‘How much?’ he grunted.
She raised her eyebrows in surprise.
‘How much for a shag?’
Her face froze for a moment. ‘Why, you don’t waste time, do you, ducks?’ she said at last, her voice having lost the suspect veneer of gentility.
‘How much?’ he repeated.
‘I don’t come cheap, my lad.’ She grinned her awful grin again in the mistaken belief that she was being coquettish.
Lowe refrained from asking her again. His sarcastic expression did that for him.
‘You got your own place or what?’
‘Or what, I’m afraid, darling,’ he said without a trace of humour.
‘A short time, eh? Well, that’ll cost you two quid and another gin.’
‘Have your gin after. Drink up, let’s be off.’
‘My, you are in a hurry. Still, I like an eager boy. Just let me powder my nose, if you know what I mean, and I’ll be with you.’ She grinned again and put out her heavily ringed hand to give him an affectionate stroke of the cheek but he pulled away. Oh, he’s one of those, she thought. Mr mechanical man. He wanted no affection, no sense of relationship, however false. Just put it in like some part of a machine and perform the function. Well, she’d been on the game many years and had his sort before. At least they were quick. It was just that since the war had started most of her clients—she liked to think of them as clients—had wanted some warmth and emotion in the process. It wasn’t really making love, but it was at least pretending. In fact some of the young soldiers almost seemed content just to be held and kissed passionately. The sex came as an afterthought. She liked this. It made her feel human and cared-for.
As she made her way to the ladies she glanced at her watch. Well, she thought, I’ll be back in here in fifteen minutes, two quid better off and another gin to keep me company.
When they left the pub it was fully dark and a sharp wind had sprung up. She pulled her thin raincoat around her and shivered. Not for the first time in recent weeks she thought to herself that she was too old for this game anymore. Having sex outside in all weathers with a lot of strangers…
Lowe walked beside her like a shadow. He said nothing and made no bodily contact with her. Inside his head, he was preparing himself for the kill.
‘There’s a yard,’ the woman said, ‘two streets away. It’s quiet and private, but I want to see your money first, mister.’
Lowe pulled out two pound notes from his back pocket and passed them to her.
‘That’s lovely,’ she said, stuffing them in her handbag. Happy at receiving her payment, she grabbed Lowe’s hand. ‘Come on, then, love,’ she said with a smile, leading him down the street.
37
Following Lowe, I began to experience a growing sense of frustration. I’d been a clever boy in finding the bastard. But what exactly was I to do now? I was like a big mutt of a dog who had been chasing a car and had now caught up with it. What next? I had no official powers of arrest, no handcuffs to clip on the fellow’s wrist even if he were docile enough to let me. On top of this, I didn’t carry a gun. He’d got the better of me last night and he could easily do so again. Madmen don’t know their own strength.
What I needed was back-up. I wanted that police squad-car to squeal round the corner, siren shrieking, and six hefty coppers to leap out and rugby-tackle Lowe to the ground. That’s what I wanted. But I wasn’t going to get it. Or was I? Surely all I had to do was make a call to David Llewellyn at the Yard and he could arrange the kind of posse I required. The only problem was, if I stopped to pop into a phone box to make the call, I’d lose Lowe. He would disappear off into the dusk.
And so my frustration grew.
However, my hopes were raised when Lowe approached a pub called the Coach and Horses. There was a phone box on the corner of the road about a hundred yards away. I watched him go inside, then, after a couple of minutes, I peered through the saloon-bar window and spied him at the counter, a full pint of beer in his hand. I sprinted back to the phone box and dialled David’s direct line at the Yard. It rang. And it rang. And it rang. I glanced at my watch. It was seven o’clock. Dammit! He’d probably gone home for the night.
Bugger and blast.
There was nothing left for me to do but ring 999. Whether they would believe that I was tracking down a murderer and needed their assistance was another matter. I just had to hope I could convince them that I wasn’t a crank. Not an easy task with the story I had to tell, but I really had no other options. I took a deep breath and was just about to make the call when the door of the phone box swung open and a tall, wiry fellow squeezed part-way in.
‘Excuse me sir,’ he said with a marked Irish accent, ‘but I was wondering if youse could help me. You see I’ve had no sustenance today whatsoever and I’m feeling awfully faint. If youse could see your way to lending me a few coppers to buy myself a cup of tea and a bun or some such, I’d be eternally grateful, so I would.’
It was a nicely judged performance.
‘Not just now, eh? I have an urgent call to make,’ I replied sharply, giving him a gentle shove to eject him from the box. But he resisted.
‘Oh yes, now,’ responded my little Irish friend with some ferocity, the Gaelic charm having disappeared from his voice. To reinforce the sentiment he produced a long, cruel-looking knife from the folds of his tatty overcoat.
‘In fact,’ he continued, ‘I’ll be needing more than a couple of coppers, if the truth be known. Hand over your wallet. I’ve no real desire to use my little friend here but I can assure you, I have no qualms about doing so if necessary.’
I swore. This was all I needed now. I glanced over towards the Coach and Horses and, to my despair, I saw Lowe emerge through the swing-doors accompanied by a woman, whose dress and demeanour clearly indicated what she did for a living and it wasn’t charity work.
‘Come on, mister. Hand over the wallet.’
My blood was really up now. If I was to lose Lowe because of this worm…
‘Didn’t your mother tell you it was dangerous to play with knives?’ I bellowed with a voice full of Shakespearian fury, taking a step nearer.
My assailant flinched at such an aggressive reaction. It was as though Dr Jekyll had turned into Mr Hyde. In that split second of uncertainty my arm shot out and I punched him squarely on the nose. He crumpled to the ground. As he did so I grabbed the knife from his hand. Already two rivulets of blood were streaming down his face from both nostrils.
‘You’ve broke it,’ he was moaning. ‘You’ve broke me nose.’
‘You’re lucky I didn’t break your neck. Now beat it before I do more damage to those ugly features of yours.’
He didn’t need a second warning. He scrambled to his feet and ran as if all the devils in hell were on his coat-tails. His comic departure brought a brief smile to my face before I remembered my dilemma. I turned to face the road down which Lowe and the woman had travelled. There was not a sign of them. They had melted into the night.
I swore again. And then began running.
38
The woman led Lowe along a narrow passage off the main street which gave way to a small courtyard area. It was dark and smelt of damp but she assured him that it was private and would suffice for their purpose. She had used it many times before, often several times a night when the pickings were good. With practised ease she leaned against the wall and slipped her tight skirt up around her thick waist. Even in the gloomy moonlight Lowe could see that she was not wearing knickers. She had obviously prepared herself when she had gone ‘to powder her nose’.
‘Come on, big boy, let’s be having you,’ she said, matter-of-factly, as though she was offering to take her pet dog for a walk.
Lowe advanced on her, not unconscious of the significance of the occasion. This was to be his last victim, the last tart he would send to hell. The last time he would throttle the life out of one of these damned creatures. The last sacrifice. He wanted to savour the moment.
/> He got close to her. He could hear her breathing, a slightly wheezy rasp, and he could smell her cheap perfume. Suddenly he realised that he didn’t even know her name.
‘What’s your name?’ he asked as he pressed his body up against hers.
‘Kathleen,’ she said with a grin. ‘Kath to you, big boy.’
He kissed her. This was something that he did not ordinarily do and his instinctive response surprised him.
She responded to the kiss and reached down to his crotch searching for his fly. He wanted none of that. He didn’t want to be touched. It was time to make a move.
‘Good night, Kath,’ he said softly, his hands slipping round her throat.
At first she thought he was being affectionate and she smiled, but as his grip tightened, she quickly realised that something was wrong, that he meant her harm.
‘Here…you bastard, get off,’ she cried, kicking him hard on the shins. The pain was sharp and seemed to spread throughout Lowe’s ravaged body. She kicked him again. This time he groaned and staggered back, releasing his grip. She kicked him a third time with even greater ferocity and screamed.
The scream reverberated in Lowe’s eardrums, blanking out all other sounds. The noise filled his head until he couldn’t think, he couldn’t function. It seemed to go on for ever. He put his hands to his ears to stop it while he gazed in horror at the woman’s distorted open mouth before him, the thick, moist, red lips vibrating obscenely, filling his vision. He felt that at last he was going mad.
And then she kicked him again. This time her target was his groin. Now it was his turn to scream, partly in severe pain as his inflamed genitalia felt as though they had exploded, and partly with fury—a fury which helped to bring him back to reality. With a snarl, he rushed at the woman, his hands like claws ready to rip the life out of her, but now she had pulled a knife from her bag, her protection against awkward customers.
‘Get back,’ she cried, brandishing the knife. But he took no notice. How could he? He was past worrying whether he would be injured or not. She could stab him to death for all he cared now. As long as the cow died with him, it didn’t matter. He reached for her, his hands clasping her throat one more time. Then he felt a sudden jolt of pain as the blade entered his stomach.
39
As I padded down the empty street in search of Lowe and the woman while cursing the small time Irish crook who’d delayed me, I heard a scream coming from somewhere to my far left. I skidded to a halt and spied a narrow gap between two buildings. As I sped down the passage another cry punctuated the silence. It was short and deep like the cracking of a branch from an ancient tree. It was the cry of a man.
As I emerged into a kind of courtyard area the scene that met my eyes seemed to have been conjured up from one of my booze-inflamed nightmares. I saw Lowe struggling with the woman, both of them panting and rocking backwards and forwards as if in some drunken dance. But it wasn’t sexual passion that appeared to bond the two figures together. It was aggression.
I leapt forward. Grabbing Lowe by the scruff of his neck I yanked him backwards away from the woman. To my surprise he offered no resistance and after my initial effort he staggered backwards a few steps before slumping to the ground. He lay on his back, his mouth popping open and closed like a fish out of water while his hands shook aimlessly. I saw that there was the sheath of a knife sticking in his stomach and blood was frothing out all round it, creating a dark stain across his shirt. By this time the woman had sunk to her knees and was sobbing uncontrollably.
For some moments I stood watching this grim scene, mesmerised, not quite believing that it was actually happening. At length, Lowe gave a guttural cough and then, with an eerie suddenness, he lay still, his face frozen in death, the mouth open and the tongue lolling lifelessly. Not unlike one of his own victims.
I stumbled forward to try and comfort the woman. I lifted her up from her kneeling position and she clung to me, sobbing bitterly.
‘You’re all right now,’ I said, without any real knowledge or certainty that she actually was. I hugged her back and stroked her hair and gradually the tears subsided. At last she lifted her head and brushed the moisture from her mascara-besmeared eyes.
‘I’ve got to give this game up,’ she said wearily. ‘It’s far too dangerous.’
*
Detective Inspector David Llewellyn extracted a bottle of Johnnie Walker from the bottom drawer of his desk. ‘I reckon we need something a little stronger than tea, don’t you?’
I nodded and emitted an affirmative grunt. I felt that was all that I was capable of at the moment. It was about two hours later and I was sitting in David’s office at Scotland Yard. When I had eventually telephoned the police he had been dragged from the comfort of his hearth and home to supervise events: the removal of the dead body of Robert James Lowe to the police morgue and the arrest of Kathleen Winters for manslaughter.
I had gone back with David to the Yard to make a full statement, in which I explained all that I had learned about Lowe’s condition and how I had traced him. David refrained from saying that I should have got in touch with him straight away and let the official police deal with it. There was little point. It was all murky water under the bridge now. The man had been caught and as fate would have it, he had already received his sentence. David poured me a generous measure and passed over the glass.
‘Usually, I feel like celebrating when we’ve nailed a murderer, but somehow this time round I can’t find any sense of elation,’ he said, with a grim smile, splashing a more generous helping of whisky into his own glass.
I took a gulp, happy that it burned my throat. It was a pleasant discomfort. ‘I hope the Winters woman will get off lightly,’ I said when the whisky had trickled down and was warming my stomach.
‘I’m sure the court will treat her case with understanding. It was self-defence after all. If she hadn’t stabbed the devil, she wouldn’t be around now.’
‘I’m rather glad she got to him before I did. It would have given me great pleasure to kill the bastard myself.’ I gripped the glass tightly, my knuckles whitening, and took another drink.
‘No news from the hospital?’
‘It’s a waiting game. Paul is too weak to be operated on at the moment.’ I wanted to say more. I wanted to say that I didn’t know what I’d do if he died. He was the person I’d known all my life. He was the one person who in a strange kind of way made some sense of my life. He was my touchstone with humanity. At the back of my mind I knew there was always a possibility that Paul could have been killed on active service, but somehow I felt that that would be easier to accept. Dying for one’s country was a noble death. But to die at the hands of a deranged murderer on the streets of London…a useless, pointless death. All these things I would have liked to have said to David, but it just wasn’t the sort of things men confess to men. It’s our oyster mentality, I suppose. We’re fine with women, mothers, sisters, girlfriends, wives—to them we can open up, expose our sensitivities; but not to men. It breaks an unspoken masculine code.
Suddenly I felt very tired.
‘I assume that I’m free to go?’ I asked with a weary smile. David returned the smile. ‘Anytime you like, boyo. I reckon you’ve earned a good night’s rest.’
I rose to go and he put his hand on my shoulder. ‘I hope everything turns out…you know…with Paul.’
‘Yeah, thanks.’
‘I’ll pray for him.’
I slipped out of the office and minutes later I was on the cold streets of London once again, the real world pressing in all around me and yet I felt as though I was in a bubble, my own personal protective shell that kept the real world at a distance from me. I made my way to Charing Cross Hospital.
The nurse on duty informed me that there had been no change in Paul’s condition. ‘That is not as bad as it seems,’ she said softly. ‘It means that he is holding his own for the present. With more rest and constant medication, he should begin to rally soon.’
/> I couldn’t tell whether she genuinely meant what she was saying or whether this was the standard reassurance given out to visitors when they didn’t know what the hell was going to happen to the patient. I just had to hope that it was the truth.
I sat with Paul awhile. He looked exactly the same as he had done the last time I had seen him. The pale face with the paper-thin skin looked lost on the giant white pillow, and the various tubes created a veritable spider’s web around the bed. If only he’d open his eyes. But he didn’t.
It was around midnight when I let myself into Hawke Towers. I felt like that fellow in the old poem I had learned at school: I was tired and sick at heart. Immediately, before I had a chance to turn on the light, I knew there was something wrong. I was aware that I was not alone in the room. There was an aroma in the air, a mixture of tobacco, a fine expensive blend, and something sweet. I had a visitor. My hand hovered over the light-switch, but I left the room in darkness. And then I saw the red glow of the cigarette. It pierced the dark like a warning signal. Someone was sitting at my desk.
‘About time too. I’ve been waiting for over two hours,’ came the sultry voice in the darkness and the end of the cigarette glowed brighter.
I clicked on the light. ‘Sorry to have kept you waiting’, I said casually, sloughing off my raincoat and throwing it at the hat stand. Habit had made me an expert at such a procedure. The coat landed safely but awkwardly and hung there like the skin of a dead and fairly repellent fish.
Eunice McLean rose from my chair and came around the desk to greet me. She carried with her that strong sweet scent I had noticed on first entering the room. It was both nauseating and addictive. Before I knew it, she had planted a long and passionate kiss on my mouth. At first I just stood there like a dummy, but that scent was doing things to my brain. I didn’t fight it—I just responded. My arms circled her tightly and I returned the kiss. I was clear-headed enough to realise that it was warm human contact and comfort rather than affection that prompted my amorous actions, but what the hell! If it eased my pain, I was up for it.
Comes the Dark Page 17
