared, no reporters of any kind yet, as far as he knew. He told Spenser what the man with the gun had said about a promise and getting away and shooting Rosemary Stanley.

‘We can be ninety-nine per cent sure it’s a replica,’ said Spenser. ‘How did he get in there? Do we know?’

‘By means of a tree growing against the rear wall.’ Fleetwood knew Spenser wouldn’t know what he was talking about if he said wisteria.

Spenser muttered something and Fleetwood had to ask him to repeat it.

‘I said we’ll have to go in there, Sergeant.’

Spenser was thirty-seven, nearly ten years his senior. Also he was growing rotund, as perhaps was appropriate for a commander-to-be. Older than Fleetwood, less fit, two grades up in rank, Spenser meant by his ‘we’ that Fleetwood should go in there, maybe taking one of the young DCs with him.

‘By means possibly of the tree you spoke of,’ Spenser said.

The window was open, waiting for him. Inside was a man with a real gun or a mock gun – who knew? – and a frightened girl. He, Fleetwood, had no weapon at all except his hands and his feet and his wits, and when he talked to Spenser about being issued with a firearm the Superintendent looked at him as if he’d asked for a nuclear warhead.

The time was a quarter to ten and the man with the gun had made his ultimatum at about nine twenty.

‘Are you going to talk to him at all, sir?’

Spenser gave a thin smile. ‘Getting cold feet, Sergeant?’

Fleetwood took that in silence. Spenser got out of the car and crossed the road. Hesitating for a moment, Fleetwood followed him. The rain had stopped, and the sky, which had been uniformly grey and smooth, was now broken into grey and white and patches of blue. It seemed colder. The crowd now reached as far as the main road, Chamberlayne Road, that runs over Kensal Rise to meet Ladbroke Grove at the bottom. Fleetwood could see that the traffic in Chamberlayne Road had been halted.

Up at the broken window in the Stanley house the drawn curtains moved about in the light wind. Spenser stepped on to the muddy grass from the comparative cleanness of the concrete path without a pause, without a glance at his well-polished black Italian shoes. He stood in the centre of the grass, legs apart, arms folded, and he called up to the window in the authentic voice of one who had ascended the ladder of rank in the police force, a chill clear tone without regional accent, without pretension to culture, almost uninflected, the note of a sensitively programmed robot: ‘This is Detective Superintendent Ronald Spenser. Come to the window. I want to talk to you.’

It seemed as if the curtains fluttered with greater violence but this might only have been the wind blowing coincidentally.

‘Can you hear me? Come to the window, please.’

The curtains continued to move but did not part. Fleetwood, on the pavement now with DC Bridges, saw the camera crew elbowing through the crowd – unmistakable newshounds, even if you couldn’t see their van parked on the street corner. One of them began setting up a tripod. And then something happened to make all of them jump. Rosemary Stanley screamed.

The scream was a dreadful sound, tearing the air. The crowd acknowledged it with a noise like an echo of that scream coming from a long way off, half gasp, half murmur of distress. Spenser, who had started like the rest of them, stood his ground, digging in his heels, positively sinking into the mud, his shoulders hunched, as if to show his firmness of purpose, his determination not to be moved. But he didn’t speak again. Fleetwood thought what everyone thought, what perhaps Spenser himself thought: that his speech had caused the action that had caused the scream.

If the man with the gun had done as he was bidden and come to the window, it would have provided a distraction, under cover of which Fleetwood and Bridges might have climbed up the house and gone in at the open window. No doubt the man too knew that. Fleetwood felt strangely comforted, though. There had been no detonation. Rosemary Stanley hadn’t screamed because she had been shot. Spenser, having demonstrated his fearlessness and his phlegm, turned from the house and slowly walked across the soggy grass, the path, opened the gate, came out on to the pavement, gave the crowd a blank dispassionate stare. He said to Fleetwood, ‘You’ll have to think about going in.’

Fleetwood was conscious of his photograph being taken, a shot of the side of his head and a bit of profile. It was Spenser’s face they really wanted a picture of. Suddenly the curtains were flung apart and the man with the gun stood there. It was funny the way it reminded Fleetwood of the pantomime he and Diana had taken her niece to at Christmas: a pair of curtains thrown apart and a man appearing dramatically between them. The villain of the piece. The Demon King. The crowd sighed. A woman in the crowd uttered a high-pitched giggle of hysteria, which was abruptly cut off as if she had laid her hand across her mouth.

‘You’ve got twenty minutes,’ said the man with the gun.

‘Where did you get the gun, John?’ said Spenser.

John? thought Fleetwood. Why John? Because Lesley Allan or Sheila Manners or one of the other girls had said so, or just for Spenser to have the satisfaction of hearing him say, ‘My name’s not John’?

‘These replicas are very good, aren’t they?’ Spenser said conversationally. ‘It takes experience to tell the difference. I wouldn’t say expert knowledge, but experience, yes.’

Fleetwood was part of the crowd now, caught up in it, as was Bridges. They were pushing their way through it towards the main road. How long could Spenser keep him talking? Not long, if all he could do was mock him, take the piss about that gun. From behind him he heard, ‘You’ve got just seventeen minutes.’

‘All right, Ted, let’s talk.’

That was better, though Fleetwood wished Spenser would stop calling the man with the gun by phony Christian names. He was out of earshot now, out beyond the crowd and in the main road, where the traffic was jammed solid. He and Bridges went down the alley, closed to vehicles by an iron bollard, that became the lane at the back of the houses. The Stanley house was easy to find, distinguished by the ugly concrete garage. By this time the man with the gun might easily have closed that sash window, but he hadn’t. Of course, if the window had been closed, it would have made it virtually impossible to get into the house, at any rate to get in silently, so Fleetwood ought to have been pleased, he thought, that John or Ted or whatever his name was hadn’t thought to close it. But instead it struck him with a sense of vague cold dismay. Surely if the window hadn’t been closed, this was not inadvertent. It had been left open for a purpose.

Now they were once more near enough to hear Spenser’s voice and the voice of the man with the gun. Spenser was saying something about letting Rosemary Stanley out of the house before they could begin bargaining. Let her come down the stairs and out of the front door and then they could start making terms and conditions. Fleetwood couldn’t hear the man’s reply. He put his right foot up on to the wisteria where it bent at almost a right angle, his left foot a yard higher into the fork and then hauled himself on to the extension roof . . . Now all he had to do was swing his leg over the sill. He wished he could still hear the voices but he could hear nothing but the groaning of brakes on the main road, the mindless sporadic hooting of impatient drivers. Bridges started to climb up. It was odd the things you noticed at times of tension and of test. The last thing that mattered now was the colour the windowsill was painted. Yet Fleetwood took note of the colour, Cretan Blue, the same shade as that on the front door of the house he and Diana were buying in Chigwell.

Fleetwood found himself in the bathroom. It had green-tiled walls and on the floor creamy-white tiles. Footprints, made in liquid mud and now dry, crossed it, growing fainter as they reached the door. The man with the gun had come in this way. Bridges was outside the window now, bracing his weight on the sill. Fleetwood had to open the door, though he couldn’t think of anything he had ever wanted to do less. He was not brave, he thought, he had too much imagination, and sometimes (though this was no time to think of it) it seemed to him that a more contemplative, scholarly life would have suited him better than police work.

From here the traffic sounds were very faint in the distance. Somewhere in the house a floorboard creaked. Fleetwood could also hear or feel a regular throbbing but this, he knew, was his own heart. He swallowed and opened the door. The landing outside was not at all what he had expected. It had a thick pale cream carpet and at the head of the stairs there was a polished wooden handrail and on the stair wall were little pictures in gilt and silver frames, drawings and engravings of birds and animals, and one of Dürer’s Praying Hands. This was a house where people were happy and where loving care had been expended on its furnishings and its maintenance. A surge of anger came to Fleetwood because what was happening in the house now was an assault on this quiet contentment, a desecration.

He stood on the landing, holding the handrail. The three bedroom doors were all closed. He looked at the drawing of a hare and the drawing of a bat with a face that was vaguely human, vaguely pig-like, and wondered what there was about rape that made any man want to do it. For his part he couldn’t really enjoy sex unless the woman wanted it just as much as he. Those poor girls, he thought. The girl and the man with the gun were behind the door to the left of where Fleetwood now stood – on the right, as far as the observers outside were concerned. The man with the gun knew what he was doing. He wasn’t going to be fool enough to leave the front of the house unmanned while investigating what went on at the back.

Fleetwood reasoned: if he shoots me, I can only die, or not die and get well again. His imagination had its limits. Later on he was to remember what he had thought in his innocence. He stood outside the closed door, put his hand to it and said in a bold clear voice, ‘This is Detective Sergeant Fleetwood. We are in the house. Please open this door.’

There had not been total silence before. Fleetwood realized this because there was total silence now. He waited and spoke again.

‘Your best course is to open this door. Be sensible and give yourself up. Open the door now and come out or let me in.’

It had hardly occurred to him the door might not be locked. He tried the handle and it gave. Fleetwood felt a bit of a fool – which, in a curious way, helped. He opened the door, not flinging it; it flung itself, being the kind of door that always swings open to hit with a crash the piece of furniture immediately to the right of its arc.

The room burst into view before him like a stage set: a single bed with blue covers and blue bedspread thrown back, a bedside cabinet with on it a lamp, a mug, a book, a vase containing a single peacock feather, walls papered in more green and blue peacock feathers, wind blowing through the broken window, lifting high the emerald-green silk curtains. The man with the gun stood with his back to a corner wardrobe, pointing the gun at Fleetwood, the girl in front of him, his free arm round her waist.

He had reached a pitch of dangerous panic. Fleetwood could tell that by the change in his face. It was scarcely the same face as that which had twice appeared at the window, having been overtaken by animal terror and by a regression to instinct. All that mattered to this man now was self-preservation; he had a passion for it, but in this passion there was no wisdom, no prudence, only a need to escape by killing all who hindered him. Yet he had killed no one, thought Fleetwood, and he held a replica gun . . .

‘If you put that gun down now,’ he said, ‘and let Miss Stanley go, let me take Miss Stanley downstairs . . . if you do that, you know the charges brought against you will be minimal compared to what they might be if you injure or threaten anyone else.’ And the rapes? he wondered. There was no proof yet that this was the same man. ‘You need not drop the gun. Just lower the hand you’re holding the gun in. Lift your other arm and let Miss Stanley go.’

The man didn’t move. He was holding the girl so tightly that the veins on his hand stood out blue. The expression on his face was intensifying as his frown deepened; the skin around his eyes creased further and the eyes themselves began to burn.

Fleetwood heard sounds at the front of the house. A scuffling and a thud. The sounds were drowned in rain noise as a sudden hard shower lashed the unbroken upper part of the window. The curtains blew in and ballooned. The man with the gun hadn’t moved. Fleetwood didn’t really expect him to speak and it was a shock when he did. The voice was strangled with panic, not much more than a murmur.

‘This gun I have is not a replica. It’s for real. You’d better believe me.’

‘Where did you get it?’ said Fleetwood, in whom nerves affected his stomach rather than his throat. His voice was steady but he was beginning to feel sick.

‘Someone I know took it off a dead German in 1945.’

‘You saw that on TV,’ said Fleetwood. Behind him Bridges was standing in the short passage behind which were the banisters and the stairwell. He could feel Bridges’s breath, warm in the cold air. ‘Who was “someone”?’

‘Why should I tell you?’ A very red tongue came out and moistened lips which were the same olive shade as the man’s skin. ‘It was my uncle.’

A shiver went through Fleetwood because an uncle would be the right sort of age, an uncle would be in his fifties now, twenty-five or thirty years older than this man. ‘Let Miss Stanley go,’ he said. ‘Why not? What have you got to gain by holding on to her? I’m not armed. She’s not protecting you.’

The girl didn’t move. She was afraid to move. She sagged over the supporting arm that held her so tightly, a small thin girl in a blue cotton nightdress, her bare arms goose-pimpled. Fleetwood knew he must make no promises he wouldn’t be permitted to keep.

‘Let her go and I can guarantee it will count very much in your favour. I’m not making any promises, mind, but it will count in your favour.’

There was a thudding sound which Fleetwood was pretty sure was someone putting a ladder with padded ends up against the wall of the house. The man with the gun didn’t seem to have heard. Fleetwood swallowed and took two steps into the room. Bridges was behind him and now the man with the gun saw Bridges. He lifted the hand which held the gun an inch or two and pointed it up towards Fleetwood’s face. At the same time he drew his other arm from round Rosemary Stanley’s waist, as if pulling his nails hard across the skin. And indeed the girl did give a shuddering whimper, shrinking her body. He pulled his arm back very sharply and kneed her in the back so that she staggered and fell forwards on to all-fours.

‘I don’t want her,’ he said. ‘She’s no use to me.’

Fleetwood said quite pleasantly, ‘That’s very sensible of you.’

‘You’ve got to make me a promise though.’

‘Come over here, Miss Stanley, please,’ Fleetwood said. ‘You’ll be quite safe.’ Would she? God knew. The girl crawled, pulled herself up, came towards him and held his sleeve with both hands. He repeated it though. ‘You’re quite safe now.’

The man with the gun also repeated himself. His teeth had begun to chatter and he gobbled his words.

‘You’ve got to make me a promise.’

‘What, then?’

Fleetwood looked past him and, as the wind raised the curtains almost to ceiling level, saw the head and shoulders of Detective Constable Irving appear at the window. The DC’s body blocked half the light but the man with the gun didn’t seem to notice. He said, ‘Promise I can go out of here by the bathroom and give me five minutes. That’s all – five minutes.’

Irving was about to step over the sash. Fleetwood thought, it’s all over, we’ve beaten him, he’ll be quiet as a lamb now. He took the girl in his arms, hugged her for no reason but that she was young and terrified, and thrust her at Bridges, turning his back on the man with the gun, hearing behind him the chattering voice say, ‘It’s real, I warned you, I told you.’

‘Take her downstairs.’

Above the banisters, on the wall down which the staircase ran, hung the reproduction of those praying hands, a steel engraving. Across the front of it came Bridges to hold the girl and take her down. It was one of those eternal moments, infinite yet swift as a flash. Fleetwood saw the hands that prayed for him, for them all, as Bridges, whose body had obscured it, moved down the stairs. Behind him a heavy foot dropped on to the floor, a sash slammed, a chattering voice gave a cry, and something struck Fleetwood in the back. It all happened very slowly and very quickly. The explosion seemed to come from far away, a car backfiring on the main road perhaps. There was no more pain, and no less, than from a punch into the base of the spine.

He saw as he fell forward the loosely clasped beseeching hands, the engraved hands, sweep upwards above his view. Slumping against the banisters, he clutched on to them, slipping down as might a child holding on to the bars of a cot. He was fully conscious and, strangely, there was no more pain from that punch in the back, only an enormous tiredness.

A voice that had once been soft and low he could hear screaming shrilly: ‘He asked for it, I told him, I warned him, he wouldn’t believe me. Why wouldn’t he believe me? He made me do it.’

He made me do – what? Nothing much anyway, Fleetwood thought, and holding on to the bars, he tried to pull himself up. But his body had grown heavy and would not move, heavy as lead, numb, weighed down or pinned or glued to the floor. The red wetness spreading across the carpet surprised him and he said to all the people, ‘Whose blood is that?’


ALL HIS LIFE, for almost as far back as he could remember, Victor had had a phobia. A teacher at college to whom he had been unwise enough to mention it had called it chelonophobia, which he claimed to have made up from the Greek. He made stupid cracks about it whenever the opportunity arose, such as when the Principal’s cat wandered into the lecture room one day or when someone was discussing Alice in Wonderland. Victor had his phobia quite badly, to the extent of not wanting to hear the creature named or even to name it himself in his thoughts, or to see a picture of it in a book or some toy or ornament made in its image, of which many thousands were in existence.

During the past ten years and a bit he had neither seen it nor heard it spoken of, but sometimes it (or one of its allotropes) had come to him in dreams. That had always happened and presumably always would, but he fancied he was a bit better about the phobia than he had used to be, for he no longer screamed aloud in his sleep. Georgie would have told him if he had. Even when he only moaned a little Georgie made enough fuss about it. One of those dreams had come last night, his final night in there, but he had learned by now how to wake himself up, which he did, whimpering and reaching out with his hands for reality.

The girl came for him in her car. He sat beside her in the front but he didn’t look out much, he didn’t really want to see the world yet. It was when they stopped at a red light and he turned his head aside that he saw the pet shop, and that reminded him he would be a prey to his phobia once more. Not that there was anything of that sort in the window, no reptiles of any kind, but a white puppy and two kittens playing in a pile of straw. He shivered just the same.

‘You all right, Victor?’ the girl said.

‘Fine,’ he said.

It was Acton they were going to – not his favourite place, but they hadn’t given him much choice. Somewhere not totally unfamiliar, they had suggested – Acton, say, or Finchley or Golders Green. Well, Golders Green might be on the expensive side. He had said Acton would be all right, he had grown up there, his parents had died there, he had an aunt living there still. He found looking out of the car and seeing the familiar place, the same yet changed, still there, still going on while he had been a decade away, almost unbearably painful. That was something he hadn’t expected. He closed his eyes and kept them closed until he felt the car turn and head northwards. Hanger Lane? No, Twyford Avenue. This was motherland and fatherland all right. They weren’t going to stick him in the same street, were they? They weren’t. Mrs Griffiths’s house in Tolleshunt Avenue was three or four streets further west. Victor thought he would have liked to stay sitting in the car for ever but he got out and stood on the pavement, feeling dizzy.

The girl led the way. Victor followed her up the path. She had one of those handbags that are divided into many compartments with zip-up sections and extraneous purses, and from one of these she took a ring with two keys on it, one of gold metal, one of silver. It was the gold one she inserted into the lock, opening the door. She turned and gave him a reassuring smile. All he could see at first was the staircase. Most of the hall was behind it. The girl, whose name was Judy Bratner and who had asked Victor to call her Judy from the start, led the way up the stairs. The room was on the first floor, its door opened by the silver metal key. Victor was surprised to see how small the room was, for Judy had told him what the rent would be, though he would not be paying it, and he stood on the threshold for a moment, letting his eyes travel from the tiny sink and draining board in one corner to the curtainless window with its cotton blind and thence to the beanpole figure of Judy and her earnest well-meaning dedicated face.

The blind was down and Judy’s first self-appointed task was to raise it. Some diffident apologetic sunshine came in. Judy stood by the window, smiling more confidently now, as if she had personally caused the sun to shine and had created – by painting it on canvas perhaps – the view. Victor went to the window and stood beside her, looking out. His right shoulder was a good six inches from her left shoulder but nevertheless she flinched a little and moved fractionally to the right. No doubt she couldn’t help it, it was a reflex action, for she would know about his past.

Looking down, he could see the street where he had been born and brought up. Which house it was he couldn’t be precisely sure from here, but it was one of those in the terrace with the grey slate roofs and the long narrow gardens separated from each other by chestnut paling fences. In one of those houses, for the first time, he had seen it . . .

Judy spoke regretfully and as if she had had to brace herself to do it. ‘We haven’t been able to come up with any sort of job for you, Victor. And I’m afraid there’s no prospect of anything just at this moment in time.’

How they talked! He knew about unemployment, how it had come up like a cloud during the latter part of his lost years and now hung fog-like over the whole country.

‘You might go to the Job Centre yourself once you’ve settled in here. Of course you’d have to be open about your . . .’ She sought a word, preferably a euphemistic piece of jargon.

‘Antecedents,’ he said flatly.

She seemed not to have heard, though her face coloured. ‘In the interim,’ she said, ‘it will take you a while to find your feet here. Things will seem a bit strange at first – externals, I mean. But we’ve talked about that.’

Not as much, in fact, as Victor had expected. Other prisoners, coming to the end of their terms, had been gradually acclimatised to the outside world, taken out for a day, let out for a weekend. Nothing like that had been done for him and he wondered if there had been new rulings on release techniques for long-term prisoners. Newspapers found their way into the prison and there was no ban on reading them daily, but they were not serious newspapers, the kind known as ‘quality’, and they gave you headlines and pictures rather than information. For instance, after that talk with the governor which had taken place early on, there had hardly been any news about the policeman.

Then, six months before his release was due, his ‘rehabilitation programme’ began. He was told about this in advance but all that happened was that Judy Bratner or her colleague, a man called Tom Welch, came to talk to him for half an hour once a fortnight. They were voluntary associates of the Probation and After-care Service or some such thing, though emphatically not to be called prison visitors. Exactly what they were and whom they were Victor had never found out, because Judy and Tom, though kind and bent on helping him, treated him as if he were a very stupid illiterate twelve-year-old. He didn’t care because he didn’t want to know. If they would do as they promised and find him somewhere to live and tell him how to get the Department of Health and Social Security to keep him, that was all he wanted. Now what he wanted was for Judy to go.

‘Oh, I almost forgot,’ she said. ‘I have to show you where the bathroom is.’

It was at the end of the passage, down six steps and round a corner, a small cold room painted the green of tinned peas.

‘All you can possibly want, you see.’

She began explaining to him how the room heater could be made to function by the insertion of twenty-pence pieces and the water heater fifty-pence pieces. Victor couldn’t recall ever having seen a twenty-pence piece. It was one of those new coins. There was a pound coin now too, he seemed to remember. They walked back along the passage. A strip of beaded wood, which Victor thought was called a chair rail, ran along the wall at waist height, and on the plaster above this rail, in letters no more than half an inch high, someone had written in pencil: The shit will hit the fan.

‘Now I’m going to leave this number with you, Victor, so that you can give us a call if there’s anything bothering you. Well, there are two numbers, just to be on the safe side. We don’t want you to feel you’re out on your own. We want you to feel there are some supportive people who do genuinely care. Right?’

Victor nodded.

‘Of course, needless to say, I or Tom will pop back in a day or two to see how you’re making out. Did I tell you the pay phone’s on the ground floor, just back of the stairs? You’ll need five- and ten-pence pieces for that. Now you’re OK for money, aren’t you, till your DHSS comes through? I’m afraid Mrs Griffiths, who owns this house, she does know. I just thought I’d tell you, but there’s no way she couldn’t be told.’ Judy’s face screwed up with the agonizing effort of it. Her working life consisted in recounting horrible unpalatable truths – there is no job, there is no security, comfort, ease, peace, future – and it was beginning to show on her troubled pinched face. ‘I mean, we always have to tell them because they’d find out, you know. Actually, Mrs Griffiths has been on our books quite a while.’

What did that mean? That half or all the other tenants were also ex-prisoners? Ex-criminals?

‘But she doesn’t live on the premises,’ Judy said with the air of one telling first the bad news, then the good. She seemed to be searching for a remark with which to take her leave and grabbed at a whole clutch. ‘It’s really a nice area, not at all rough. This is a quiet street, not a through road. You might think about joining things, making friends. What about an evening class?’

Over the banisters, he watched her go downstairs. The front door closed behind her. He wondered if he were alone in the house. There was no internal sound at all. He listened and heard Judy’s car start up, then a heavier vehicle with a diesel engine park further down the street, the shriek of a woman, followed by a ringing laugh. Victor went back into his room and closed the door. Judy or someone had placed on the draining board and the shelf beside it a wrapped loaf, a carton of margarine, long-life milk, canned mince and canned beans, tea bags, instant coffee and granulated sugar. The staples of English working-class diet as seen through the eyes of a social worker.

Victor examined the sink, the taps, the small cylindrical water heater, familiarizing himself with the place. Between sink and window was a cupboard, of triangular shape, formed by constructing a frame with a door in it across this corner of the room. Inside it hung his few clothes, some of which, he saw, were those he had possessed in that far-off time before his imprisonment. Everything he had owned then had gone into his parents’ keeping, and both his parents were now dead, his father having died first and his mother a mere six months later. Victor had been told he might be temporarily released to attend his parents’ funerals, but he had not wished to do so. It would have been embarrassing.

The bed was a single size, made up with pink nylon sheets, two multicoloured blankets manufactured in the Third (or maybe Fourth or Fifth) World and a cover that had seen better days as a french-window curtain. The tape through which the hooks had been inserted was still attached to it. The only chair in the room was of Korean cane and there was a cane and glass coffee table on the stout frame, on which someone – the graffitist prophet of disaster? – had stubbed out a hundred cigarettes, giving almost but not quite the effect of pokerwork. Upon the slippery linoleum, red-patterned with cream rectangles so that the impression given was of ravioli in tomato sauce, lay two small rugs of green nylon fur.

Victor looked out of the window. The sun had gone in and the roofs of West Acton lay red and grey and terracotta under a pale grey sky across which a large gleaming unidentifiable aircraft was making its way to Heathrow. There was no wind and it was very clear. A main road could be seen along which traffic flowed in a metallic stream. This road was just behind the gardens of the street where his parents’ house had been – or, rather, where stood the house his parents had rented for the duration of their married life. He was glad they were dead – not from any conventional or sentimental standpoint, such as shame at having to confront them or fear of giving them pain, but simply because here was one additional trouble and stumbling block out of the way. Yet he had loved his mother deeply, or had told himself he had so often that he believed it.

When he had gone to prison he had supposed he would begin regular sessions with a psychiatrist, for in pronouncing sentence the judge had repeated the jury’s recommendation that he should receive psychiatric treatment. But he had never seen a psychiatrist – on account he supposed of shortage of funds or shortage of psychiatrists – and the only time it had been suggested that treatment might be meted out to him for a possible mental instability had been when he was asked, only two years ago, if he would care to volunteer for group therapy as part of an experiment carried out by a visiting sociologist. Victor had refused and no more had been said. But while he had been awaiting the summons to a psychiatrist in those early days he had sometimes turned over in his mind what he would say to this man or woman when the time came. Most of all he had thought about his phobia and the grotesque way it had begun and about the panics and the violent anger. He had asked himself too why the child of happily married middle-class parents, whose childhood had been for the most part uneventful and contented, should have needed to make motiveless unreasoning attacks on women.

A psychiatrist might have come up with some answers. On his own, Victor had not been able to supply any. And he became angry when he thought about his anger, panicky and confused when he tried to examine his panics. Sometimes he thought of them as symptoms of some disease he had caught, for they could not have been inherited nor yet brought into being by ill-usage or neglect when he was young. In prison what he had felt most of the time, more than any other emotion, was self-pity.

One day the Governor had sent for him. Victor thought it might be to tell him that his father, who had been unwell, was worse or even dying. But in fact his father was not to die for another five years. A prison officer took him to the Governor’s office and sat down in a chair specially provided for such custodians, more or less between Victor and the Governor, who was in any case protected by his large oak desk. The warder sat in the way warders and policemen waiting for something or keeping a watch on people always do sit: upright, legs apart, hands folded in lap, and wearing an expression of blank idiocy.

‘Well, Jenner,’ the Governor said, ‘we thought you might care to have some news of the progress made by Detective-Sergeant Fleetwood. Am I right?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Victor. What else could he say? He would have liked to say he didn’t care and it was nothing to him. He would have liked to pick up the inkwell from the desk and hurl it at the Governor’s head, seeing the ink drip down the Governor’s chin like black blood on to his immaculate collar. But he wanted to get the maximum remission. In those days he longed to get out.