Make Death Love Me by Ruth Rendell

table and invited him in.
    Alan would have taken the room, though it was sparsely furnished and comfortless. At any rate, it would be his to improve as he chose, and it was better than the Maharajah. The landlord too seemed happy to accept him as a tenant so long as he understood he had to pay a month’s rent in advance and a deposit. Alan had got out his wallet and was preparing to sign the agreement as A. J. Forster when the landlord said:
    â€˜I take it you can let me have a bank reference?’
    The blood rushed into Alan’s face.
    â€˜It’s usual,’ said the landlord. ‘I’ve got to protect myself.’
    â€˜I was going to pay you in cash.’
    â€˜Maybe, but I’ll still want a reference. How about your employer or the people where you’re living now? Haven’t you got a bank?’
    In the circumstances, the question held a terrible irony. Alan didn’t know what to say except that he had changed his mind, and he got out of the house as fast as he could, certain the landlord thought him a criminal, as indeed he was. No one knew more than he about opening bank accounts. It was impossible for him to open one, he had no name, no address, no occupation and no past. Suddenly he felt frightened, out there in the alien street with no identity, no possessions, and he saw his act as not so much an enormity as an incredible folly. In all those months of playing with the banknotes, he had never considered the practicalities of an existence with them illicitly in his possession. Because then it had been a dream and now it was reality.
    He could go on living, he supposed, at the Maharajah. But could he? At four pounds fifty a night, that little hole with its sink and its gas ring was going to cost him as much as one of the flats he had seen on offer in the agency window. He couldn’t go on staying there, yet he wouldn’t be able to find anywhere else because it was ‘usual’ to ask for a bank reference.
    Occasionally in the past he had received letters asking for such a reference, and his replies had been discreet, in accordance with the bank’s policy of never divulging to any outsider the state of a customer’s account. He had merely written that, yes, so-and-so banked at his branch of the Anglian-Victoria, and that apparently had been satisfactory. He felt sick at the thought of where his own account was – with the Childon sub-branch and in a name that today was familiar to every newspaper reader.
    An idea came to him of returning home. It wasn’t too late to go back if he really wanted to. He could say they had taken him and had let him go. He had been blindfolded all the time, so he hadn’t seen their faces or where they had taken him. The shock had been so great that he couldn’t remember much, only that he had saved some of the bank’s money which he had deposited in a safe place. Perhaps it would be better not to mention the money at all. Why should they suspect him if he gave himself up now?
    It was a quarter past three. It was not on his watch but on a clock on a wall ahead of him that he saw the time. And beside the clock, on a sheet of frosted glass, were etched the A and the V, the vine leaves and the crown, that were the emblems of the Anglian-Victoria Bank. The Anglian-Victoria, Paddington Station Branch. Alan stood outside, wondering what would happen if he went in and told the manager who he was.
    He went into the bank. Customers were waiting in a queue behind a railing until a green light came on to tell them a till was free. A tremendous impulse took hold of him to announce that he was Alan Groombridge. If he did that now, in a few days’ time he would be back behind his own till, driving his car, listening to Pam talking about the cost of living, to Pop quarrelling with Christopher, reading in the evenings in his own warm house. He set his teeth and clenched his hands to stop himself yielding to that impulse, though