Free Battle for Inspector West by John Creasey

Maisie, ducks. Been here quite a long time, and it’s all right when you get used to it. I should think the tea’s about right now,’ she continued, and poured out the tea.
    Christine let a mouthful cool slowly inside her mouth, and then let it move from cheek to cheek before swallowing it. She took increasingly large sips, until the cup was empty, while Maisie talked and drank, and ‘he’ and ‘him’ were always on her lips.
    â€˜Who is this he you keep on talking about?’ Christine made herself ask.
    Maisie stared. ‘Who is he? Don’t be daft, Chrissie.’
    â€˜But I really want to know.’
    â€˜Cor strike a light!’ said Maisie, and drew back a little. ‘Sorry, dearie, but if you ain’t been told, I’ll leave the telling to him. I’ve been smacked down too often for speaking out o’ me turn.’
    â€˜Is he here?’
    â€˜Not just yet, but he will be soon.’
    â€˜Are we in London?’
    â€˜You can ask him all the questions you like, but it’s no use asking me,’ said Maisie, quite firmly. ‘I’m here to do what I’m told, see. How about a wash and a bit of make-up on? Your nose is so shiny, I can see my old pan in it. Here, let me give you a hand.’
    It was strange to sit in front of the mirror and to watch the reflection of Maisie actually brushing her hair – as if she liked the feel and the sight of the wavy tresses. At last she finished, took the tray, went out and locked the door.
    Christine sat on the divan, her legs curled up beneath her. She felt better, her mouth was no longer parched, and her head hardly ached at all, but she was dizzy with bewilderment.
    She hated to think, but she had to. Of Mike …
    The door opened again, and she had plenty of warning, because the key turned in the lock. She expected to see Maisie, but it was the young waiter from Uplands. He was dressed in his white jacket, and with his oily mop of hair and his long, unsmiling face, he looked exactly the same as he had at the hotel.
    He carried some newspapers, put them on the bed, then turned and went out.
    Christine stared at the locked door for a long time before she touched the newspapers, then suddenly snatched them up.
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Chapter Nine
Carosi?
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    Christine’s own face stared up at her from the front page of the Monitor. Her wedding photograph. It was like reading about someone else.
    Fingleton had described vividly what the police imagined had happened, and had managed to get a photograph of the bathroom, showing her swimsuit and the crumpled towel on the floor. Another picture caught her eye, of the remarkably handsome man she had seen at Uplands. The caption read:
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    â€˜Chief Inspector Roger West of the Yard, who has been summoned to Uplands by the local police. Accompanying him is Detective-Sergeant Gill.’
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    Christine looked through the inside pages of the newspaper, and was aghast to find an article about Carosi and Mike. There, in garbled form, was the story of the encounter between Grant and Carosi. There were lurid details of Carosi’s reputation, of the fact that he was suspected of so many different crimes.
    After she had first looked through all the papers, she noticed that some paragraphs were faintly marked with pencil. One mentioned that Carosi was suspected of white slavery; another emphasized the fact that he trafficked in drugs; a third, that he was suspected of being one of an international vice ring.
    Each of these hints heightened her fears.
    She put the papers down at last and closed her eyes. Her nerves were quivery. If Carosi came into the room now, she would scream – she wouldn’t be able to help herself. She knew so much more about him now.
    There was a faint sound, and she opened her eyes.
    Carosi stood at the end of the divan.
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    Christine hadn’t heard him come in, hadn’t heard a sound; but there he was. The man of the car; the man