Forests of the Night (6 page)

We sat in the stalls and endured a cartoon and a Laurel and Hardy short before there was an interval. I didn't want to rush the Pamela Palfrey business so I asked Eve about herself. ‘There's nothing much to tell,' she said easily. ‘I live with my mother – my father left us many years back – and I work at Epstein's. That's it. I'm a fairly dull person really. Now what about you? It must be exciting being a detective.'

I didn't reply. At that moment my eye had been caught by something a dozen or so rows further down from where we were sitting. It was a little face staring back at me. Dark haunted eyes underneath an unruly comma of dark, tousled hair. I rose from my seat and leaned forward, peering into the amber gloom. Could I be mistaken? The face gazing at me blanched in recognition, the eyes widening in panic. No, I wasn't mistaken: it was my errant lodger. It was the boy, Peter.

Without a word to Eve, I jumped to my feet, rushed to the end of the row, squeezing past a number of irate patrons in the process. As I reached the aisle my feet became entangled with someone's shopping bag. I lost my balance and stumbled to my knees. Muttering an apology to the bag's owner, a fat woman in a fur coat with a face like a collapsed balloon, I leapt to my feet in time to see that Peter had also left his seat. He was nimbler than I and was already racing across the front of the cinema. I followed in his wake, cursing as I realized that the lights were dimming. As shapes turned into shadows, I spotted Peter slipping behind the velvet curtains by the illuminated Lavatories sign. I went after him and found myself in a draughty, dimly lighted corridor. Had he gone into the Gents hoping to hide in there? As I took hold of the door handle, I heard a loud crashing noise and, glancing further along the corridor, I saw that the emergency exit doors had been thrust wide open. I ran into the alleyway beyond the doors just in time to catch sight of Peter turning the corner at speed. By the time I reached the street I knew I had lost him. I gazed down the darkening thoroughfare where he had merged into a shifting mass of indistinct silhouettes. That was the second time I'd let him get away. I swore and hit my fist on the damp wall.

By the time I returned to the body of the cinema, the big picture had started. Allowing my eyes to get used to the strange flickering half-light, slowly I made my way back to the row where I had been sitting with Eve. How was I going explain my strange behaviour to her, I wondered. What sort of lunatic did she think I was? Someone who leaps from his chair without explanation or apparent reason and races around the cinema. Whatever she thought, the explanation would have to wait. When I reached the row, I could see quite clearly that she had gone. That's good going, Johnny, I thought. A double loser in one night. It must be some sort of record, even for you.

I left the Astoria just as Tiger Blake broke the bad news to the rest of the crew of the light aircraft: ‘We're about to crash into uncharted jungle.'

eight

He had been at his club since the early evening. He had retreated there after a fraught meeting with his agent where he'd paced up and down the office, waving the letter about, cursing and calling into doubt the parentage of all the executives of Renown Pictures. His agent tried to calm him down but failed. He had no honest words of comfort to offer. It was bad news and this particular grey cloud had no silver lining.

He had intended to get drunk at his club, to blot out the reality of what had been his blackest day, but after the first brandy and soda failed to soften his anger, he grew more bitter. How could those bastards do it to him after all the money he had made for them? Twelve fucking films – all of which had made money, good money – and now he was being cast on the scrap heap. After he finished the picture he was working on, they weren't going to renew his contract. They were getting rid of him. What was the phrase they used: ‘Our relationship has run its natural course.'

Bastards!

They were not only taking away his occupation, but his lifestyle and his importance. With one letter they had made him an ex-star – a has-been. Somehow he would get his own back. He wasn't finished yet. He'd show them. Somehow. This defiant resolution seemed to ease his pain and he ordered another drink.

‘Hello there,' said one of the familiar faces in the club in passing. ‘Saw the latest effort. Jolly good show.'

He nodded and smiled, acknowledging the compliment. There you are, he thought, after the man had passed by, ‘Jolly good show'. And so it bloody was … and yet. He took another gulp of brandy. What he really needed now was a woman. He could expel all his pent-up frustration, anger and energy in bedding a woman. Not the one at home, though. An anonymous red-blooded woman who would put a bit of passion into her lovemaking; someone who would do more than just lie there and wait patiently for the ghastly business to be over. That's what he needed. Someone uninhibited, experienced and available. And, by George, he knew where to find one – for a price, of course. But what the hell, why not end this ghastly day on a pleasurable note?

A telephone call would do it. But he wasn't going to use the club's facilities. They were far from private and the old bores who haunted the place were notorious for eavesdropping. He slipped out of the club to a nearby phone box. He was in luck – in this instance anyway. The lady was available, but not until later that evening. He could wait – the anticipation would be part of the pleasure.

*   *   *

After escaping from the man with the black eye patch, Peter roamed the streets aimlessly for an hour or so before he found himself outside a small fish and chip shop. The smell of the hot food lured him in and he spent some more of his precious money on cod and chips which the woman at the counter wrapped up in newspaper after he'd salted and vinegared them. He found an empty shop doorway some hundred yards away where he crouched and devoured his cooked supper in no time. After he had finished he felt warm and happy inside. He could have easily curled up in the doorway and fallen asleep, but after his experience of the previous night, he was wary of such places. He had to find somewhere more private, a spot where people didn't pass by. And he thought he knew where. Wiping his greasy hands down the sides of his raincoat, he set off with determination.

As he made his way through the darkened and deserted streets, he stopped at every litter bin and dustbin collecting any newspapers he could find. By the time he reached the perimeter of Regent's Park he reckoned he had enough to make a reasonable mattress for himself. If he could get into the park, he was sure he could find some cover, maybe even a shelter, where he could kip down for the night. He knew the gates would be closed, so he'd have to find a place where he could clamber over the railings. He didn't know what time it was but he knew it must be late. The moon was high and there wasn't a soul about. It was best he made his move now. Choosing a dark spot, shaded by an overhanging chestnut, he flung his cache of newspapers over the railings and was just about make his first assault on the metal barrier when he heard a strange cry some little distance away. It was like one of those ghostly moans he'd read about in ghost stories: long and very sad. It frightened him. And then he saw a solitary figure staggering along on the other side of the road from him. The moan came again, quieter this time, more like an agonized sob. Terrified, Peter pressed himself against the railings, deep into the shadows.

As the figure grew nearer, he saw that it was a man, moving slowly and sobbing. Suddenly he stopped, motionless for a moment, and then he made some attempt to pull himself together. Peter had never seen a grown-up so distressed, except Mrs Kitchen who lived two floors below. She went crazy when she learned that her son had been killed in a bomb blast, wailing and shrieking she was and tearing at her hair, but she was a woman and it was all right for women to cry – but not grown men.

As the boy watched in the shadows, the man gradually pulled himself together. He wiped his face with a handkerchief and, as he did so, Peter observed that his hands were stained with some dark shiny blotches. Then he pulled up the collar of his overcoat. In doing so, he lifted his head and his features could be seen clearly in the moonlight. Peter almost wet himself as he recognized the man.

It was Tiger Blake.

nine

As I opened the newspaper the following morning, after my abortive date with Eve, the first thing I saw was the face of Pamela Palfrey staring back at me. It wasn't the Pamela Palfrey as represented in the snapshots given to me by her father. This one was the glamorous version. But there was that same strange haunted look in the eyes, despite the fact that she was smiling. The picture was placed below the headline:
BRUTAL KILLING
.

Apparently Pammie Palmer, a model, had been found stabbed to death in the bedroom of her flat by her boyfriend Sam Fraser, late last night. He could think of no reason or motive for such ‘a senseless killing'. Nevertheless he had been taken in for questioning and was ‘helping the police with their enquiries'. I grimaced. I bet he was. There was no mention of the girl's parents, or of how she had become a Palmer, or how she had become a model.

I got on the phone straight away to Scotland Yard. Luckily I just caught David before he was about to leave the office on a job.

‘What can I do for you this time?' he asked. His voice was weary and a little impatient.

‘The girl that was found murdered last night…'

‘What about her?'

‘I was trying to trace her. Her parents are clients of mine.'

‘Were clients, don't you mean? Looks like it's case closed, eh, old son?'

‘It's not as simple as that. The name you have is not her real one. There's something fishy about the whole business.'

‘Really…'

‘It seems that she was living two lives.'

There was a pause, and I could almost hear the cogs of David's brain turning over on the crackly line. ‘Look, Johnny,' he said at length, ‘give me five minutes and I'll get back to you.'

When the phone rang again, it was a different voice on the other end – more polished and businesslike. ‘Mr Hawke, this is Chief Inspector Alan Knight, a colleague of David Llewellyn. I'm handling the Pammie Palmer murder case, I believe you have information which may be of use to us.…'

*   *   *

An hour later I was cradling a mug of hot sweet tea in New Scotland Yard, sitting across the desk from Detective Chief Inspector Alan Knight. He was a tall, broad-shouldered fellow with a face that seemed to have been chiselled out of granite. It was uniformly grey, full of gritty, sharp corners and the mouth looked as though it hadn't seen a smile in a long time. I had told him the story so far, including my belief that Pammie had been maintaining two lives for a while – the frumpy, dull girl who mooned over movie stars and the pretty model with the actor boyfriend.

‘It was only recently that she had dumped the old persona to move on. She left her parents and it seems she went to live with Sam,' I said, lighting a cigarette. I offered the packet to Knight but he shook his head.

‘Why did she do it?' he asked.

I shrugged. ‘I don't know. I can guess maybe but that's nothing for you to go on.'

‘Share your guess, Mr Hawke. The more ideas we have, the better I like it.'

I hated being called Mr Hawke, but I reckon Chief Inspector Knight would have had trouble getting his tongue around the familiarity of ‘Johnny'. It struck me that he was the kind of fellow who had only just made first name terms with his wife.

‘Having met the parents and heard their side of the story, it seems to me that Pamela became the daughter they wanted her to be, plain, dull and obedient. She put on a performance for them. That would have appealed to the actress in her. She dressed in frumpy, shapeless clothes which hid her figure and wore no make up. But away from home, she was what
she
wanted to be…'

‘A model…' Knight added sarcastically.

‘Maybe she needed her home base until she had secured enough money to fly the nest.'

‘And so the caterpillar turned into a sexy butterfly and fluttered away.'

I winced. I hated mixed metaphors

‘Something like that,' I said.

‘So who killed her?'

‘I have no idea.'

‘No more guesses.'

‘That gets dangerous. I'd need more evidence. Who do you think did it?'

Knight leaned over his desk. ‘To tell you that, I'm going to have to shatter a few of your illusions, Mr Hawke. As you well know the term “model” has more than one interpretation. I don't know about our Pammie being a pretty butterfly, but it's fairly certain she was a prostitute and that her boyfriend Samuel Fraser was her pimp. Fraser already has a record for living off immoral earnings.'

I wasn't shocked. I half expected it. But I felt sad, sad for Pamela's parents but mostly sad for Pamela. The world of glamour and money reduced down to a sordid sexual trade.

‘So Fraser is really in the spotlight?'

‘Full beam. Unless some other worm crawls out of the woodwork, yes. You got any other ideas?'

I shook my head. ‘I'd only just started the case. Would you mind telling me what you know – how it happened?'

Knight sighed and glanced at his wristwatch. My usefulness was over; he didn't really want to be wasting his time with me.

‘I really would appreciate it, Chief Inspector,' I greased, in the most ingratiating manner I could muster.

‘Briefly then,' the granite face snarled. ‘According to Fraser he got back to the flat in the early hours – sometime between one and two and found Pammie on the bedroom floor. She was in her nightgown and had been stabbed several times through the heart. He says he blacked out at the sight and it wasn't until he came round again about an hour later that he rang for the police.'