five or six others, stopped and waited. After a minute or so, the two officers came out of the shop, dragging a young West Indian youth back to their car. He was screaming something at them; Tom could not make out what. They bundled the man into the police car, and drove off, without the siren and blue lights.
Tom shrugged and walked into the station. Just as he got to the top of the escalator his phone rang. He looked at the screen: it was Amy. He stood to one side to let the people behind him get onto the escalator, and answered.
‘Hello? Amy?’ He had to shout as the noise from the street and of a train below made it difficult to hear.
‘Tom, can you come round? Now?’
‘I can. What’s wrong?’
She replied but he couldn’t make out what.
‘What’s your address?’ he shouted, walking back to the street. The signal got a little better.
‘One five six Devonshire Road,’ she said, and hung up.
Tom looked at the phone, then around the station entrance. Devonshire Road - where the hell’s that?
There was a bus stop just outside the station. He ran over to it, and fought his way through the people waiting inside the shelter to get to the route map. Fortunately the map showed the names of the streets. He looked frantically for a Devonshire Road. All he could see was an Old Devonshire Road. It must be that: it looked about five minutes away.
He crossed back over the High Road and ran up the road, checking the names of the streets he crossed. Finally he came to Old Devonshire Road. He could not see Amy. In the light from the street lamps he could make out the number of the first house: 112. Right side of the road, another twenty or so houses, he figured. Running further up the road, he finally saw Amy’s slight silhouette in the distance. Slightly breathless, he caught up.
‘What’s up?’ he gasped. ‘You okay?’
She looked at the house outside which they were standing: number 156.
‘That’s my flat up there,’ she said, looking up at the house. ‘On the second floor.’
‘Okay, yes,’ he said, not knowing where this was leading. He also looked up at the house. It was a large Victorian residence, obviously divided into flats. There was a long pathway along the front garden, with a steps leading to a basement flat. A dozen or so steps led up to the front door. Each of the three other floors comprised a window above the front door, and a large bay window, not dissimilar to Tom’s. The light in the ground floor bay window was on, and Tom could see the picture from a large screen television. The occupants were watching a football match. The first floor was in darkness. On Amy’s floor the single window was lit up, and on the top floor both windows were illuminated.
‘When I left to meet you,’ Amy said nervously, ‘I didn’t leave any lights on.’
Chapter Nineteen
Tom looked up at the lit window, and around the darkened street. The road was filled with parked cars, the occasional tree casting a shadow from the street lighting on the cars. Pedestrian-wise, the pavements were deserted, except for a woman and a child hurrying along the other side of the road.
‘Are you sure?’ he asked, looking back at Amy.
‘Positive,’ she answered. ‘I know because I never leave any lights on when I go out. And the curtains definitely weren’t drawn.’
Tom was distracted by the distant wail of a police siren, getting nearer. As he looked around, he saw the vehicle responsible speed past the end of the street, along the High Road, its blue light flashing.
‘Should we call the police first?’ Amy asked. ‘Before we go in?’
Tom shook his head. ‘No. Let’s go in. Stay close to me.’
They both walked cautiously along the path and up the steps to the front door. At the top of these steps Amy fished into her bag and got out a set of keys. She unlocked the door and let them in.
The house was built in 1901, according to a stained glass panel above the
Tom shrugged and walked into the station. Just as he got to the top of the escalator his phone rang. He looked at the screen: it was Amy. He stood to one side to let the people behind him get onto the escalator, and answered.
‘Hello? Amy?’ He had to shout as the noise from the street and of a train below made it difficult to hear.
‘Tom, can you come round? Now?’
‘I can. What’s wrong?’
She replied but he couldn’t make out what.
‘What’s your address?’ he shouted, walking back to the street. The signal got a little better.
‘One five six Devonshire Road,’ she said, and hung up.
Tom looked at the phone, then around the station entrance. Devonshire Road - where the hell’s that?
There was a bus stop just outside the station. He ran over to it, and fought his way through the people waiting inside the shelter to get to the route map. Fortunately the map showed the names of the streets. He looked frantically for a Devonshire Road. All he could see was an Old Devonshire Road. It must be that: it looked about five minutes away.
He crossed back over the High Road and ran up the road, checking the names of the streets he crossed. Finally he came to Old Devonshire Road. He could not see Amy. In the light from the street lamps he could make out the number of the first house: 112. Right side of the road, another twenty or so houses, he figured. Running further up the road, he finally saw Amy’s slight silhouette in the distance. Slightly breathless, he caught up.
‘What’s up?’ he gasped. ‘You okay?’
She looked at the house outside which they were standing: number 156.
‘That’s my flat up there,’ she said, looking up at the house. ‘On the second floor.’
‘Okay, yes,’ he said, not knowing where this was leading. He also looked up at the house. It was a large Victorian residence, obviously divided into flats. There was a long pathway along the front garden, with a steps leading to a basement flat. A dozen or so steps led up to the front door. Each of the three other floors comprised a window above the front door, and a large bay window, not dissimilar to Tom’s. The light in the ground floor bay window was on, and Tom could see the picture from a large screen television. The occupants were watching a football match. The first floor was in darkness. On Amy’s floor the single window was lit up, and on the top floor both windows were illuminated.
‘When I left to meet you,’ Amy said nervously, ‘I didn’t leave any lights on.’
Chapter Nineteen
Tom looked up at the lit window, and around the darkened street. The road was filled with parked cars, the occasional tree casting a shadow from the street lighting on the cars. Pedestrian-wise, the pavements were deserted, except for a woman and a child hurrying along the other side of the road.
‘Are you sure?’ he asked, looking back at Amy.
‘Positive,’ she answered. ‘I know because I never leave any lights on when I go out. And the curtains definitely weren’t drawn.’
Tom was distracted by the distant wail of a police siren, getting nearer. As he looked around, he saw the vehicle responsible speed past the end of the street, along the High Road, its blue light flashing.
‘Should we call the police first?’ Amy asked. ‘Before we go in?’
Tom shook his head. ‘No. Let’s go in. Stay close to me.’
They both walked cautiously along the path and up the steps to the front door. At the top of these steps Amy fished into her bag and got out a set of keys. She unlocked the door and let them in.
The house was built in 1901, according to a stained glass panel above the
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