The Unquiet Heart (29 page)

As luck would have it, Fast Larry was skulking in the bar. I grabbed him and put a message through to Pauli Gambatti. Larry lived up to his nickname. Quicker than the phone. Next morning one of
Pauli’s minions dropped by my office. This time he held a key in his hand, not a gun. It seemed Mr Gambatti was delighted to help. Wilson’s reputation had preceded him. Furthermore Mr
Gambatti graciously acceded to my request on the condition that I consider working for him. I said I’d give it serious thought. Why not?

I then put a call into Cassells. He gave me short shrift when I finally got through. Told me there was nothing he could do. And certainly nothing I could do. He couldn’t tell me anything,
and no, he didn’t know whether she was alive or dead.

My last call was to Scotland Yard. I asked for Detective Superintendent Wilson. I gave my name. I went through three pairs of hands before Wilson’s sneering voice came on the line.

“What do you want, McRae?”

“I want to meet. It won’t take long. I have something to tell you.”

“Let me guess. You want to give yourself up. You want to confess to being an accomplice to the murder of a certain German official? Or how about the murder of a certain man in the Angel
pub in Rotherhithe. Or how about the spate of murders of prostitutes in…”

“Shut up, Wilson. Do you want to meet or not?”

“Maybe. When? Where?”

“You’re based at the Yard, right? Meet me outside at noon today.”

“Today? That might not…”

“Noon. Today.” I hung up.

I took Midge with me to Victorian Embankment and stationed him across the road, leaning nonchalantly against the river wall. The towers and turrets of New Scotland Yard shouted
power and authority, just as the architect last century had planned.

By twelve-twenty Wilson hadn’t shown and I was beginning to think I’d blown it. Maybe I should have been more conciliatory. Just when I’d given up on him, his tall dark form
strode casually through the great front door. I was still surprised how much weight he’d lost, but it didn’t make him less imposing. His thin hair was slicked back and parted carefully
in the middle. He wore a new double-breasted suit that made my demob outfit feel shabby. They must pay well. He got within punching distance and stopped with a big supercilious grin on his
face.

“You’ve got five minutes, McRae. Talk fast.”

“Where’s Eve Copeland?”

His grin got wider. “You mean Fraulein Ava Kaplan?”

“Where is she?”

He raised his big shoulders. “Now how should I know? Tried Berlin, have we? Probably gone off to join her Nazi pals again.”

My fists were clenched and I’d almost forgotten why I was there, when we were suddenly interrupted.

“Scuse me, guv. You happen to know how to get to Trafalgar Square from ’ere?” asked Midge. He was talking to Wilson.

Wilson’s lined face screwed up with annoyance. “That way.” He nodded north and turned his back on Midge. I waited till Midge was well away.

“You abused her in prison, you sod. Forced a confession out of her.”

“Did I?” he asked, all innocence. “Just doing my job. But listen, McRae…” He bent his head forward so that I could smell some cheap cologne. It failed to mask his
breath. “I can see why you fancied her. Very nice.” He cupped his hands beneath his chest and leered.

He must have seen my arm move. He stepped back smartly, out of reach. I unclenched my fist.

“Steady, McRae. Assaulting a senior officer on the very doorstep of Scotland Yard? Ten years for that. Minimum.”

I got my breathing nearly under control. “Where is she? You set her up in the flat in Battersea. You had her followed. Where have you taken her, Wilson?” I heard my voice rising. Ten
years would be worth it, if I could get one good punch in.

Wilson stepped further back and smirked. “No idea what you’re talking about, McRae. That head of yours giving you problems again? Seeing things again are we?” He made a show of
looking at his watch. “Time’s up. Disappointing, McRae. Disappointing.” He turned and walked back to the Yard, leaving me seething. I curbed my instinct to run after him and punch
him to the ground. I’d have my chance. Later.

It was simple. Midge had clocked him. By the end of day the lads had followed him and found out where he lived: in the rundown area between Bayswater and Notting Hill. He rented a basement flat
in Moscow Road. Midge pretended he was a delivery man, and asked a couple of neighbours about Mr Wilson. He seemed to live alone, surprise, surprise. And got home early evening.

The boys were waiting next morning to check that Wilson emerged from the same place. They did it once more for luck in the evening. During the wait I visited Eve’s building three times,
pressing the bell until my thumb hurt. Nothing, and no sign of the watchers. I also inspected the area around Moscow Road. It was quiet and lined with trees. When I met Midge, Stan and Big Cyril in
the George that night, I gave them the word. Tomorrow, on his way home.

We prayed he followed a regular pattern, and hoped he wasn’t working late. We knew he took the tube to Notting Hill Gate and walked along Bayswater, left into Palace Court and then into
his street. We decided to take him in Palace Court where the pavements were shaded by trees.

Midge sat in the driver’s seat of the borrowed van. I sat in the back. Stan and Cyril patrolled the street; when Stan signalled from the Bayswater Road, Midge could see it in his mirror.
Last evening Wilson had come back around six o’clock. It was half past already and no sign. I was getting cramp in my legs and dearly wanted to get out and stretch.

“Got him!” said Midge. I looked through the crack in the van door and saw Stan walking towards us from the road end. He would walk past us, then do an about turn to block off
Wilson’s escape. Cyril would be tailing our man. Midge and I pulled on the dark balaclavas and tugged them down over our faces.

“Remember, say nothing. Not a word,” I ordered. Midge raised his thumb.

I peered out the crack. Stan was nearly level but no sign of Wilson. Then suddenly a bulky figure appeared round the corner. Stan passed our van and kept walking. At the far end of the street
another big figure appeared. Cyril. It was all in the timing. The two men paced down the leafy street, Cyril a careful twenty yards behind Wilson.

Now I could hear them, almost as if they were trying to keep in step. Wilson was within five yards of our van when Midge shoved his door open so that it suddenly blocked half the pavement.

“Oi! You nearly hit me, you idiot,” shouted Wilson. His flushed face peered in to the cabin to remonstrate with Midge just as I heard running feet from both ends of the street. There
was shuffling, and the footsteps stopped.

“Don’t move, copper. This is a gun and I’ll use it. Now stand up slowly,” said a panting Cyril. Wilson’s face vanished backwards. I hoped Stan and Cyril had
remembered to pull their balaclavas over their faces. The rear door was tugged open and Wilson stood there, his face a mask of shock and anger. He had the sense to put his hands in the air.

“In!” commanded Cyril. I eased back in the van to let Wilson kneel and crawl forward. He pulled his legs in and sat with his back against the wall. I noticed him adjust his jacket;
didn’t want his nice new suit crushed. I sensed Stan get in the front alongside Midge.

“Do you know who I am?” Wilson managed with some of his old bluster. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

“Shut it,” ordered Cyril, who by this stage had hauled himself opposite Wilson. Cyril pulled the door shut but kept the gun trained on Wilson. I said nothing from my corner, just
handed Wilson a thick strip of blackout material. Cyril cracked his knee with his gun.

“Put it on. Nice and tight, now.”

Wilson needed a further nudge with the gun barrel till he wrapped the blindfold round his eyes and tied it. Cyril checked for daylight then nodded at me. The doors at the front banged. Stan and
Midge were in place. The engine started and we were off. I touched Stan on the shoulder and pointed at his mask. He and Midge got the message and took them off. Didn’t want to draw attention
to a van driven by two masked men.

Wilson made another plea. “Look, this is madness. You’ve got the wrong man. I’m a senior policeman. This will go badly for you. Just stop and let me out and we’ll say no
more about it. I’ll forget this ever happened.” It sounded very reasonable. But I knew none of the lads was seduced.

“Shut it!” said Cyril, pressing the barrel against his knee. Wilson slumped and was silent the rest of the journey across London.

The yard gate was chained. I got out and used the big key on the padlock. Gambatti had kept his word. I pulled the gates wide and the van drew in. Midge and Stan pulled their
black woollen masks down again. While I closed the gates and relocked them, Cyril and Midge hauled Wilson into the building.

By the time I got inside they had him stripped to his vest and pants. He was strapped to a chair with a rope round his body and his legs. He still wore the blindfold and I could see by the rapid
rise and fall of his chest that his sense of outrage had been properly replaced by fear. I walked round him. Tufts of thick dark hair grew across his shoulders and back as well as his chest. He
looked suddenly smaller, but I felt no mercy. Not after what he’d put Eve and me through. Cyril stepped forward at my nod, and ripped off the blindfold. Wilson looked like a startled deer. He
could see the four of us standing, fully dressed, wearing our masks.

“Who are you?” came his strangled words. “What do you want? Just ask me. Anything. I’ll tell you. I promise.”

This was too easy, if it was true. I nodded to Cyril.

“You took a friend of ours two days ago. Where is she?”

“Who? Who is it?”

“Ava Kaplan,” said Cyril.

Wilson’s body tensed. “Who? Who are you?”

Cyril reached over and gave him a smack. Wilson’s face flared.

“You bastard! You don’t know who I am! You’ll be sorry!”

“Where is she?”

“Never heard of her. You’ve got the wrong man.”

Stan stepped away and I wondered what he was up to. He was back in a trice with a painter’s blowlamp. Wilson’s face was a picture. I almost stopped Stan but thought I’d see
what came of it. Stan pumped at the handle to get the paraffin up the spout. He took out his match and lit the wick. He pumped it again and adjusted the flame. A jet of blue heat shot out and
roared nicely in the quiet warehouse. I could feel the heat from four feet away. Stan stepped forward and Wilson’s head jerked back.

Cyril asked him again. “Where is she?”

“I don’t know!” he gasped, his head as far back as he could get it. Stan did a quick pass with the flame. A mound of black hair on Wilson’s shoulder frizzled and burnt.
Wilson shrieked. The smell of singed hair hung on the air. Stan moved the blowlamp down towards his groin. Wilson yelped and flung himself back. His chair tipped and he crashed to the ground. Midge
and Cyril got him back on an even keel. Wilson was weeping and snivelling now. His vest had tucked up. A livid scar scrawled across his stomach and up to his chest; a reminder of his
self-impalement on a chair leg the night he attacked me.

“So you remember who she is, then?” asked Cyril.

“Yes, yes. But I don’t know where she is. We didn’t take her.”

“Who did?”

“I don’t know.”

Stan did a neat sweep with the torch across his bare hairy legs. Wilson shrieked and the smell of burnt hair filled my nostrils again. It was time to put a stop to this, if only to stop the foul
stink. Besides, Stan was enjoying it too much.

“It was the Americans! They wanted her out of the way.” He looked over at me. “McRae? Is it you?”

Stan pumped his torch again. I raised my hand and shook my head.

“McRae? It’s you, isn’t it? I didn’t touch her. I swear. Let me go and I’ll say nothing about this. I promise.”

I had had enough of this masked ball. I ripped my hood off. “Keep yours on, lads.” I walked round his trembling body.

“You didn’t touch her, eh? What did you do to her in prison? I remember how gentle you were with me in a cell. Still up to your old tricks?”

“I swear, McRae. I didn’t touch her.”

“But you watched while they did! There are other ways of hurting a person. And by Christ, you hurt her!”

“McRae, I really don’t know where she is. As God’s my judge. It wasn’t my doing.”

“Is she alive?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know.” He was whimpering now. I could see blisters forming on his shoulder and leg. I tried a change of tack.

“Why are the Yanks so pissed off at her?”

“She was screwing up their network. She killed their top man in Berlin.”

“Why did you let her go, then. Why did you let her out?”

“Can you imagine the trial?”

“And besides, you knew the Yanks would take care of her once she was out.”

He was silent.

“Didn’t you?” I nodded to Stan who leaned forward with his flame.

“Can you blame them? This was the second agent she killed.”

“What? What are you talking about?”

“The Angel pub in Rotherhithe. The man you met.”

I froze. “He was American? Central Intelligence?” I remembered his one word to me –
McRae?
– and how it sounded Irish. It was. Boston Irish.

“That’s why they were after her.”

“She wasn’t there. She wasn’t
there
, I tell you.”

“But her Jewish pals were. She set them on him.”

“Why did he agree to meet me?”

“They’d lost track of her. Didn’t know what she was up to. They thought you could help track her down.”

“Why the hell would I do that?”

“Because you wanted her back. You’d had a fight. She dropped you.”

Why should I believe this man? He’d lied so often to me.

“And knowing all that, Wilson, you set her up in that flat. A sacrificial offering for your Yankee pals. Is that it?”

His silence was deafening. I’d had enough. I was past caring, one way or the other. The likelihood was that Eve was dead. And this man had put her in front of the firing squad. If
I’d had a gun in my hand I would have shot him like a dog and left him to die. I was barely aware of the rattle of locks and the door opening behind me. The lads jumped and were quick to get
into defence mode. Had the police tailed us after all? Then I smelled the cigar.