Malice in London Read Online Free Page A

paper he had left behind. It was a love poem of sorts, or at least a painfulattempt at one. More disconcerting was its explicitly erotic content, because she had no doubt it was intended for her. She supposed he was harmless enough, not some sort of deranged stalker or anything like that, but it was beginning to wear on her nerves. She wondered if she should have kept the poem, as evidence or something … With an effort she forced her mind off this train of thought. I’m just being silly, she chided herself. She started at the sound of her name.
    “Jill, love, you’re as white as a sheet! You’re not sickening are you?” It was Celia Cross, her employer.
    Jill smiled wanly. “Just got a bit of a headache, that’s all. I’ll be all right.”
    “That one’s not bothering you, is ’e?” The publican threw a disgusted glance at Clive Morton’s table.
    Jill grimaced. “Don’t worry, I’m used to his type. I—” She was about to explain about the Poet but decided it could wait for a better time. Her head had begun to pound now, to the point where she could hardly think straight.
    Celia examined her from head to toe, an expression of fond concern on her face. “Look, love, why don’t you go ’ome and get a good night’s sleep—do you a world of good,” she pronounced, having made her diagnosis. “Raymond and I can manage.”
    “Thanks, Celia. I’ll make it up next week.”
    “Don’t be silly. Now off you go,” she admonished.
    A few minutes later, Jill was walking home down Windmill Street. The darkened street, lined with shops and art galleries, was deserted at this time of night, andshe felt vaguely uneasy. She paused, shivering convulsively. I’m probably just coming down with a bug, she told herself. She started walking again, fixing her attention on the streetlamp lighting the corner up ahead. In the distance, she could see the lights of the traffic in the Tottenham Court Road. It had started to rain, so she began to hurry. She stopped in the reassuring pool of light beneath the streetlamp and looked up at the rain slanting like silver tinsel against the sky and began to open her umbrella. Suddenly she froze.
    There was a staccato burst of footsteps behind her.
Click click click click click.
Then silence except for the hissing of the rain. For an instant, as the adrenaline surged through her body, she was unable to move, not daring to look around. Then she whirled, brandishing her umbrella, staring wildly into the darkness. She blinked helplessly, her eyes dazzled by the light. She felt like a deer caught in a lorry’s headlamps, which was hardly the impression she was trying to create. She thought about calling out, but incongruously, though she was frightened half to death, she didn’t wish to appear foolish. Perhaps it had been someone in the next street or someone out for an innocent stroll.
    She took a deep breath and was about to continue on her way when she heard it again. It was unmistakable this time—the measured sound of footsteps on pavement, louder now and getting steadily closer. She stared, mesmerized, as a figure emerged from the darkness, casting a long shadow on the rain-slicked street. She heard her own voice. “Who’s there?”
    The figure kept coming. Without thinking, she threwher umbrella at her pursuer and watched it clatter harmlessly on the pavement a few feet in front of her. She turned and ran up the side street then veered left into Colville Place, which led back to Charlotte Street. Her heart was pounding in her ears and her lungs felt as if they were going to burst. The narrow street was lined on both sides with tall Georgian houses, some with glowing curtained windows that seemed to her now as remote as distant galaxies. She debated for an instant whether to try pounding on one of the doors to raise help or to make a dash for it. The sight of her pursuer turning the corner behind her settled the matter, but at that instant her right foot caught the raised