Forests of the Night (24 page)

Now there came a knocking at the door, accompanied by a muffled voice calling his name and saying something that he could not hear clearly. He thought he heard the word ‘death'.

He knew he had to respond. Like an arthritic marionette, he rose from the chair and slowly moved closer to the door. His gun lay untouched on the floor where it had fallen.

His visitor called out again and this time he could make out what the voice was saying. ‘Mr Epstein, you've got to let me in. I need to speak to you. It's urgent. A matter of life and death.'

It was a woman's voice. Insistent but not hysterical.

Slowly he slipped back the bolt and released the Yale lock. Pulling the door ajar a few inches, he peered out into the corridor to catch sight of his visitor.

He recognized the woman immediately. What on earth was she doing here?

She stepped closer to the door until her face was barely a foot away from his.

‘You've got to let me in, Mr Epstein. I just have to talk to you.'

‘What about?'

Nervously, she looked up and down the corridor before replying. ‘I can't talk about it out here but…' – she lowered her voice to a whisper – ‘I believe your life is in danger.'

‘And you can help me?'

She nodded. ‘I think I can.'

Without another word, Epstein held the door open enough to allow Freda Palfrey to enter.

*   *   *

Epstein felt tired, a little drunk and quite bewildered at the presence of Pammie's mother in his flat. He had no idea what she was there for.

‘Do you want to sit down?'

She shook her head. That was fine by him. He really wanted to dispense with all formalities and discover the reason for this visit without delay.

‘Now for Christ's sake tell me why you are here!' he demanded brusquely, running his fingers through his hair.

‘I have something for you,' she said softly, fumbling in her handbag for a moment. She withdrew a dark shiny revolver and pointed it at Epstein. ‘It's this,' she added, in the same calm even manner. ‘I've come to kill you.'

‘You…' The word was virtually a croak, as Epstein staggered back in shock.

‘Yes, me,' grinned Freda Palfrey. ‘You are the last on my list of bastards who helped to destroy my angel Pamela.'

‘You … you've got me all wrong. I cared for Pammie. I loved her. I gave her things … money.'

Freda Palfrey's eyes flickered with bleak amusement. ‘Oh, yes, you gave her things. Why shouldn't you? She was a prostitute, after all. You bought her favours. You showed her that she could survive … succeed by using her flesh as a commodity. The little girl I brought up as a sweet Christian angel was converted into a grubby tart by men like you. Your sort desecrates souls for cash. You cared nothing for her spiritual being … you just wanted her body.'

‘It … it wasn't like that. I really did love Pammie. I would have married her.…'

‘But you didn't.'

‘She wouldn't have me.'

‘Of course not. She was too far down the road to corruption to save herself in the sanctity of marriage. We let our little girl into the world and men like you and Gordon Moore and Samuel Fraser destroyed her.'

Epstein, his brow now awash with perspiration, shook his head in panic. He was clear thinking enough to realize that he was dealing with a madwoman. Somehow he had to convince her that he was the innocent party in the perverted scenario which she had created for herself. It was possible that the grief she felt at the death of her daughter had tipped her into this crazy delusional state. It really didn't matter how or why but he realized if he didn't persuade her otherwise, he would end up as dead meat like Gordon Moore.

‘If you really want someone to blame … it's Samuel Fraser. He was her pimp. He lived off Pammie's earnings. He set her up as a … as a prostitute. I only gave to her. I tried to make her happy.'

Freda Palfrey's careworn face relaxed into a cynical smile. ‘I don't have to worry about Mr Fraser. The police have him. He'll swing and swing hard for Pamela's murder. And then he'll burn in Hell. What a bonfire that will be.'

Epstein realized that his cache of diversionary tactics was already empty. His brain searched desperately for another ploy to persuade this deranged creature not to shoot him.

‘I can agree with you on that,' he said with some eagerness. ‘Murder is a real sin. Fraser does deserve to die for killing Pammie.'

Freda Palfrey gave an unexpected chuckle. ‘You think he killed Pamela? Oh, no. He didn't kill Pamela.' She paused, her face now a stern, enigmatic mask. ‘I did,' she said softly.

‘You! You … killed your own daughter?' Epstein shook his head in disbelief at this terrible revelation. The woman was seriously deranged. And yet as he gazed in horror at this gaunt woman, her fierce haunted eyes told him that she was telling him the truth.

‘Yes, I killed Pamela. I had to. It was the only way to save her. What kind of mother would allow her little girl to carry on defiling her soul in such a manner? It had to stop. She didn't deserve to live. She had rejected decency and morality for a filthy, corrupt way of living and therefore had forfeited her right to life. She is much better off dead.'

Epstein felt sick at heart and slumped down into his chair. He couldn't fully believe this living nightmare in which he was taking part. He wanted to close his eyes in the hope that it would all disappear.

But he knew it wouldn't. He was here in the room with a crazy woman who had killed the only girl he had ever really cared for and was now about to end his life as well. That was his new, dark reality.

‘How could … how could you do that to your own flesh and blood?' he asked. ‘She was your daughter, for God's sake.'

‘Yes she was and that's why I took mercy on her and ended her foul existence.'

‘She needed love and understanding not a damned bullet.'

Freda Palfrey blanched with anger at this remark and shook the pistol at Epstein. ‘Do you think it was easy? Do you think I was happy to do it? I sobbed myself to sleep for weeks when I knew that this was the only answer. It was only the fact that I was right and God was on my side that gave me the courage to do it. The little girl I brought into the world, that sweet innocent child had become a sinful monster. I have no conscience about the matter. It was the right thing to do.'

Epstein shook his head in disbelief. ‘I don't understand … I just don't understand.' His bewilderment seemed to amuse her.

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed his discarded pistol near his feet. He was fairly certain Mrs Palfrey hadn't seen it. Could he make a grab for it and defend himself? He quickly weighed up the situation and realized that by the time he had snatched up the weapon, she would have shot him.

‘Bastards like you never do understand. You go through life without a thought for the people you use, people you taint with your money.'

‘What on earth are you going to do? Go after every man who slept with Pammie and kill them? It's quite a long list.'

Freda Palfrey's face twisted with anger. ‘I know. Don't you think I know? I knew all about my daughter. She thought she had kept her “other” life a secret, her life away from home, but she hadn't. Not from me anyway. Right from the beginning, I followed her. Watched her. Saw what she was getting up to. I was her guardian angel.'

Epstein could imagine the manic vigilance with which she had spied on her daughter. In his conversations with Pammie, she had always avoided talking about her home life but he had deduced that she had led a repressed existence there and was delighted when she was able to move into a place of her own. In the early days, when she first came to work for him, he had witnessed the joy and glee she exhibited at the simplest of treats. It was as though she had been kept cocooned – kept away from the real world. Epstein saw now that this was indeed the case. The mother had been unable to sever the umbilical cord. And Pammie's repression had built within her an enormous appetite for life, an appetite which knew no moral boundaries. She had become the person she was because of the way she had been treated at home. Epstein could see that Freda Palfrey had gone beyond being convinced that this was the truth of the situation. She had obviously been obsessed with ‘protecting' her daughter for such a long time and this obsession had led to insanity. And there was no reasoning with an insane woman, especially when she had gun.

‘I knew I could only destroy a small number of those men who helped to bring about her downfall. I did not have to think for too long who I wanted to kill. There was Fraser, Moore and you. Fraser, because he really used my girl; you called him a pimp and that's right. Pamela was little more than a business asset to him.

‘Gordon Moore, because he was famous and had money and he used his wealth and fame to get him whatever he wanted. And you, Mr Leo Epstein, because you took advantage of Pamela's innocence. When she came to work for you, she knew nothing of sex or loose morals, but under your guidance she soon learned. And now you make it worse by saying that you cared for her! You liar! You have even deceived yourself. Like all men … like all men the only thing you care about is you.'

She was now roaring her words now, her whole body trembling with fury. Epstein jumped to his feet. He couldn't just wait there to be shot like some kind of diseased animal. He had to take some action. If he moved swiftly, dropping to the ground, and lunging forward he might be able to overpower her in a rugby tackle. It was very risky, but what was the alternative? Remain where he was like a sitting duck and get the full blast in his chest?

But before he could make a move, Freda Palfrey cocked the pistol.

‘No!' he cried and leapt forward. As he did so, a shot rang out.

thirty-five

My pal Leo Epstein lived in a select part of Holborn. Cedar Court was a prestigious-looking block of flats which appeared from its grey stone and angular appearance as though it had been built less than ten years ago. There was obviously money to be made in the solicitoring game.

Leaving my rather wobbly bike at the gateway, I passed through the grand revolving doors into the entrance hall, which was guarded in a somewhat incompetent fashion by a slumbering doorman. I slipped by the dozing fellow and made my way up in the lift to the third floor. Distractedly, I stared at the shaking gates of the lift as I rattled upwards to the appointed floor and I grew very nervous. While pedalling here as though all the devils in hell and a troop of Gestapo thugs had been on my tail, I hadn't really thought about what I was likely to encounter once I had actually reached Epstein's apartment. A corpse possibly? Or just a frightened man hiding in the bathroom? Or maybe a couple copulating in bed? Well, that would be a relief!

I reached the third floor and sought out Flat 14. The corridor was empty and so I pulled my pistol from my raincoat pocket. It was, I knew, an overly dramatic gesture but I reckoned I would need the gun. I hated the things. I wasn't a naturally violent man, although I could look after myself in a scrap, but guns gave one a kind of unfair advantage. And, as I clasped the handle firmly, I could not forget what one of its bigger brothers had done to me.

I was unsure whether to ring the bell or just try to enter Epstein's apartment without announcing my presence. Such a choice was wrested from me for, as I stood before the door, I heard a shot ring out inside, followed by a sharp cry.

Without hesitation I burst through the door, to catch sight of Epstein lying on the floor, his right hand clutching his left shoulder. Rivulets of blood were running through his fingers on to his shirt. Standing over him was a dark shape. The shape had a gun. At the sound of my noisy entrance, the shape turned in my direction. It was Freda Palfrey. My brain fizzed and crackled. In an instant I understood.

The jigsaw was complete.

It was the mother – not the father. Of course. I had so convinced myself that Eric Palfrey was the killer, I had never placed his wife anywhere near the frame. How naïve was that?

However, I had no time to develop these thoughts at that moment for now she was pointing her gun at me. My instinct was to fire at her before she had a chance to pull the trigger, but I couldn't. How could I shoot this woman, deranged as she was? Some inbuilt instinct held me back from shooting. And yet, Johnny Boy, my brain screamed, you just can't stand there and let her blast you to kingdom come. Do something, you fool! So I did. In desperation, I
threw
my gun at her. With great force and reasonable accuracy.

Freda Palfrey screamed as it thudded against her chest.

Distracted by the flying weapon, she staggered backwards and then stumbled sideways with the shock. I rushed forward and knocked her gun flying from her hand. She let out another scream. ‘You devil,' she cried and tried to attack me, but I held her arms at bay. She struggled for a while, her fingers wriggling desperately to reach my face, but she had little strength and soon collapsed on the floor in a sobbing heap.

Epstein pulled himself up into a sitting position. ‘She tried to kill me,' he bleated, still clutching his wounded shoulder.

‘You were the lucky one,' I said, picking up the telephone.

*   *   *

Two hours later I was sitting in the back of a police car hurtling through the darkened streets of London on the way to the Palfreys house in Pinner. Sitting beside me was my old mate Inspector David Llewellyn. It was he I telephoned from Epstein's flat and he had set official things in motion. The injured solicitor was scooped up and taken to hospital to have his wound attended to. I estimated that a long wait was in store for Mr Epstein. After a night of heavy bombing, the casualties would be numerous and a poncey solicitor who'd been involved in a domestic shooting would come well down the list of priorities.