Forests of the Night (20 page)

‘Leave him alone, Rosie,' responded a large chap with a face like a disgruntled bulldog, leaning against the bar, nursing an empty glass. ‘Can't you see you're embarrassing the feller.'

‘Nonsense,' grinned Nosy Rosie as she passed me the pint. ‘You're not bothered, are you, lad?'

‘Not really,' I replied, maintaining my shy persona. And then quickly I returned to my seat, wondering why Rosie didn't pay more attention to the state of her sandwiches than to the potential marital status of her customers.

My mind now clouded with this episode, I had to clear it again. So many things had become evident to me in the last twelve hours or so but I was really working on instinct rather than rational and considered thinking. I hoped to goodness I was right in my conclusions. I thought back to my recent interview with Leo Epstein not an hour ago in his luxurious ‘I keep the world at bay' office.

I was sure that he had not been to the police to tell them of his relationship with Pammie. Oh no, he would bluff it out. But thanks to Eve, I was aware that his little fling, as he reported it to me, had been a full blown affair, one in which he was the infatuated participant. I had cut through his angry bluster and told him that I knew all about his passionate relationship with Pammie. What a delight it was to see a solicitor lost for words. That must go down in my book as one of the most memorable moments of 1940.

Eventually, the legal mind having recovered its momentum, he addressed me in his courtroom voice. ‘Who told you this?'

‘It doesn't matter.'

‘Oh, yes it does. Was it Eve? If it was, she'll be getting her cards tonight.'

I shook my head and smiled gently as I lied through my teeth. ‘Of course it wasn't Eve.'

‘Then who?'

‘I cannot divulge my source, Mr Epstein,' I said, matching his pompous tone, ‘but your reaction to my revelation convinces me that the story is true.'

‘Of course it's true. I loved Pammie. I'd never met anyone like her before. She was beautiful, alluring, sexy and yet somehow spiritual.'

He made her sound like a lady's perfume.

‘And you paid her for sex.'

Momentarily Epstein shifted awkwardly in his chair and his face flushed with anger but he quickly regained his composure. ‘It wasn't like that. Wasn't like that at all. I don't suppose I can expect you to understand. Yes, I bought her presents, paid for things, took her to nice places. But I did it willingly. I was happy to do so because it made her happy and that made me happy. There was no formal financial arrangement. No contract – if that's what you were thinking. I just gave her some money from time to time.'

‘You paid for sex,' I affirmed.

‘That's all it reduces down to in your gutter of a mind doesn't it, Hawke? Some kind of prostitution. Well, it wasn't. If it was only about sex, I could have had many other girls for less expenditure. Can't you get it through your thick skull, I cared about her? I would have married her if she'd have had me.'

‘So why did you kill her?'

His reaction was not the one I expected. He didn't explode. His jaw didn't drop like it does with characters in novels who are unexpectedly accused of a heinous crime. He didn't cry. He didn't try to thump the living daylights out of me. And he didn't confess. Instead he shook his head wearily and rather sadly. ‘I would not have harmed a hair of Pammie's head. I could no more kill her than I could my own mother.'

‘Well, they say matricide is on the increase.'

Epstein sneered at me. ‘Call yourself a detective. You wouldn't know a murder suspect if he jumped up and confessed.'

I lit a cigarette. ‘Actually, I do know that you didn't kill Pammie but I reckon it's always worth asking the question. It's possible I could be wrong.'

‘If you don't think I killed Pammie, why are you harassing me with your questions and your nasty innuendos? Why aren't you out there trying to find the bastard who did commit the crime?'

‘I already know and that's why I am here.' I blew the smoke into the air and watched it as it spiralled towards the ceiling before disappearing.

‘Explain yourself.'

‘Are you ready for this? I believe that the person who killed Pammie, also killed Gordon Moore, the actor.'

‘You mean the chap who plays Tiger Blake?

‘That's the feller. He was murdered last night. Stabbed to death. Like Pammie.'

‘You've lost me already. What's Gordon Moore to do with all this?'

‘He was another of her lovers. And like yourself he fell in love with her.'

Epstein shook his head in bewilderment. ‘I still don't understand.…'

‘I believe our murderer wanted to possess Pammie. To own her. She was too good for any other man to touch. When he couldn't prevent her from indulging in her … what shall we call them?… amorous activities, he killed her and then set about getting rid of her lovers as a punishment for sullying her flesh. He couldn't touch Sam Fraser because he was arrested immediately and anyway, as things stand, he's likely to end up on the gallows. So he turned his attention to the others. Gordon Moore was more accessible than Fraser and so, my friend, are you.'

‘Me?'

‘I believe that you are next on the list.'

‘Isn't this a bit melodramatic?'

‘Of course it is – but murder is melodramatic. The thing that invades a person's psyche and drives them to take someone's life is weird and fantastic. The belief that by shedding blood you are righting a wrong or easing a pain is beyond moral consciousness. There is insanity there – and insanity above all things is melodramatic.'

Epstein looked a little chastened after my outburst which in its own way, I must admit, was somewhat melodramatic also. ‘Who is this person?'

‘Not yet. I'm keeping that piece of information to myself.'

‘But the police should know.'

‘Indeed, they should, but at present they have shut their ears and eyes to any other explanations regarding Pammie Palmer's death because they believe that they have the man responsible. And you will not shift that rock of belligerence – I refer to Chief Inspector Knight – in this conviction. It would ruin his record if it turned out to be someone else, someone other than his chosen victim.'

‘So you're going it alone.' Epstein couldn't keep the sneer from his voice, not that I supposed he wanted to.

I nodded.

‘It just doesn't make sense. Are you telling me that my life is in danger?'

‘I believe so.'

‘But why me? How does the killer know about me?'

‘Of that I'm not sure. There probably was a diary which he found at Pammie's flat.'

‘There must be others on the list then. She had quite a few clients I believe.'

‘But none like you and Gordon Moore. You didn't just have sex with Pammie, you formed a relationship with her. It wasn't casual or anonymous sex, there were feelings involved on both sides.'

‘Whoever this person is must have been very close to Pammie. Someone who knew her secrets.'

‘Yes.'

‘How did you find out about Moore?'

‘Sam Fraser gave me some names of Pammie's clients. He was top of the list. I met Gordon Moore yesterday. He was a sad case: a film actor on the skids with a frigid wife. He found some warmth and affection with her. He visited her the night she was killed.'

‘What?'

‘He was the one who found her body.'

‘My God!'

‘And now he's dead. Stabbed to death. All because he loved Pammie.'

Epstein's features paled and with an unsteady hand he reached for the decanter of brandy on the table behind him. He poured himself a large measure and gulped it down. ‘So according to you some maniac is on the loose and I'm next on his list? Is that what you're saying?'

‘You sum the situation most succinctly.'

‘Then I must have police protection.'

I threw Epstein a grim smile. ‘They'll just laugh at you.'

‘What do you suggest then? I simply wait like some tethered goat until this madman tries to kill me?'

‘I suppose I am suggesting that.' I held up my hand to silence Epstein's protests. ‘Now wait a minute and hear me out,' I snapped. ‘You describe our murderer as mad and … yes that is probably true. But he is a cunning one. Now his blood is up and he's aware that he cannot get away without being caught for much longer, he'll feel the need to strike soon very soon.'

‘That's a great comfort.'

‘Cuts down on the waiting time.'

‘I get the impression that you are enjoying this, Hawke.'

‘Far from it, but I am trying to be realistic. Now, what are your plans after closing up the office tonight?'

Epstein gave me a nervous glance. ‘Tonight! As soon as that! Tonight. You really think.…'

‘Yes, I do.'

‘Christ almighty!' He brushed his hand across his high forehead which was beginning to moisten with perspiration. ‘What a nightmare.'

‘So … what had you intended to do?' I prompted.

Epstein shook his head distractedly. ‘I … I hadn't given it much thought. I don't know. Probably I was going to work late a little and then grab a bite to eat. Maybe a trip to the cinema and then go home.'

‘No lady friend to meet?' I raised a disappointed eyebrow.

‘Not at the moment.'

‘Pity. I don't think our man would strike if you were accompanied. I reckon the best thing is for you to do as you say – a meal and the flicks. Act as normal and I shall be in the shadows watching you.'

‘You mean I act as bait? You must be off your head. I'm going to call the police.' His hand shot out and snatched up the receiver. The buzzing noise seemed unnaturally loud and filled the silent room. I made no move to stop him but as his finger hooked into the dial, I leaned forward with a steady stare.

‘What exactly are you going to say? How are you going to explain things?' I said, softly.

He seemed on the verge of responding to my questions but then gave up the effort. Slowly, he replaced the receiver and the buzzing noise ceased.

Leo Epstein sat back in his chair, his shoulders bowed and his face a grim mask of despair. ‘It would seem that I have no choice,' he said in a monotone.

‘That's how I see things,' I said in cheery agreement.

*   *   *

As I came to the closing moments of the re-run of this interview in my mind, old Nosy Rosie, the barmaid with the inquisitive demeanour, came to my table to empty the ashtray and wipe a damp cloth over the top. ‘By Jove, love,' she smiled, leaning close to me so that I could smell her cheap perfume and see further into the chasm of her ample cleavage, ‘for a feller who's in love, you've got a face like a wet weekend.'

‘They run in my family.'

‘Well, if you ever need cheering up, just let Rosie know.'

‘Certainly will,' I said, retreating once again into my false shyness.

Without another word she gave me a wink and swept on to the next table. When she had her back to me, I skipped out of the pub in search of anonymity again – and some peace in which to think.

It had begun to rain, that rain which falls like a fine mesh curtain and soaks you through to the skin. Pulling up my collar and tugging my hat forward, I walked, trying hard to calm the panic of uncertainty which was growing inside me. What if I was wrong in my conclusions? What if I had figured out the situation all wrong? When it came down to it, it was only my personal interpretation of events and maybe I'd misread the signs. Maybe.

I was no Sherlock Holmes. I had not made any major brain-leap deductions. There could really only be one possible culprit for the murders – couldn't there? It was just that Chief Inspector Knight and his gang had closed their minds to any other interpretations of the facts. And it was left up to me to pin the tail on this murdering donkey. And the only way to do that was to catch the bugger on the job. He must know his days were numbered and so he had to strike soon if he was to kill Epstein, the third man who had cared for and yet used
his
daughter.

twenty-eight

Sister Susan McAndrew waited in the corridor. She was filled with apprehension, although in her heart of hearts she knew the outcome. Nervously she fingered the slip of paper that John Hawke had given her the day before. He'd seemed a nice chap and genuinely concerned about the boy.

In the dim corridor she could hear the muffled noises of the hospital: the creak of the trolleys, the slamming of doors, hushed conversations, the hum of some machine or other and the occasional cry of pain. It was the backdrop to her life; she couldn't imagine being without it.

Eventually Dr Walker and a grey-faced man in the smart double-breasted suit emerged from the private ward. Their faces were expressionless, but she knew what decision had been made.

Sister McAndrew stepped forward and smiled, using this as a prompt for the two men to pass on the information, to confirm her worst fears about Peter.

The grey-faced man who had been introduced to her briefly as Mr Stanley ignored her as though she didn't register with him at all, but Dr Walker smiled at his colleague. He knew that she cared desperately about the boy and had formed a strong attachment to him. This, if anything, was the only weakness that Sister McAndrew had in her nursing duties. She cared too much. She lacked the ability to treat patients with kindness and attention while maintaining a distance. She became too much involved. Caring too much really was a weakness. It could only bring about greater stress and reduced efficiency. However, he mused, he supposed that it was better this way than the rather harsh and brusque nature of some of the older nurses who had been coaxed out of retirement to help during this time of war. They were martinets of the old school and if brow-beating a patient into health was a scientific technique, they were masters, or rather mistresses of it.