‘Marry the son he wishes I had been?’
‘Gwen!’
‘Forgive me,’ she said, regretting the unintentional slight, forgetting for a moment her mother’s sadness at never having carried a son to full term. Not for the first time she dearly wished that she herself had been born a boy. How much happier they might all have been.
London 2019.
Tudor took the stairs. He had not descended more than half a flight when the sounds of violence reached him. Screams. Shouts. Cries of fury and of anguish, words indistinguishable but fierce intent and terror all too clear. Instinctively he put his hand to the gun holstered beneath his jacket but stopped short of drawing it. He broke into a run, dropping down the carpeted stairs two at a time. On the landing of the third floor he met Deri, face drained of colour.
‘It’s coming from Flat Seven. Mr and Mrs Salinger!’ His words were hissed low. Not because there was anyone shouldn’t hear: the man was rattled. Shock canrob a person of their power, take the volume from their speech.
‘Did you go to their door?’ Tudor asked, turning towards the direction of the noises.
‘Yes, I knocked and called but I don’t think they heard me.’
At that moment a uniformed man arrived, sprinting up the stairs faster than his level of fitness was ready for. He looked to be about fifty, carrying more weight than was healthy, evidently never expecting to have to break into a run. He was hampered by the amount of equipment strapped to him - body-cam, torch, radio, handcuffs. He stopped, breathless.
The concierge was relieved to see him. ‘Oh, Mr McAllen! It’s the Salingers. You must go and help them. You have to hurry.’
‘All right, Deri, keep your hair on. It’ll be a bit of a domestic. And you are?’ He aimed the question at Tudor.
‘New resident’s personal security,’ he said, moving along the hallway.
The security guard pushed past him. ‘I’ll handle this,’ he said, striding towards the apartment door.
The older man appeared to be reassured by the presence of the security guard. Tudor did not share his confidence.
‘The Salingers,’ he asked Deri, ‘not given to brawling, then?’
He shook his head. ‘They are a retired couple. I’ve not heard a raised voice from either of them in twenty years.’
McAllen was banging on the door, trying the handle.
‘You might want to stand to one side,’ Tudor cautioned.
‘Two elderly residents having a row? A bit of noise?’ he said, like it was nothing to worry about.
It wasn’t the noise that had raised Tudor’s level of concern; it was the silence. Sudden, unexpected, unnatural. Louder than the noise itself had been.
‘Deri,’ McAllen spoke quickly, ‘give me your keycard.’
The concierge hesitated but then did as he was told. The security guard took the card, swiped it, and grabbed hold of the door handle.
Tudor put a hand on his arm. ‘Easy, tiger. Hurry doesn’t make a return journey. Maybe let me go ahead?’ he suggested, pulling his gun from under his jacket.
‘That won’t be necessary!’ McAllen insisted, switching on the camera at his lapel, pushing the door open and stepping into the hallway of the apartment.
Tudor swore under his breath and followed him in. The silence was oppressively heavy, broken only by the sound of a TV programme droning on. He turned back to the concierge. ‘Call the police. Do it from your desk downstairs and stay there to let them in. Do it now,’ he said, an order not a request; a command to summon help and keep the older man safe. Once he was sure his instructions were being carried out he moved on into the flat.
McAllen was calling out. ‘Mr Salinger? Mrs Salinger? Security here. Everything OK?’
The inner hallway was in darkness, but the room it led to was lit, the TV on, a gardening show running. Tudor pondered the sleeping habits of the elderly and the usefulness of gardening experts when you inhabited a third floor apartment without so much as a window box. He moved forwards. He’d caught up McAllen, the stouter, slower man having come to a halt. The silence, after sounds of such loud distress, was all wrong, and no amount of chat about roses could change that. They passed a room to their right, door open, darkness requiring their full attention. McAllen flicked the light switch on and swept the room. Nothing.
Tudor decided that either there was no intruder, or there was an intruder who wasn’t inclined to give himself up. Either way, the lack of response from the residentswas a gut-twistingly bad sign.He stepped past the security guard, whose nerve had weakened sufficiently to allow himself to take second place now without further protest.
They reached the living room. Plenty of light there. From the doorway they had a clear view of the clean and tidy furnishings, the dated television set, the shining bric-a-brac, the family photos, the pale gold velour sofa, and Mr Salinger’s eviscerated body on it. There was no-one else in the room. Tudor heard McAllen fighting down vomit behind him. It was a tough find. The old man’s eyes were still open, staring through blood splattered spectacles, his chest rent, his stomach torn and spilled. It had been a sustained and frenzied attack, with a large blade, and enough enthusiasm to kill a prize fighter, much less an octogenarian.
‘Jesus!’ gasped McAllen, breathing through clenched teeth now.
