The Inner Room

By Ed Chappell

'You took him by the neck and strangled him. It is hard to imagine the self-serving ugliness in the mind of someone who could do that!'

When artist David Helmway suffers a heart attack, his employee Tom Pritchard robs him of over £500 - then kills him. The police, initially, are satisfied that death was by natural causes - until a diligent mortician thinks otherwise. When questioned, Pritchard frames the only other employee, 21 year old Alan Brading. The investigating detective sergeant believes that Alan is the culprit. At his trial for murder at The Old Bailey, the jury return a guilty verdict. The sentence delivered is death by hanging. That was the way of it in 1957.

One man believes in Alan's innocence, but what can a doss-house inmate do where an experienced defence barrister has failed?

And so a race against the clock begins, with the clock ticking down to a hanging.

'A heartwarming story of dedicated friendship overcoming impossible odds.'

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Mar 30, 2016
• ISBN: 9781326613037

Book preview

The Inner Room

THE INNER ROOM

ED CHAPPELL

Copyright

Copyright © Ed Chappell 2016

eBook Design by Rossendale Books:

www.rossendalebooks.co.uk

eBook ISBN:  978-1-326-61303-7

All rights reserved, Copyright under Berne Copyright Convention and Pan American Convention. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior permission of the author. The author’s moral rights have been asserted.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organisations, events or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.

Dedication

For Ann

PART ONE – The Murder

ONE

With a scraping of brakes and the gusting warmth of oily hot metal, the train from Penzance came to a standstill at Paddington at 3.53 p.m. on a warm June day in 1957. With a large suitcase in hand, a grim-faced young man tried to keep pace along the platform with all the other passengers who had just alighted. Passing through the ticket inspector’s gate, he entered the central area of the station. Not knowing what else to do, he sat on one of the benches somewhere in the middle of it. His name was Alan Brading. He was twenty-one years old.

‘Got a cigarette?’ The Cockney voice was a husky whisper. Alan looked up at the middle-aged down-and-out who had sidled up to him. ‘Sorry, I don’t smoke!’ he lied.

‘Sixpence to spare for a cup of tea then, guv’nor?’

Alan’s immediate reaction was to remain silent while looking across the station. He was revolted by the unpleasant breath of the older man whose dirty unshaven face had a wincing tic as if forever dodging blows. Alan found a sixpence in his pocket and silently offered it up. It was taken with a quick darting movement, like a hunger emboldened bird snatching a hand-held tit-bit.

‘Bless you shipmate!’

The man shuffled off towards the exit, passing the tearoom without a glance as the minute hand of the large station clock jerked down one notch to indicate 4.02 p.m.

Alan was slimly built and touching six feet tall. His dark curly hair contrasted starkly with a pale complexion. His angular features were pleasant rather than strikingly handsome. His disposition was self-effacing, mild-mannered and likeable. Just now, however, as he sat alone in the middle of the station concourse, he felt out of his depth, overwhelmed and bewildered by the comings and goings and sounds of normality that were floating all around him. Trolleys, people’s legs, suitcases and a multitude of strange faces criss-crossed in front of him – like he was being whirled around in the jangling confusion of a nightmarish fairground carousel. This moment marked the end of the unproblematic provincial life he had enjoyed until now as two events in the last twenty-four hours had turned his world upside down.

***

The first shock came yesterday when he and his girlfriend Angela were sitting at a table on the outside terrace of a seafront café in the small Cornish town of Trelanten. It was mid-afternoon and a waitress had just brought them a pot of tea for two. Inside the café two elderly female violinists, one short and buxom, and seated, the other tall and thin and standing, were accompanied by a skeletal male cellist as they scraped vigorously away at some light popular tunes.

‘Listen Alan!’ Angela’s unusually brusque tone surprised him. ‘Don’t you think it best if we just went our separate ways?’

He looked at her aghast. ‘How do you mean?’

‘Well, just … just forget all about each other I suppose.’

Alan’s eyes narrowed with shock, having no idea what made Angela suggest something so outrageous. ‘Have you met someone else? Is that it?’

Angela was nineteen. Like Alan she was tall and slim. Her appealing oval face carried a certain Italian chic that reminded Alan of Botticelli’s Venus. As an aspiring painter he was acquainted with many works by old masters. When she smiled her well-formed mouth revealed near perfect white teeth. Her light brown hair was centrally parted with soft waves framing each side of her face. Her voice carried just a hint of a Derbyshire accent. There was a slight flaw to her facial beauty in that the hazel iris of her left eye was minutely out of true with her right eye. But Alan adored this imperfection too because it somehow imparted a tenderness and a vulnerability to her face that made her so appealing to him even when she was serious, as she now was. By contrast to Alan, her demeanour was normally confident and decisive. His affectionate name for her was Angel.

She gave a wry smile with a shake of her head. ‘No, no! There’s no-one else. But I’ve got to tell you something you won’t like.’ She sighed deeply before continuing. ‘There’s no way of breaking this gently … Alan, I’m sorry to tell you I’m pregnant.’

Her head was bowed but her eyes looked up at him. Her hands betrayed her anxiety by twisting a handkerchief round and round her fingers in her lap. In spite of the obvious tension, and while the import of her words had yet to sink in, it still thrilled him to see her lidded soulful eyes and the pale ridge that outlined the top edge of her upper lip. She said nothing more, waiting while he came to terms with the full implication of what she had just told him. He just continued to look at her in amazement.

‘Look,’ she continued. ‘We were both stupid. We should have been more careful. We were irresponsible – or just unlucky – maybe both. I don’t know. We should have known better.’

‘The baby is mine, isn’t it?’ He knew his reply was pathetic and insulting and immediately regretted the question – ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to say that.’

‘Of course it’s yours. I can’t believe you asked that? How dare you ask that! Anyway, it’s nothing for you to worry about!’

‘Nothing for me to worry about?’ Now he felt slightly offended. ‘Of course it’s something for me to worry about. D’you think I’m going to say nice knowing you? Good luck with the baby and everything – and we really must do it all again some time – so long!’ He paused before adding, ‘Is that what you want me to do?’

He waited for her response. To his dismay, she didn’t react at all. Her expression remained blank. Slightly bewildered, he persisted. ‘I’m really sorry I said that. Look, we can get married. Why don’t we do that? You know my father wants me to work in his shop. It’s not what I really want to do, but now … well it would be a living wouldn’t it? We’d have enough money to support us both and the baby – and with your wages too coming in … but maybe you just can’t bear the idea of being married to me.’

‘That’s not it, Alan. What I can’t bear is the idea that if we married now, you’d spend your life regretting that your ambition to be a painter can’t be achieved. And I also can’t bear the thought of you wearing an apron and serving packets of tea and slices of ham every day – when I know you’re meant to be something totally different. That’s why I say it’s probably best if we … well, if we just agree not to continue as we are. I just don’t want to stand in your way.’

‘So that’s it! We simply forget all about each other!’

She shrugged her shoulders. He felt his earlier tetchiness being replaced by something more like real anger. Never before had a cross word come between them, but never before had it been suggested they forget all about each other. Now there was an awkward silence between them. The tea remained undrunk. The teacake he had ordered for them both to share remained uncut. Strident music from the trio inside now just an intrusive cacophony.

‘So we’re finished then,’ he said, much more quietly.

She looked into his face for some moments before replying. Disconcertingly she gently squeezed his hand – the action at odds with her previous words. ‘Alan, I’m giving you the opportunity to be free. If you stay with me, it’ll be Brading’s grocery shop for you. That’s no life for a man with your talent. If you’ve got any sense, you’ll just get up now and walk away. No hard feelings from me whatsoever. I won’t blame you. I really won’t!’

A mixture of emotions welled up in him, prompted by the apparent confirmation that she didn’t love him as he loved her.

‘I just want to look after you,’ he replied. ‘I don’t want to lose you. I couldn’t bear it if we broke …’ His bowed forehead met his fingertips and he couldn’t finish the sentence.

She stared into his face and said nothing for several long seconds. Then she appeared to have made a decision. ‘I believe you!’ she suddenly said. Her face seemed to relax and on looking up he was amazed to see a smile appear. ‘Well, if you’re absolutely sure you want to be stuck with me, I’ve got an idea we might consider together. One which could make it happen.’

She was still smiling. Gentle laughter catching in her voice made her words sound almost coquettish in baffling contrast to the tension of a few minutes ago.

‘Listen! Last night I got a phone call from my Uncle Don. He’s an accountant in London. I’ve spoken to him about you before. He said that if you’re as good at painting as I told him you are, you should get yourself to London on Friday to answer an advertisement in The Evening Standard. It seems a client of his with an advertising agency near Covent Garden is going to advertise for an art director’s assistant. I don’t know what that is but he said it might be a good opportunity for you if you try for it.’

Alan stared at her in silent amazement. Hardly understanding a word of what she was saying, he heard her talking about him being in London this Friday in order to buy a copy of a certain newspaper and apply for a job.

‘London?’ He was still confused. In one moment they were to split up and never see each other again - in the next he was to make a journey across six counties for some reason or other. She smiled at his bewilderment. ‘Uncle Don said that if you’re serious about being a painter, London’s the best place for you to be. What I was thinking was this. Supposing you apply for that job! You know, just go there and have a shot at it!’

She looked searchingly into his eyes to check his immediate reaction to the idea. ‘It’s short notice I know but isn’t it wonderful?’ she continued. ‘I mean you’d have as good a chance as anybody because you’ve got the ability. More than most, I’d say. So I was thinking …if you could get that job, you could work in London and perhaps find a room. One just for you in the beginning. We could get married and then later on, when you get more established, maybe we could afford a bigger room for all three of us.’

‘All three of us …’ he echoed, starting to smile himself as a flood of unexpected vistas and exciting possibilities started to wash over him as she continued to speak. Best of all, she had even mentioned getting married. ‘But only just now you said you thought it best if we just forgot all about each other!’

‘Actually I asked if you thought it best,’ she replied. ‘I didn’t mention anything of this just now because I needed to know if you’d prefer to be free after hearing the news about the baby.’

Once again she put her hands over his while placing her face reassuringly close to his face. ‘I had to be certain Alan …you know, really sure after telling you about the baby … in case you preferred to just walk away and if you did I wouldn’t have stopped you.’

‘So you were testing me.’

She nodded again in smiling agreement. ‘Yes I was. I needed to be certain you really wanted me.’

‘Want you? Of course I want you. I want you like crazy!’

‘I just had to know you weren’t feeling trapped or saying things just out of a sense of duty to me.’

Her face was becoming animated once more – the usual brightness returning to her eyes. She went on to say that if he liked the job and did well at it, she could move up there with him after a while, perhaps after the baby was born. ‘I’m sure chances will come your way to earn money by painting that you’d never get here,’ she added with excitement in her voice. ‘What do you think?’

He smiled, confident now that she actually did return the love he had for her.

‘Well?’ She was smiling back at him with searching curiosity. ‘Well?’

‘Angel, you’re incredible. So it’s London for me, the day after tomorrow.’

‘If you’re willing to have a go at it!’

‘What’s the name of the company that’s going to be advertising? How will I know if I’m looking at the right ad?’

‘Yes, he told me that. It’s called Studio Zebra. He said you can’t miss the ad because there’ll be a drawing of a zebra at the top. It’s like a trademark. They use it in all their publicity so look for the zebra and that will be the one.’

‘That’s it? Look for the zebra.’

‘That’s it! What have you got to lose by going? If you don’t get the job, you’ll have just lost your train fare, and you’ll have to come back and we’ll think again. Don’t you think it’s worth a try? Whatever happens, it won’t be the end of us.’

When he felt her fingers tighten on his as he stared into those appealing eyes, he wouldn’t and couldn’t have refused her anything.

‘Today’s Wednesday,’ he observed, suddenly becoming practical. ‘So I’ve really got to get organised.’

She looked at him with her steadfast gaze. ‘Can you get together the fare and enough money to keep you going in London for a short while? If not, perhaps I can help with that.’

In the early days of their romance, he had vehemently refused any financial assistance, but she was earning a wage at the local hospital. He was unemployed. He still was. One night, upon her absolute insistence, he accepted her paying for two cinema tickets and then, as the days of their romance increased, her generosity became a necessity. Even so, he still felt guilty about taking money from her. He just couldn’t let her pay the enormous cost of the train journey plus extra to live on.

She repeated the question. ‘Well, can you?’

He nodded. He was lying. He certainly had no money of his own but this wasn’t the time to let pettifogging details spoil the momentum.

‘Just think!’ she exclaimed ‘We could be married before Christmas. If we keep positive, we can do everything to make a good life for ourselves. Don’t you think?’

Her broad smile was re-assuring as he nodded assent. But even as she began to drink some tea at last, he felt uneasy. His own lack of self-confidence was already warning of problems ahead. Not least of these was how his conventional respectable parents would react to the news of Angel’s pregnancy? And when they knew, would they lend him the money he now desperately needed? He certainly had none of his own.

‘Just go and do your best to get a future for us,’ she said. ‘And keep me in touch with how you’re doing. And I do love you!’

The elderly trio gravely shuffled the pages of their sheet music and launched into their next number.

All that had taken place yesterday and marked a turning point in his life. More far reaching than that however, would be the matter of the sixty-five pounds he had stolen from his father this morning– and the consequences of that were going to change his life beyond recognition

TWO

‘There you are ducks – and because you’re a good looking boy, I’ve given you extra chips.’ He smiled and thanked the friendly middle-aged waitress who had brought his meal to the table in the station restaurant. It was just a small token of warmth she had offered, but it made a huge difference. He had chosen the cheapest item on the menu – a plate of chips and a fried egg accompanied by a slice of bread and butter. So far he had no plans as to where he would spend the night.

On finishing his meal, he left the restaurant and returned to the central waiting concourse of the station where he sat on the same bench. Even now at 6.30 p.m. the concrete all around him retained the heat of the June day and little air was circulating. He slipped a hand inside his duffel coat as it lay on the bench beside him. His fingers came into contact with his wallet. Not for the first time that day, he felt a surge of guilt sweeping over him as he touched it. If he hadn’t been fully aware of what he was doing first thing this morning when he forged his father’s signature on a cheque, then later cashed it at a Truro bank – enabling him to steal sixty-five pounds from his bank account and thereby able to buy a train ticket – he certainly was now. The thick bulk of the wallet shrieked out the enormity of his illegal and despicable action. His fingers trembled with remorse.

Last night he had asked his father for financial help. There was instant refusal. Instead Mr. Brading accused his son of bringing shame upon the family name by getting ‘that strumpet’ pregnant. He declared the matter to be utterly disgusting and shameful. The argument that ensued had terrified his mother and left his father and himself staring red-faced at each other before he stormed off to his room.

Having paid for the single train fare and the meal he had just eaten with the stolen cash, he now had fifty-seven pounds plus some change. He was sure his father would have no compunction in notifying the police, once his bank statement showed that such a large sum had disappeared. There would be no way back now to his previous life.

Alan reasoned that this being Thursday, he had only two days of grace before the police would be looking for him, since his father’s habit was to spend Saturday afternoons going through his financial affairs. Mother would plead with him to relent, he felt sure. But she had too little influence over her husband’s thinking to alter his firm mindset.

***

He felt very tired. His shirt and his trousers were sticking to his sweating skin. He thought it might be cooler outside the station. Carrying the large suitcase in his right hand, and with his duffel coat over his left arm, he passed through the taxi cab rank and found himself in a street. He wandered slowly along, stopping frequently to look into shop windows. Outside one of them was a glass fronted showcase containing handwritten postcards. Naively he thought that a few of them might be offering bed and breakfast accommodation in the near vicinity and he stopped to study them. Instead they offered French lessons or the services of a young model. At this low point in his life, he required neither. He bought an evening paper from a newsvendor.

Later on, looking at his watch, he saw the time was 7.40 p.m. He decided it would be safest to place the money in different parts of his clothing rather than keeping it all in the wallet. He found a public toilet and went inside. There was no-one else in there and all the cubicle doors were open. He entered one of them and locked the door. Then he removed his shoes, trying to avoid his feet touching the shallow pools of unknown liquid on the floor. He placed the wallet containing four ten-pound notes and seven one-pound notes in his jacket inside pocket. Four one-pound notes went into his left shoe and six ten-shilling notes into his right shoe. The remaining three pounds, which included change, went into his left trouser pocket. There was just one thing in his favour – in early June, the sun was still in the sky and it would be ages yet before the streets became dark. He must think what to do and come up with a definite plan before the chill of the night came to add to his troubles.

Standing in that unpleasant smelling public toilet, he was beginning to experience the feeling of utter desolation in being homeless, friendless, jobless – and alone in London. Even so, he still had the financial means of gaining sustenance without the need of begging, so he was far from being on the lowest rung of the social ladder yet. Further proof of that were the contents of his ridiculously large suitcase. It contained two pullovers, a white shirt, spare pair of trousers, two changes of underwear, socks, handkerchiefs and a tie. He wondered why the hell he had strapped the wooden easel to the suitcase? Already he had tripped over it causing one of its metal-pointed legs to stab into his right heel.

He emerged from the toilet and continued aimlessly along the pavement. Coming across a small public park, he spotted a wooden bench not far away. He went through the park gates and sat on it, wondering if he had found a better place than Paddington station to spend the night. After all, rain was unlikely and a quiet park bench might be preferable to a noisy train station.

The end of the day was gently approaching. With an artist’s eye he watched the sky in which the sun was starting to paint the unmoving layered clouds, at first with just pale tints of pink, green and purple grey. Then, with fascination, he saw those initial delicate colour washes slowly develop, become stronger and more intense minute by minute using increasingly dramatic hues as if preparing to leave the sky in a blaze of glory, flung with vivid colour and clouds ornately lined with gold once it had completed today’s visible excursion of the heavens. But that tour hadn’t finished yet and the low-angled glare was catching him full in the face.

But already the heat was being tempered with a zephyr of cooler air. He put his duffel coat back on and wondered, not for the first time that day, how he had got himself into this situation. This time last week, everything had been so rosy.

A small blessing was that Angel wasn’t actually expecting him to telephone that evening. He had promised to phone her with news about the job interview but that wouldn’t take place until tomorrow. This gave him a modicum of comfort. Even so, as things stood, he had nowhere to go, no-one to see, nothing to do, nowhere to sleep and no certain plan of action.

‘Mind if I sit ‘ere?’ said a voice.

A youth seemed to have appeared from nowhere. Alan shuffled along the bench and shifted his suitcase to make room for the newcomer.

‘Looking for a job?’ Alan was wary, unsure whether he was being offered employment of some sort. ‘A job? What makes you think that?’

The young man sat beside him grinned. ‘You’re reading the sits vac, ain’t ya?’ He had sharp features and thin lips but he was cheery and self-confident – jaunty, even cocky. His demeanour seemed to be saying, ‘You may be better educated than me pal, but I bet I’m a damn sight more wordly-wise and smarter than you are. If you don’t see life my way, then more fool you because I’m a winner!’

He wore a powder blue jacket. A black bootlace tie adorned the collars of his white shirt. His hair had a quiff that projected forward over his forehead, fixed in place with hair gel. The sides were combed carefully to the back of his head and met in the middle.

‘Ow long you been in London then?’ asked the stranger.

‘Just got here today. What I’ve seen of it so far looks pretty grim.’

‘You wanna give it time. It ain’t so bad when you get to know the best clubs and places. My name’s Chris by the way.’

Alan responded by telling him his own name.

‘Look, I can show you around if you like!’ Chris offered.

‘Don’t suppose you know of a cheap hotel, do you?’ asked Alan. ‘I was thinking of staying here on this bench but maybe a cheapish place might be better. Don’t suppose you know one, do you?’

Chris pulled his features into a knowing look, suggesting he might – or he might not, depending on what was in it for him. He took out a packet of Woodbines cigarettes and offered it across. The paper packet contained only three but Alan accepted one with gratitude. Chris took one himself, then pulled a lighter from his pocket, flicked it into life and held it out. Then, as he replied to the question, he alternated groups of words with puffing as he lit his own cigarette.

‘As it ’appens – I just – might know – of a good place. Not far from ’ere as a matter of fact. A hotel that could suit you right dandy!’

‘If it’s expensive I can’t –’

‘Nah! Cheap as anything. I’ll show you where it is if you like. It’s the kind of place that don’t ask questions, and costs you less if you’re willing to share with somebody else.’

‘In the same bed?’

‘Blimey, nuthin’ like that! Strewth, none of that mullarkey! Nah, yer own bed but two or three of you in the same room, see? Cheaper that way!’

Alan was non-committal, unsure whether or not to accept this offer.

‘Up to you! Think abaht it.’ said Chris. ‘Got any money?’

Immediately Alan was on the defensive. ‘What?’

‘No, I’m only askin’ because there’s a good coffee bar I go to with me mates most nights. There’s this fantastic jukebox with lots on it and everything. Coffee’s only sixpence. You can come with us if you want.’

‘I’ve got a bit of cash,’ Alan replied, patting the pocket of his jacket.

‘Anyway what about tonight?’

‘What about tonight?’

‘You game or what?’

After a moment’s reflection, Alan declined the offer. ‘Sorry, I can’t.’

‘Why not? What’s up?’

‘I can’t take this suitcase to a club and I’m not going to leave it in a room I’m sharing with other blokes.’

‘No problem!’ declared Chris dismissively. ‘Bring it with you, and I’ll get the girl I know what works behind the bar to look after it for you. It’ll be all right with her. Betty? She’s good as gold!’

‘You sure? Only if I lose that, I’ll be in a right mess!’

‘Course I’m sure. No problem at all. If you want to see the hotel, I’ll show you where it is right now. Come on. I’ll even carry your case for you!’

‘You don’t have to do that,’ said Alan but Chris had already picked it up and began to stride off.

He started to run after his new friend but found that he was now limping due to the damage that the easel had done to his leg. After about a hundred yards, Chris tripped over the easel, stumbled and dropped the case. Alan grabbed him by the waist with both arms to help him regain his balance. Chris grinned. ‘Tripped over that sodding wooden thing you’ve got sticking out of it. That case is heavier than I thought. Anyway, the place I’m taking you to is just down ‘ere.’

Alan took over the carrying of the suitcase.

The place they arrived at a few minutes later was indistinguishable from all the others in the terrace of squalid grey-stoned properties. Fading lettering on the front door declared it to be The Ebdon Hotel. They took leave of each other having agreed to meet that evening outside the hotel at 9.30 p.m.

‘We might get lucky with some girls!’ added Chris with a wink as he sauntered off, hands in pockets. ‘See yuh!’

Left alone, Alan pressed the bell. After twenty seconds he heard the wailing of a baby that grew in volume as it approached. Then the door opened to reveal a thin care-worn woman of about forty with short lank mousey hair. She brought with her a pungent smell of boiled cabbage. The unhappy baby was being jiggled up and down as the woman peered at Alan, one arm holding the baby - her other hand raised to shield her eyes against the incoming light. One side of her mouth held a lit cigarette, its smoke leeching up to taunt her tired squinting eyes. Alan asked her if a room was available and is so, at what price.

‘Might have if you don’t mind sharing with two other gents.’ Her deep grating voice carried a Cockney accent.

‘Um ... how much would it be?’

‘Twenty-five bob, ducks, and you’ve struck lucky because you won’t find no better than that anywhere in London! Sheets fresh on today. Want to see it?’

Alan mentally winced on hearing the price. He realised he was being cheated but was in no position to argue. He was too tired – it was too late – and it didn’t occur to him to haggle. In any case, he wasn’t sure of the way back to the park or even to Paddington station.

‘Well I suppose that would .... yes thank you. Just for the one night.’

He was taken up three flights of creaking stairs – he struggling with the suitcase, she wrestling with the kicking and bawling baby. On reaching the third floor, both he and she were breathing heavily. She opened a door and ushered him into the room ahead of her. On entering he saw three single camp beds placed side by side, each separated by a three-foot gap. With its odour, redolent of camphorated oil, and the monotonous dark beige wallpaper, he knew this was the most depressing and claustrophobic room he had ever seen in his life. Not one thing promised comfort or visual pleasure.

‘That’ll be your bed there,’ said the woman pointing to the one nearest the door but furthest from the window. ‘The other guests will be in later. Respectable gents! Never give no trouble.’ He felt that he had just been issued with a warning.

She held out her right hand. ‘As I say dear, that’ll be twenty-five bob, payable in advance.’ Having paid he was left alone. He sat on the allocated bed and looked around, surprised to find himself close to tears. He could hear a constant dull rumble of traffic that caused the building to vibrate, even at this height from ground level. Apart from this the hotel itself was completely silent. As yet there was no sign of the other residents and for this he was pleased. In the bathroom one floor down, a washbasin had functioning hot and cold-water taps. This surprised him, and he resolved to ask the owner if he could have a bath in the morning before he left. Tonight he would endure the sticky discomfort of his own body.

He had been in the bathroom about five minutes when he realised, with a shock, that he had left his jacket on the bed. In the jacket was the wallet, and in the wallet was forty-seven pounds and it was presently lying unattended in the bedroom. He quickly wiped his half shaven face and raced upstairs to the bedroom. It was as empty as when he had left it and relief swept over him. It appeared that nobody had been in the room while he was away. He picked up the jacket which was lying exactly where he had put it. His hand went to the inside top pocket, feeling for the wallet. Not there! Perhaps he had put it in the other pocket. Not there either. A frantic and fruitless search of every other pocket brought the terrible realisation that the wallet had gone and that he had just lost forty-seven precious pounds! He sat on the bed with senses reeling. Who could have done it? And when? He sat on the bed with his head in his hands, trying to remember the last time he had touched the wallet. He tried to relive the time he had spent with his new friend in order to work out if Chris could have done this to him. Yes there were times when he had noticed how closely Chris was sitting next to him. And also, when they were walking along the pavement, Chris had tripped over the case that he had insisted on carrying, and he had given him some momentary support. Just a matter of a few seconds of contact. If it was Chris, then that must have been the moment when his pocket had been picked. He had even obliged Chris by telling him that he was carrying money and indicated its location with a pat of his hand.

At 9.30 p.m. he was waiting outside the hotel for Chris to show up. He knew he wouldn’t be going to a café or a pub. He was too tired, too hungry, too demoralised, too unclean, too worried