The face of the man who appeared at her shoulder, was wedge-shaped with deep-set, staring eyes, a face from a waking nightmare that Brady had last seen looming out of the fog above him on the Embankment.
He opened his mouth in a soundless scream of warning, and then the room seemed to spin round in a whirl of coloured lights, sucking him down into darkness.
(2)
Pain, exploding in a chain reaction, brought him back from darkness as someone slapped him repeatedly across the face. There were voices near by, a confused and meaningless blur, and then a tap was turned on.
His head was forced down by a strong hand and he choked as ice-cold water surged into his nostrils. The pressure was released and he breathed again, but only for a moment. His head was pushed back down relentlessly. When he was dragged upright again, there was a roaring in his ears and he could hardly breathe, but his vision was clear.
He was in a small, white-tiled bathroom and his reflection stared out at him from a waist-length mirror. His face was haggard and drawn, the eyes deep-set in their sockets, and there were scratches down one cheek.
His shirt was soaked in blood and he leaned on the washbasin for support and stared at himself in bewilderment. A thick-set man in shabby raincoat and soft hat stood at his shoulder, eyes hard and unsympathetic in a craggy face.
“How do you feel?” he demanded.
“Lousy!” Brady croaked, and the voice seemed to belong to a stranger.
“That’s good, you bastard,” the man said and pushed him roughly through the door.
The living-room seemed to be crowded with people. A uniformed constable stood by the door, and two plain-clothes men worked their way round the room, dusting for fingerprints.
A tall, thin man with grey hair and horn-rimmed spectacles, sat at one end of the divan with a notebook and listened to a small, bent old man, who stood before him twisting a cloth cap nervously between his hands.
As Brady moved forward, the little man saw him and an expression of fear crossed his face. “That’s him, Inspector Mallory,” he said. “That’s the bloke.”
Mallory turned and regarded Brady calmly. “Are you quite sure, Mr. Blakey?”
The little man nodded confidently. “I’m not likely to forget him, governor. Saw him plain, standing in the doorway when she switched on the light.”
Mallory looked tired. He made a note in his book and nodded. “That’s fine, Mr. Blakey. You go back to work. We’ll get a statement from you later.”
The little man turned away to the door and Brady said slowly, “Look, what the hell’s going on here?”
Mallory looked up at him coldly. “Better show him, Gower,” he said.
The detective who had brought Brady from the bathroom, pushed him across to the bedroom. Brady hesitated in the doorway. There was a flash and a photographer turned and looked at him curiously.
The room was a shambles, the floor was littered with toilet articles from the dressing-table and the curtains fluttered in the breeze from the smashed window. The bedclothes trailed down to the floor and the far wall was etched with a delicate spray of blood.
Another detective was on his knees wrapping an antique whalebone walking-stick in a towel. It was slippery with blood and he turned and looked across the room and suddenly, there was silence.
Gower pushed Brady forward to the end of the bed. Something was lying there draped in a blanket, squeezed between the bed and the wall.
“Take a look!” he said, pulling the blanket away. “Take a good look!”
Her clothes had been ripped and shredded from her body. She sprawled there wantonly, her thighs spattered with blood, but it was the face which was the ultimate horror, a sticky, glutinous mess of pulped flesh.
Brady turned away, vomit rising into his mouth, and Gower cursed and shoved him across to the door. “You gutless wonder!” he said viciously. “I’d like to string you up myself.”
Mallory was still sitting on the divan, but now he was examining Brady’s passport. Brady looked down at him, horror in his eyes. “You think I did that?”
Mallory tossed Brady’s jacket at him. “Better put that on; you might catch cold.” He turned to Gower. “Stick him in the other bedroom. I’ll be along in a minute.”
Brady tried to speak, but the words refused to come and Gower hustled him across the room, through the bathroom and into another bedroom. It was small and plainly furnished with a single divan under the window and a fitted wardrobe in an alcove. Gower pushed Brady down on to a small wooden chair and left him in the care of a young constable.
When the detective had gone, Brady said, “Any chance of a cigarette?”
The constable hesitated and then unbuttoned his tunic and took out a battered silver case. He gave Brady a cigarette and a light without speaking, and returned to his post by the door.
Brady felt tired, really tired. The rain beat against the window and the cigarette smoke tasted of dead leaves and nothing made any sense. The door opened and Gower and Mallory came in.
Gower moved across the room quickly, a scowl on his face. “Who the hell gave you that?” he demanded, plucking the cigarette from Brady’s mouth.
Brady tried to stand up and the detective hooked a foot in the chair and pulled it away, sending Brady sprawling to the floor.
Brady came to his feet, anger rising inside him. This was something tangible, something he could handle. He hit Gower hard beneath the breastbone and as the detective doubled over, lifted his right into the man’s face sending him back against the opposite wall.
The young constable drew his staff and Gower scrambled to his feet, face contorted with rage. Brady picked up the chair in both hands and retreated into a corner.
As they advanced towards him, Mallory said sharply from the doorway, “Don’t be a fool, Brady!”
“Then tell this big ape here to get off my back,” Brady said savagely. “If he lays a glove on me again, I’ll pound his skull in.”
Mallory moved in between them quickly. “Go and get cleaned up, George,” he told Gower. “Make a cup of tea in the kitchen — anything. I’ll send for you when I need you.”
“For Christ’s sake!” Gower said. “You saw what he did to that girl.”
“I’ll handle it!” Mallory said, and there was iron in his voice.
For a moment longer, Gower glared at Brady, and then he turned quickly and left the room. Brady lowered the chair and Mallory nodded to the constable. “Wait outside.”
The door closed behind the constable and Mallory took out a packet of cigarettes. “You’d better have another,” he said. “You look as if you could do with one.”
“You can say that again,” Brady told him. He accepted a light from the inspector and slumped into a chair.
Mallory sat on the divan. “Perhaps we can get down to some facts now.”
“You mean you want a statement?”
Mallory shook his head. “Let’s keep it on an informal level for the moment.”
“That suits me,” Brady told him. “To start with, I didn’t kill her. Didn’t even know her name.”
Mallory took a photo from his pocket and handed it across. “Her name was Marie Duclos, born in Paris, been living over here for about six years.” He took out a pipe and started to fill it from a leather pouch. “A known prostitute. After the Act chased her off the streets, she did what a hell of a sight too many of them have done — got herself a flat and a telephone — or someone got them for her.”
The photo was old and faded and Brady frowned and shook his head. “It doesn’t look much like her.”
“That’s not surprising,” Mallory said. “If you look on the back, you’ll see it was taken when she was eighteen and that’s ten years ago. You’d better tell me how you met her.”