Forests of the Night (7 page)

‘Where had he been before returning to the flat?'

‘He claims he was at The Carlton Casino in Storr Street. We've got one of our men checking his alibi now. But that may not help him. He says he left at twelve-thirty – which he may well have done – but he didn't ring the police until three-fifteen, which gives him plenty of time to come home, murder the girl, feign a blackout and then call us. It's thin stuff.'

‘Motive?'

‘Oh, I'm sure one will present itself.'

‘Could she have been killed by a client?'

‘Outside chance, I'd say. According to Fraser, she wasn't due to “model” for anyone last night. There was no evidence of any visitors.'

Before I could respond, there was a discreet knock at the door and a uniformed constable entered. ‘Sorry to interrupt sir, but the pathologist thought you ought to have this urgently.' He passed over a note to Knight and vanished as quickly as he had arrived. Knight studied the note, his slab of a face giving nothing away and then he looked over at me, his lips crumbling slightly into a dry grin.

‘You were asking about motive. Well, I think we've got one. It seems our little Pammie was with child.'

*   *   *

I saw the way that Knight's mind was working. There's not much money to be made out of a pregnant whore, so you kill her. It was simplistic, a theory built on very shaky foundations, but one that was likely to stop the police from looking any further and eventually lead to Samuel Fraser's conviction. Case closed and another feather in Chief Inspector Knight's cap. Maybe Fraser had done the dirty deed but, for the moment, I was prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt. If he had planned to murder the girl surely he could have come up with a better alibi than the one he'd given.

‘I'd like to see Fraser if I might, Chief Inspector. It will help me tie up a few loose ends to my case.'

Knight sat back, his cold eyes glittering. ‘Don't believe that would be a good idea, Mr Hawke. I thank you for your information but I think it would be better for both of us if you go now.'

I shrugged nonchalantly and rose, pushing my chair back. ‘Have it your own way. I'll leave you to find out about the dark lady yourself.'

Knight's brow shifted into a frown. ‘Dark lady? What dark lady? What are you on about?'

I grinned and touched my nose with my right forefinger. ‘You'll no doubt find out.'

‘Hawke, if you're withholding evidence—'

I'd lost the Mr now. ‘Oh, I really doubt if it is at all relevant, but then again it could be very useful. It's not evidence as such, Chief Inspector … just a piece of illuminating information. Educational, I'd say.'

Knight was angry now. He, too, rose from his chair, his body taut and his eyes registering anger. ‘Look here!' he roared.

‘No, Chief Inspector, you look here … give me twenty minutes with Fraser and in return for your gracious favour I'll tell you all about the dark lady.'

For a moment I thought he was going to hit me. His massive hands clenched and shook but thankfully he fought manfully with his temper. After all it wouldn't do to hit a law-abiding citizen who was assisting the police in their investigation.

‘Twenty minutes, eh? It can't hurt,' I added with a smile.

‘I'll time you. And no word about the girl's pregnancy.'

I held up my hands in shock. ‘I know better than that.'

*   *   *

Samuel Fraser was a good-looking fellow with dark curly locks which could have appeared as effeminate were it not for his sturdy features and a thin Errol Flynn-type moustache which adorned his upper lip. He stood up as I entered and I observed that he was quite short and stocky and therefore would never make it as a leading man.

I introduced myself as John Hawke, a detective on the case, and then offered him a cigarette. He took one and examined it closely. It was clear that he was used to a more superior brand than the lowly Craven A. However, this did not prevent him from lighting up and blowing the smoke in my direction.

‘You are an actor?' I said.

His eyes brightened at this. ‘Yes, I am an actor,' he replied in an actor's voice, dark, silky and slightly preposterous.

‘Would I have seen you in anything?'

This stumped him momentarily. ‘I was in a thing at the Albery last year and I had a part in the last Tiger Blake movie.'

‘Ah, I've seen that,' I said, blowing my smoke back at him.

Thirty love.

‘What part did you play?'

‘I was one of the Nazi radio operators … a small role.'

I nodded as though in sympathy. ‘A very small role.'

‘They promised me a bigger part in the next one.'

‘Let's hope you'll be able to take it.'

Fraser stopped mid-inhale as he realized the gravity of my observation. ‘Look,' he said suddenly, stubbing out the half-smoked cigarette ferociously, ‘this is a crazy notion. I didn't kill Pammie. She was my girl … we were going to get married as soon—'

‘As soon as she'd made enough money – lying on her back and thinking of England.'

‘Why you…!' He jumped up and took at swing at me. He missed by a mile and I laughed. He swung his fist again. This time I caught it in my hand and wrenched it sideways, bringing it down with some force on to the bench. Fraser gave a cry of pain and slumped back in his chair. Not only was he a little runt, but he was a cowardly one as well.

‘Look, perhaps you don't realize how deep in the shit you are, but I'm here to tell you that unless you play straight, your next performance may well be on the gallows.'

This was something that the angry little fellow had not contemplated. The colour drained from his face and, as if by magic, beads of sweat appeared on his forehead.

‘I didn't kill her. Honest. I didn't kill her. I really cared for her.'

Strangely enough, I believed him. This wasn't a performance any more. The voice had lost its cheap artifice.

‘Any idea who did?'

He shook his head.

‘Right, listen to me, Samuel, my boy, the police have got it into their thick heads that you're the chump who murdered Pammie. And indeed why should they look any further?'

‘But you told me you're the police,' he said in a strange whining fashion.

I shook my head. ‘I said I was a detective working on the case. I'm a private investigator. I was employed by Pammie's parents to find her. Or to be more precise to find Pamela Palfrey. You knew of your girlfriend's double life, of course.'

Fraser nodded. ‘She was Pamela when I first met her. It was me who suggested she change her name.'

‘Well, under whatever name we use, I've found the Palfreys' daughter for them, after a fashion. Now I reckon it's my duty to find her murderer as well. And that's how I can help you.'

‘Help me…?'

‘Strange as it may seem, I don't reckon you did kill her. Don't ask me why; I just have an instinct about these things. And, anyway, it seems sensible and a matter of principle to take the opposite view to Detective Chief Inspector Knight. But before I can be of assistance to you, you've got to do your bit.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Tell me all about Pammie. How you met and how she ended up being … your girl. The whole story and the truth.'

‘Can I have another fag?'

‘As long as you smoke this one.'

He nodded.

I passed over the packet. ‘OK, Sammy, now spill the beans.'

ten

Sammy's Story

I first saw Pamela, as she was then, at the Regent dance hall. It was about six months ago. I was on the prowl that night. I needed another girl. My acting work had dried up again and I was desperately short of money. With a girl, the right girl, I could easily make fifty quid a week. As soon as I saw her, I knew she was the one. She was special: she had star quality.

I got talking to her in the bar. Bought her a drink. Spun her a tale about my illustrious acting career and by the end of the evening we were smooching under the mirrorball. At the time I thought I was doing all the leading but looking back on it, I can see that I was the one being led. I was aware I couldn't rush it with Pamela. She was not like the other girls I'd been involved with. But I didn't need to force the pace. The whole thing took off quickly.

We did the traditional thing for a while. Saw each other on dates: trips to the cinema, walks in the park, dancing, meals out. All that stuff. But we both knew we were marking time. We were holding the passion back, just to go through the hoops. Once we became lovers, the whole thing became so simple.

She was desperate to leave home and live the film-star life and she came with a secret nest egg. She'd been saving for years, squirrelling away various amounts, until she had quite a sum. Enough for us to start renting a flat near Regent's Park.

Don't get me wrong. The money wasn't that important. I really cared for her. I loved her. And I believe she loved me. But we were both practical sorts as well. Nothing wrong with that.

It was me who persuaded her to change her name to Pammie Palmer, partly to cut herself off from her past life really and to stop her parents turning up and trying to drag her back. She like the idea. She loved playing the part and she played it up to the hilt. And so she became Pammie Palmer.

Once we moved in to our flat, I came clean about my less than glowing prospects and wondered if she would agree to entertaining a few gentlemen a couple of nights a week to help pay for the groceries. I knew I was taking a risk, but things were desperate. I really expected her to throw something at me and storm out; instead she smiled and said yes. Just like that. No hesitation. She thought the idea was exciting, dramatic – straight out of a film, I guess. She didn't see it as sordid in any way. Apparently, she had done it before for money and saw nothing immoral in the transaction. That's how she'd helped to build up her nest egg. I'd been the naïve one all along.

I'd been doing some extra work down at Denham. Walk ons. A man in a crowd. That sort of thing. Anyway there were a few fellows down there who knew me and my services. I was soon able to get enough clients for Pammie to be busy two or three nights a week. As a business venture it was very successful, but there was a complication. I began to fall in love with her. She was very beautiful, but it wasn't just that. She had a way with her that was so endearing, so thoroughly captivating. I couldn't help myself. And, of course, I grew jealous. I didn't like the idea of other men touching her. But, apparently, she did. She liked the danger, the excitement, the glamour of it. She often referred to it as ‘my performance'.

Then one night, a ‘client' stayed longer than arranged. He'd drunk too much champagne and passed out and I came back to find him half dressed, lying on the bedroom floor. Pammie thought that it was hilarious but I was beside myself with anger. I hated myself for setting up the whole wretched business and for falling in love with her and I hated her for enjoying it so much.

I threw the fellow out and then begged her to put a stop to it. By accident I had witnessed the reality of the situation. I suppose I must have blanked it from my mind what Pammie was really up to when she ‘entertained' a client. But now … I'd had my nose rubbed in it.

I said it must stop. I promised to find the money somehow, even if it meant getting an ordinary job. ‘How will you earn enough to pay for this?' she jeered, throwing her arms wide as though embracing the flat.

It was then that I asked her to marry me.

She hadn't expected that and it stopped her in her tracks. It wasn't part of the script, you see. She didn't know whether to laugh or cry. After a moment she ran to my arms and as we kissed, I don't think I was ever as happy in my whole life. As for her … I reckon it was just another fulfilling dramatic moment.

We made love that night and it was real and special. I thought it bonded us together for life. An act of genuine passion which was stronger than any marriage certificate or wedding ring. The next morning Pammie agreed not to see any more men. I can't tell you how happy this made me.

In the days that followed I made an extra effort of going round all the agents scrounging for work and by night I went to the casino in a desperate attempt to win some money to keep our flat on. My modest wins helped, but I knew our finances were slipping. I prayed I'd get a good acting job that paid well. But nothing happened.

Then, after a time, I suspected Pammie was seeing clients again. She didn't need me to set the meetings up anymore. There were enough men out there who had her number. I knew there was nothing I could do about it. If I challenged her and it was true – as I had no doubt it was – we'd be finished, washed up. And I couldn't face that.

I was at the end of my tether. You see I never expected all this – love, involvement, commitment. They were not on my agenda. These feelings were not only foreign to me before I met Pammie, but I had despised them as weak and pathetic emotions in others. From the start I had thought of myself as the puppet master pulling her strings, but I was wrong: she had been in control all the time. To the very end.

The night she died, I'd been to the casino. I was desperate to come out with a big win. As the night wore one, I lost more and more. I drank heavily, too, to cushion myself from the pain of failure, I guess. When my wallet was empty, I left. The cold air and the full realization of what I'd done, blown my last £200, soon sobered me up. By the time I got back to the flat, I was ready for the showdown. I was never to have it.

The door of the flat was unlocked and the lights in all the rooms were blazing. When I went into the bedroom … well, what I saw was Pammie lying on her back on the bed. She was in her negligée and there was blood seeping on to the eiderdown from her chest. Her eyes were open and so was her mouth as though she was crying out for help. Silently crying for help.