The Doorkeepers

Twenty-Two

Nancy walked into the echoing lobby of Wheatstone Electrics and briskly approached the reception desk.

“Can I help yew?” asked the girl behind the marble-topped desk. She wore a tight beige cardigan and brown plastic combs in her hair.

“I don’t have an appointment. But I wonder if Mr Mordant could spare me a minute.”

“Mr Mor-dant? I don’t know about thayt. Mr Mordant only sees people by appoint-munt.”

“All the same, maybe you could tell him I’d like to see him.”

The girl looked Nancy up and down, and then sniffed. “I suppose I could try. You’re wasting your time, though. Mr Mordant’s always up to his eyes.”

“He’s up to his eyes?”

“Oh, yace. If he’s not here he’s somewhere else.”

“You know,” said Nancy. “That’s been happening to me lately, too.”

The girl plugged in the telephone line, and rang it, and after a few moments she said, “Mr Mor-dant? Yace. Brenda here in reception. I’ve got a young lady here to see yew.”

“Nancy Andersen.”

“Her name’s Nancy Andersen. That’s right. No, I haven’t asked her. No.”

The receptionist covered up the mouthpiece with her hand and said, “What’s it about?”

“Tell him I’m a friend of Julia Winward.”

The receptionist rolled her eyes up into her head. “She says she’s a friend of Julia’s.”

She listened again, and then she said, “He’ll be right down. If you wouldn’t mind taking a seat.”

Nancy sat in a large brown art-deco couch, next to a glass-topped table on which there was a fanned-out display of Advanced Electrics and Grid & Generators Monthly.

She didn’t have to wait long, though. Frank Mordant came down almost immediately. The elevator chimed and he stepped out into the lobby, wearing white shirtsleeves and pinstripe pants and very shiny black Oxford shoes. So this is the terrible Frank Mordant, thought Nancy. This ratty little gent with his clipped moustache and his Brylcreemed hair. Mind you – who would have thought, looking at pictures of Ted Bundy, or Son of Sam …?

“Miss—?” he said, crossing the lobby with a grin, and holding out his hand.

“Andersen. Nancy Andersen.”

“Well, well,” he said, sitting on the couch beside her and resting his arm along the back of it, so that she couldn’t miss the whiff of body odor. “So you knew Julia. What a smashing girl she was. I was very sorry when she went.”

“You don’t know what happened to her, do you? I expected to hear from her weeks ago, but – you know, nothing.”

“I don’t know. One day she was here, happy as a skylark. The next day, nothing. She didn’t turn up for work, and that was that. I tried to ring her at home but her landlady said that she had moved away. Perhaps she had personal problems. I simply don’t know.”

“You didn’t report her missing?”

“What for? She was a grown-up girl, after all.”

“You didn’t think that anything might have happened to her?”

“Such as what?”

“Well, anything. Julia was one of my best friends. She would never disappear without telling me where she was going.”

Frank Mordant examined his well-buffed fingernails. “You’re American, aren’t you?”

“Hey, full marks.”

“What could we see by the dawn’s early light?”

“Old Glory, of course.”

Frank Mordant looked up at her with a chilling smile. “You don’t come from here, do you?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Oh, you’ve tried hard. The tweed suit. The shoes. But I can always tell. The hair’s not right. You haven’t tweezered your eyebrows. You smell too good and you’re too damned self-assured. This is like Britain in the 1930s. Women aren’t confident. There hasn’t been a war, remember. They haven’t been driving ambulances and making munitions and looking after their families on their own.”

He looked at her for a while, still smiling, and then he said, “In this world, my dear, Old Glory doesn’t exist, and never has. The United States of America is nothing but a rather prosperous part of the British Commonwealth. You’d recognize it, if you took the Zeppelin over and had a look around. Similar accent, similar culture. They make cars in Detroit and films in Hollywood. Perhaps they’re rather more class-conscious. You know, they have dukes and earls, just like we do. And nobody’s invented the hamburger, thank God.”

Nancy said, “Look, I’m really worried about Julia. I was hoping you could help me.”

“Of course.” Frank Mordant had such a sinister aura about him that Nancy felt her skin prickling. It was the kind of personal darkness that her grandfather used to call “crow-feathers.” It was the aura of carrion-pickers, those huge black birds that tear at the corpses of rabbits and gophers on the highway, and only lazily flap away when you’re almost about to run them over. Greedy and cheap and contemptuous, with a kind of throwaway evil about them.

“I met Julia two or three times in London,” Nancy lied. “She told me all about Wheatstone Electrics, and you, and how much she liked her job.”

“Really? You met her? She didn’t tell me that she’d ever been back.”

“Oh, sure. She told me all about the doors, and the candles. Of course I didn’t believe it at first, but the second time we met, she showed me.”

“She showed you.”

“That’s right. She lit the candles and recited the rhyme, and she was gone.”

“Well, she never told me that, I must admit. She never told me that she’d been back. But then, I was only her employer, wasn’t I? So long as she was happy and she did her job.”

“Oh, she was happy, all right. She really enjoyed working here. She said that it helped her get over all kinds of traumas. It was like starting all over, you know? That’s why I’m so worried about her.”

“I’m not sure that I can help you. She seemed perfectly cheerful to me. But one morning she didn’t turn up, so what could I do? I couldn’t tell the police, could I, because she didn’t actually exist, not as far as this world’s concerned. I just assumed that she’d sorted herself out, packed her bags, and gone back home to the bosom of the family.”

Nancy said, “She hasn’t been home, and nobody’s heard from her.”

Frank Mordant tugged at each of his fingers in turn, popping the knuckles. He didn’t take his eyes away from Nancy for a moment. “This looking for Julia … it’s just an excuse, isn’t it?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re running away, too, aren’t you? Julia was running away from some rotten relationship, and she wanted some peace and quiet and gainful employment. What are you running away from, darling?”

“I’m not your darling.”

Frank Mordant reached over and patted her thigh. “Oh, you are in this world. Especially if you want to get ahead. They haven’t heard of women’s liberation, and they probably won’t, not for another forty years. A woman’s place is in the home, cooking the meals and changing the nappies and clearing out the hearth. Either that, or typing.”

Nancy tried to smile, even though she felt that her lips were anesthetized. “You’re right, I guess. I’m just looking for a kind of retreat. Someplace to heal my wounds and get my head back together again.”

“Well, you’ve come to the right place for that. And if you want a job … I think I can find you a vacancy in a day or so. I gather you can type? And use a rotary-dial telephone? And what do you know about circuit-breakers?”

“You’ll really give me a job?”

“That’s what you came for, isn’t it? All this sob story about Julia. I’m sure that Julia’s all right, wherever she is. And you’ll be the same, once you’ve worked here for three or four months. It’s a different life, believe me. Slow, sedate. And the money’s not bad. I can help you to find a flat, if you want me to.”

“I don’t have any money. Well, I do. I have an Amex gold card. But nothing that anybody will accept over here.”

“Yes. Very jolly.”

Frank Mordant took hold of her left hand, lifted it up, and examined her watch. “That’s a Maurice Guerdat. What do you think that’s worth?”

“I don’t know. Two or three thousand dollars.”

He reached into his trouser pocket and produced a brown snakeskin wallet. “Here you are … I’ll give you thirty quid for it.” He took out two ten-pound notes, a five-pound note, and five ones.

“You’re going to give me thirty pounds for a three thousand dollar watch?”

“Barter, we call it. I had to do the same, when I first came here. I flogged off everything I owned, practically. Watches, clocks, rings, you name it. And don’t turn your nose up at thirty quid. Don’t forget that you can buy a nice little semi-detached house for three hundred and fifty.”

Nancy wasn’t sure. Josh had bought her this watch when she first agreed to live with him. But she guessed that he would understand, especially if she managed to bring Frank Mordant back with her. Reluctantly, she took it off, and handed it over.

“Right, then,” said Frank Mordant. “All you have to do now is find yourself somewhere to live. I’ve got a little place of my own, on top of a pub in Chiswick. My current secretary, Sandra, is living there at the moment, but she’s leaving us the day after tomorrow. So, if you’re interested …”

“It sounds perfect. Do you know where I can stay in the meantime?”

“Here.” Frank Mordant took out a pen and wrote “The Sheffield” on a corner of Electronics News. “It’s a small hotel halfway along Drogheda Street in Fulham. I know the owner, Mrs Watson. She’ll take care of you.”

“You’re very kind.”

“Don’t mention it. I always like to think of myself as something of a Good Samaritan.” He stood up, and held out his hand. “Meanwhile, I’ll see if I can find out anything more about Julia for you. It would be rather jolly if you were reunited, wouldn’t it?”

“Yes. Very jolly.”

The receptionist rang for a taxi. “Fulham, is it?” the cab driver asked her, as she climbed into the back.

“No. Take me to the British Museum.”

“You’re the boss.”

Cromwell Road was heavily congested with traffic and it took them nearly forty-five minutes to reach Bloomsbury. The morning was warm and windy and in the middle of London the air glittered with golden needles of dried horse manure. Nancy saw two Watchers along the way, one of them standing on the corner in Knightsbridge and the other in Leicester Square. She raised her hand across her face in case the Hooded Men had issued a description of her.

She paid the cab driver and he gave her a handful of big bronze pennies and chunky little threepenny bits. She crossed the street to the British Museum and walked around to the entrance where Simon Cutter had taken them to see John Farbelow. As she approached it, however, she saw that there was some kind of commotion going on. The street was crowded with people, and five white ambulances were drawn up along the curb.

She slowed down. Over the heads of the crowd she saw the tall black hats of Hooded Men and their dog-handlers. There were seven or eight of them at least. Her heart beating quickly, she crossed back over to the opposite side of the street and hid herself behind a postbox. It was difficult to see what was happening. Somebody started shouting and screaming and then abruptly stopped. The Hooded Men came through the crowd and everybody shrank out of their way. They stood together, surrounded by their dog-handlers, as if they were waiting for something.

An old woman in a yellow floral print dress came and stood close to Nancy and shook her head. “That’s the way to deal with them,” she said. “Show them the sharp end, that’s what I say.”

“What’s going on?” Nancy asked her.

“Subversives, that’s what I heard. The Hoodies went in to arrest them, and they put up a fight.”

Nancy felt a growing sense of dread. She had come here to make sure that Josh had been successfully rescued. She prayed to every spirit of life and good fortune that he hadn’t still been here, with John Farbelow’s people, when the Hooded Men arrived.

There was a murmuring from the crowd, and then a spontaneous burst of applause. Two ambulancemen came up the steps from the museum basement, carrying a canvas stretcher. At first Nancy couldn’t see very well, but then the crowd parted a little, and she caught a glimpse of a young man, his clothes drenched in blood. One hand swung loose, and blood dripped from his fingertips and made patterns on the pavement.

Two more ambulancemen appeared, carrying another body, a girl this time. Nancy’s first impression was that her hair was ginger, but then she realized that it was blonde, and soaked in blood. The girl had been cut with a sword across the bridge of the nose, so that her face had almost been sliced in half.

The procession went on, and after twenty minutes the ambulancemen had brought up eighteen bodies, each grisly new appearance greeted by more applause, and even shouts of “hooray!” Nancy still hadn’t seen anybody who looked like Josh, or John Farbelow, but she thought that she recognized the Chinese-looking girl who had first opened the door for them, and one or two others.

After all the ambulances had driven away, their bells shrilling, the Hooded Men dispersed the crowd and went marching off to a sharp, aggressive drumbeat. Nancy walked down to Oxford Street, where she hailed a taxi to take her to Fulham.

She felt seriously frightened now, and physically sick with guilt. Of course she had understood that John Farbelow and his band of young subversives had been running a risk, trying to rescue Josh – but she had never thought that the Hooded Men would react with such savagery.

But right now, there was nothing she could do. She couldn’t even go back to the “real” London until tomorrow afternoon. Her courage began to fail her. Far from being daring and clever and independent, her plan to capture Frank Mordant now seemed ridiculously dangerous.

The taxi drew up outside a shabby four-story building, yellow London brick with red-painted front steps. “This is it, miss. The Sheffield.”

Inside the Sheffield, there was a red and gold carpet so swirly-patterned that it almost gave her motion sickness, and gilded mirrors, and vases filled with dried honesty, all sprayed gold, and a pervasive smell of disinfectant. A blond young man in a green blazer was sitting behind the reception desk, working on a cryptic crossword. He didn’t look up as Nancy approached, but licked his index finger and turned the page.

Eventually, Nancy said, “Frank Mordant said I should come here. He said you could find me a room.”

The young man blinked at her as if he couldn’t understand how she had managed to walk right up to the reception desk without him seeing her. “A room?”

“This is a hotel, isn’t it?”

“Of course. What sort of a room?”

“Something pretty basic. I only want it for a couple of nights.”

“Hmm,” the young man pouted. “I don’t know whether we’ve got anything basic.”

“Well, whatever. So long as it has a bathtub.”

The young man pushed a registration card across the counter. “If you fill in your particulars. Do you want breakfast in the morning? You have to order porridge the night before.”

“No, thanks. No porridge.”

“Is that all the luggage you’ve got?” he said, nodding toward Nancy’s overnight case. “We’re not supposed to accept single ladies without a full-size suitcase. It’s the law.”

“Oh, Frank Mordant has my bags. He’s bringing them around later.”

“Room eleven, then,” he said, handing over the key. “Top of the stairs, third on the right.”

Nancy climbed the swirly-patterned stairs. When she was halfway up, the young man said, “Excuse me!” and she stopped. “You can’t think of an eight-letter word meaning ‘banned church service on the field of slaughter’?”

“No, I’m sorry. I can’t. I’m not very good at cryptic crosswords.”

“Oh. All right, then. Just thought I’d ask.”

She let herself into her room. It was large and airy, with a high Victorian ceiling, but it was so crowded with chairs and occasional tables that it was more of an obstacle course than a bedroom. The walls were hung with more gilded mirrors and prints of white horses dancing through the surf; and the bed was covered with a swirly-patterned bedcover in brown and white.

Nancy took off her shoes and sat down at the fussy little onyx-topped dressing table. Her reflection looked completely composed, quite unlike the way she actually felt. She stared into her eyes. How can you appear so calm, when you’re so scared? How can you look so remote, when they were carrying up the bloodied bodies of all those young people, and it was all your fault?

She was beginning to feel hungry but she knew that she wouldn’t be able to eat. She took off her coat and hung it in the wardrobe. Then she lay down on the brown and white bedcover and tried to rest. She told herself to stop panicking. She had a well worked-out plan to entice Frank Mordant to return to the “real” London with her, and if she managed to pull it off, Frank Mordant would be arrested and charged, Julia would have the justice she deserved, and Josh would be able to take her back to Mill Valley, where they could forget all about Hooded Men and dogs and drummers and Doorkeepers. Early this afternoon, she had felt like giving up, and going back to the “real” London as soon as the world had turned around. But now she felt determined to finish what she had started. Her grandfather had once put his arm around her and told her that a hunter never returns home empty-handed. “No matter if it takes all winter, you never return to your family without carrying your kill over your shoulder. That is why the hunter hunts. That is why the family waits.”

She was still thinking of her grandfather and his gentle, finely wrinkled face when she fell asleep, and the world turned even further.

She was woken up by the phone jangling. It was light, but she didn’t have any idea what the time was. The phone was a white Regency-style affair with a gold revolving dial. She picked it up and said, “Yes? Who is it?”

“Miss Andersen! It’s Frank Mordant. I didn’t wake you, did I? Do you know what time it is? Ten past nine!”

“What? I must have overslept.”

“Well, not to worry. I know what it’s like, coming through the doors. Knocks you for six, bit like jet lag. The thing is, though, I might need you to start work with me a little earlier than I expected. Like, today.”

“Today?”

“I hope that’s not inconvenient. The problem is, Sandra phoned in this morning and said that she wasn’t coming back. Sandra, that’s my secretary. You know what these young girls are like. Boyfriend trouble, more than likely. But she’s really left me in the lurch. I was wondering if you could come in A.S.A.P. and help me out. I’m absolutely snowed under.”

“I don’t know, Mr Mordant. It’s kind of sudden.”

“Yes, quite. I do appreciate that. But it’s pretty straightforward work and I’m sure you can cope. Especially since the flat’s free now, and you can move in any time you like.”

“You mean that Sandra’s moved out completely?”

“Upped sticks. Didn’t even leave me a forwarding address. Inconsiderate, or what? But if you come in now, we’ll have time to take a look at it.”

Nancy sat up. She hadn’t expected to have the opportunity to put her plan into action so quickly; but now that the moment had come, she felt a sudden rush of adrenalin. “Listen, give me an hour,” she said.

“Chop-chop, then. I’m having lunch with a chap from the Coal Board at twelve thirty, and I’d like to get things weaving before then. Take a taxi; Wheatstone’s will pay for it.”

Nancy dressed in her suit and the cream silk blouse that she had brought in her overnight case. She knew that she could chicken out now, if she wanted to. All she had to do was wait for three and a half hours and she could go back through the door and forget that Frank Mordant and the Hooded Men had ever existed. But that would mean that Julia’s murder would go unpunished and that she would never be able to stop Josh from coming back here and trying to make sure that Frank Mordant got what was coming to him.

She had seen for herself how vengeful the Hooded Men were: they wouldn’t let Josh escape a second time. Not only that, if she went back to the “real” London now, who could tell how many more vulnerable young girls like Julia would be killed and mutilated? To say that Sandra’s sudden disappearance was deeply suspicious was the understatement of the century.

She hailed a cab on the corner of Munster Road. It was one of those strange hazy mornings when everything seems out of focus. The taxi driver never stopped talking, all the way to the Great West Road. He thought that all the colored people ought to go back to where they came from, and that Parliament ought to bring back beheading. “Stick their heads on a spike, that’s what I say. Make an example of them.”

They were delayed for almost twenty minutes at the Chiswick Flyover. A private autogiro had crashed on to one of the carriageways. As Nancy’s taxi crept past it, she saw the pilot still trapped in the wreckage. It was almost impossible to tell where the man ended and the machine began.

“Never get me up in one of them things,” remarked the taxi driver.

Frank Mordant was on the telephone when she arrived at the office but he beckoned her in.

“No, Malcolm,” he was saying. “It’s absolutely out of the question. Well, tell him that’s the lowest I’ll go. Ninepence a unit? Who does he think I am? Father Bloody Christmas?”

He cradled the phone and leaned back in his chair. “Well, then,” he said. “You managed to get here all right.”

“I’m looking forward to it.”

“As I say, the work’s pretty humdrum. Pretty run-of-the-mill. Typing, filing, all the usual. Have you ever used a manual typewriter? Good exercise for the fingers, I can tell you.”

“I’m sure I’ll pick it up.”

“Jolly good.” He looked at his wristwatch and said, “We’ve just got time for me to show you the flat. If you like it, you can move in today. If you don’t – well, don’t feel embarrassed to tell me. I can always help you find diggings somewhere else.”

He ushered her downstairs, and out into the car park, opening the door of his Armstrong-Siddeley for her. “By the way,” he said, as they drove out of the factory gates, “I made one or two enquiries about Julia for you.”

“That’s kind of you.”

“I talked to her landlady, in case she’d been back to pick up any more of her stuff, but no joy there, I’m afraid.”

You liar, thought Nancy, picturing Mrs Marmion’s body hanging over her bathtub. She must have been discovered and buried by now.

“I talked to some of her chums in the office. One of them said that Julia was always keen on going to Scotland, so we might have a lead there.”

“I see,” said Nancy. “Scotland’s a pretty big place, though, isn’t it?”

“You never know. If she took the train from King’s Cross, somebody in the ticket office might remember her.”

“Kind of a long shot.”

“I suppose so. But I got back to an old pal of mine at Scotland Yard yesterday afternoon, to find out if he had any ideas.”

They reached the Sir Oswald Mosley pub and Frank Mordant parked outside. “It’s like I tell all the girls … it’s a little noisy here, but it’s cheap, and it’s close to the office.”

“All the girls?”

“They come and they go. Little boats bobbing past on the river of life, if you don’t mind me being poetic.”

He opened the front door and led her up the steep flight of stairs. “It’s very private … I put down a nice thick underlay so that you couldn’t hear too much noise from the pub underneath. In fact I think you could scream your head off in here and nobody would hear you.”

He led the way past the kitchenette and into the living room. “It’s a great place,” said Nancy. But she wasn’t telling the truth, either. The second she walked into the room, she could feel a wave of desperation, and pain, and cruelty. People had been killed in this room, and monstrously killed. This was more than a crow-feather aura. This was an atmosphere of sheer terror that she could almost smell.

With a salesman’s grin, Frank Mordant opened the bedroom door. Strangely, there was nothing there, no bad karma at all. Everything evil that had happened in this flat had happened in the living room.

“What do you think?”

“I like it. How much are you asking for it?”

“To you, £1.15s.0d a week.”

“Out of a salary of how much?”

“Seven pounds fifteen shillings. So you’ll have plenty of money left over for all of the things that girls like to buy. Brassieres, frilly garter belts, that kind of thing.”

“I don’t wear frilly garter belts, Mr Mordant,” she replied, sharply. “Frilly garter belts went out with the Ziegfeld Follies.” She knew that she shouldn’t have said it. She wanted him to go on thinking that she was weak and pliable. But Frank Mordant didn’t seem to notice; or, if he did, he didn’t take exception.

He went into the kitchenette and started opening and closing the cupboard doors. “Sandra’s left a few things. Tea. Packet of sugar. Couple of jars of raspberry jam.”

“You were saying about some friend of yours at Scotland Yard.”

“Oh, yes. So I was. Not Scotland Yard here, though.”

“You mean Scotland Yard back through the door?”

“That’s right. New Scotland Yard. I’ve always made a point of cultivating friends in the Met.”

Nancy felt her heartbeat slow down. “I guess you have to wait twenty-four hours for an answer. You know, wait for the world to turn around.”

“Oh, no. I sent a lad over with a message and a couple of hours later he sent another lad back. That’s how we communicate through the doors. Give a lad a couple of quid and a cheap digital watch, that’s all you have to do. Almost as good as e-mail.”

Nancy didn’t say anything. Frank Mordant came out of the kitchen. He was still smiling but there was an odd, vindictive look in his eyes. “My pal’s only a woodentop. Not CID or anything. But you can’t beat him when it comes to inside information. Police Constable Bob Smart – smart by name and smart by nature. Mind you, I don’t know why I’m telling you this, darling. You met him yourself, when you and Julia’s brother went to the hospital to identify her mortal remains.”

He stayed where he was, blocking her escape route to the stairs. “Do you know what I ask myself?” he said. “I ask myself why you came to see me, pretending to be looking for Julia, when all the time you knew she was dead? Now, why did you do that?”

“I thought you might know how she died,” said Nancy, with a dry mouth.

“What are you saying? You’re not saying I did away with her, are you?”

“If you didn’t, why did you lie about her landlady? Mrs Marmion’s dead, you know that. And why did you say that Julia might have gone to Scotland?”

“Because I knew you knew. And I just wanted to see how far you were prepared to keep up this little act of yours. What were you going to do? Trick me into making a confession? Rifle through my desk for incriminating evidence? Try to get me back through the door, and hand me over to Detective Sergeant Paul? You must think I was born yesterday.”

“You murdered her and you murdered her right here, in this room. You hanged her, I’ve seen it for myself. Seen her legs kicking.”

“You couldn’t have done.”

Nancy touched her fingertips to her temples. “The Hoodies aren’t the only people in this world with psychic powers, Mr Mordant. I saw Julia Winward die, and I know that you did it. Just like you murdered John Farbelow’s girlfriend Winnie and who knows how many others. Where’s Sandra, for example? Isn’t it amazing how she conveniently managed to disappear as soon as I arrived on the scene?”

Frank Mordant let out a snort of amusement. “Actually, darling, Sandra didn’t disappear. I gave her the day off. After I heard from Police Constable Smart I wanted to find out what you were up to. And now I know.”

He slowly rubbed his hands together, around and around. “The only trouble is, you’ve put me in a bit of an awkward spot. If I let you go back through the door, who knows what mischief you’ll get up to. If I keep you here … well, I can’t do that, either. You’re wanted by the Hoodies, you and Mr Winward. Subversion, conspiracy and murder. It’s been in all the papers. Lucky for you they didn’t publish a very good likeness. Made you look like Daryl Hannah.”

“What murder? I haven’t been involved in any murder.”

“Oh … a very serious murder. Master Thomas Edridge, chief proctor of the Masters of Religious Observance. His throat was cut when John Farbelow and his scruffs managed to rescue that chap of yours.”

“Josh escaped?”

“According to the news, yes – although the Hoodies are still hunting for him. Mind you, having you here … that’s going to make their job a lot easier, don’t you imagine? Because I’m sure that your chap won’t just leave you here to face the music on your own, will he?”

“Get out of my way,” said Nancy, approaching him.

“You don’t stand a chance, darling. You might as well resign yourself to the fact that you and your chap are going to have to give yourselves up.”

“I said, get out of my way.”

Without any warning at all, Frank Mordant slapped her across the face. Then, before she could recover, he punched her in the stomach. Nancy had trained in uyeshiba aikido but she had never been attacked so hard and so fast. She dropped on to her knees, gasping for breath, and as she did so Frank Mordant seized her hair and banged her head against the floor. She blacked out for an instant, and when she opened her eyes again she was seeing stars.

“You stupid bitch, did you really think that you were going to get me arrested?”

Nancy couldn’t answer. She was doubled up on the floor, coughing. Frank Mordant strutted around her, first one way and then the other. “You don’t have a bloody clue, do you?” he demanded. “You don’t have a bloody clue who you’re dealing with. The only thing I’ll say is, you’re very privileged. You’re going to be the first girl who’s ever left this flat alive.”

Still stunned, Nancy lifted her head.

“Yes,” said Frank Mordant. “I admit it. I did kill Julia. But you have to look at it this way: sometimes a single human life is worth sacrificing for the greater good.”

“A single human life?” coughed Nancy. “What about Winnie? And don’t tell me there haven’t been others!”

Frank Mordant snorted impatiently. “Look, darling, we’re not talking about a few stupid secretaries here, we’re talking about the bloody cosmos. If I had my way I’d hang you the same way I hung Julia, and all the others, and make a fortune out of the videotape. They love it, those Japanese. But you are about to discover for yourself what keeps the six doors open, day and night, twenty-four hours a day. That takes power, believe me. That takes power like you can’t even imagine.

“Think about it. Bloody well think about it. Whoever keeps the doors open controls every single alternative existence to which they give access. And there are thousands of them, believe me. Probably an infinite number. You could never visit them all, not if you lived to be a million.”

“But all these murders?” Nancy retorted, almost hysterical. “I don’t understand all these murders! Innocent girls! What did you have to kill them for?”

Frank Mordant smoothed back his Brylcreemed hair. “You’re about to find out.”