Forests of the Night

by David Stuart Davies

  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.

  That’s what I saw, but I couldn’t believe my eyes. I just couldn’t believe that it was real. It must be some awful mirage or something. I sat on the edge of the bed gazing down at her for what seemed ages. I suppose I was waiting for her to wake up. Or start laughing, saying that she had been pretending to give me a shock. It wasn’t blood really, it was tomato ketchup.

  But she didn’t. She just kept on staring at me with those dark, sightless eyes. And then I leaned forward and touched her cheek. She was already cold. I could feel the deadness of her skin. I began to shiver all over and some noise in my head thundered, blotting out everything else. It was then I must have blacked out for the next thing I knew, I was lying on the bed staring at the ceiling. For a moment, I forgot where I was. You know, that few seconds of amnesia when you first wake up. And then I remembered. It came back to me in all its awfulness. I squeezed my eyes shut, hoping and praying that it had all been some kind of crazy dream. But Pammie was still there, her eyes still staring at me and the blood still seeping on to the sheets.

  That’s when I rang the police.

  I’m no angel and I’ve done some things I’m not particularly proud of, but I didn’t kill Pammie. I couldn’t kill her: I loved her too much.

  You’ve got to believe me.

  eleven

  When he’d finished, Samuel Fraser turned his head away from me so that I wouldn’t see him crying. It wasn’t an act; he was genuinely cut up. I felt sorry for the poor devil. I sat quietly for some time turning his story over and over in my head while playing with my tab end in the metal ashtray, pushing all the feathery ash into one little heap. It was a soothing process. Certainly the picture of Pammie Palmer was one that was vastly removed from the one presented by her parents – the dull, dumpy little girl who mooned over film stars – but somehow it all rang true. Pammie was a performer, a frustrated actress who turned her life into a dramatic movie. Unfortunately the climax had been tragic. In a strange way, she would have probably relished the notoriety and high drama of her final curtain call.

  ‘If it wasn’t you, Mr Fraser, who killed Pammie,’ I said at length, ‘then it must have been her last client, whoever he was. The man she had been with that night, the secret punter.’

  ‘Yeah, I suppose so,’ he said reluctantly, brushing the moisture from his cheek. He still didn’t want to believe that Pammie had been two-timing him behind his back, even if it had been purely a matter of business.

  I passed over my pack of cigarettes. If ever a man was in need of nicotine, I reckon he was. ‘So,’ I said briskly, ‘you’ll have names.’

  ‘Names?’

  ‘Of her clients.’

  ‘Oh, I couldn’t…’

  ‘Oh, but you could and you will.’

  ‘But it’s more than my life’s worth to give away—’

  ‘Let’s face it, Sammy, your life isn’t worth the price of a Woolworth’s comb at present,’ I snapped. ‘If you don’t help me, you’ll be measured for a rope collar before you can say goodnight swee
theart. I need names.’

  He ran his fingers through his hair. ‘I … I don’t know them all. Pammie … Pammie had her own. It started with a few guys at Denham.’

  ‘Names, Sammy, names.’

  For the second time he stubbed out a half-smoked cigarette with at least five minutes more pleasure in it. I winced at the waste. ‘You got a paper and pencil?’ he said.

  I passed over my notepad and trusty HB. Sammy scribbled down four names on the pad and passed it back to me.

  ‘Those are the only ones I know, but I can’t think that any of them could murder—’

  ‘Classic mistake. We’re all capable of murder in certain circumstances.’

  ‘You’ll help me, then.’

  I slipped the pad into my inside pocket.

  ‘I’ll find Pammie’s killer, if that’s what you mean.’

  * * *

  As I left the cell, Detective Chief Inspector Knight was waiting for me in the corridor outside. He was looking at his watch. ‘That was half an hour,’ he sneered, in an accusatory tone.

  ‘Doesn’t time fly when you’re having fun,’ I responded with a smile.

  ‘I hope you got what you wanted.’

  ‘For what it’s worth, Chief Inspector, I’m fairly sure that Samuel Fraser did not kill the girl.’

  ‘Oh, and what makes you so sure?’

  ‘I just believe him.’

  ‘Hah!’ Knight virtually spat out the exclamation. ‘We’re a little more practical at Scotland Yard. If we believed every villain who claimed he was innocent, we’d never make an arrest.’

  I nodded indulgently and turned to leave, but old granite features grabbed my arm. It was as though it had been placed in a metal vice. ‘Before you go, I need to know about the dark lady. Remember.’

  I gazed at him blankly for a moment and then with a shy grin I feigned recall. ‘Oh, yes, of course; the dark lady. Her name is Beulah White, a fine jazz singer. She does two sets at The Velvet Cage on Dean Street each evening. You should drop in some time and catch her. She’s good.’

  ‘And what has she to do with this case?’

  ‘Why nothing at all. I just thought you’d like to know about her. After a day arresting people, her voice could help you unwind.’ I slipped on my hat, quickly extricated myself from Knight’s loosened grasp and nipped up the stairs before his temper ignited.

  ‘Hawke!’ he yelled angrily, as I reached the top, his voice reverberating all the way up the stairs. Without a pause I passed through the door, thus blocking off the stream of abuse which no doubt was issuing from the sturdy mouth of Detective Chief Inspector Knight.

  * * *

  It was late morning when Constable Arthur Dobson made the discovery. He had been on duty in Baker Street and things had been very quiet. Obviously, all the spivs and the low life were keeping out of his way. They knew not to be careless when Arthur Dobson was around. Keen as mustard he was, even if he said so himself. On a whim, he decided to have a stroll through Regent’s Park to see if there was anything there to interest him. Perhaps he could nab a vagrant for sleeping rough in one of His Majesty’s parks. That would suit him. An easy bit of business and another notch on his record. Unfortunately for him he found the park as quiet as the streets. It was becoming increasingly clear that he would have to return to the station empty-handed on this occasion. The desk sergeant will be disappointed, he told himself. Little did he know that the desk sergeant couldn’t give a damn.

  As compensation for his arid morning, Constable Dobson decided to have a crafty fag to cheer himself up. Looking around to check that there was no one about, he slipped into the shrubbery and took a cigarette and matches from his coat pocket. Slipping the cigarette into his mouth, he lit up. As the match flared in the gloom, he saw something on the ground about a yard away from where he was standing, something that caused him to start and the cigarette dropped silently from his open mouth.

  He knelt by the object and lit another match. There was no doubt that it was a body. Curled up in a foetal position it was the body of a young boy.

  * * *

  The Palfrey household was just how I imagined it. A solid, middle-class, red-roofed house in a solid, middle-class area of Pinner with a tidy lawn, perky little anonymous blooms in the weed-free borders and pristine net curtains billowing at the windows. I was not relishing the visit but I felt it was my duty to pass on the bad tidings. After all they were my clients and I reckoned that my job wasn’t over yet, not until I’d nailed their daughter’s killer. I hoped that I’d got there ahead of the police because I knew from past experience that they could be rather ham-fisted in the condolence stakes. Anyway I supposed that informing parents of the death of their daughter was very low in the priorities of Chief Inspector Knight. He had other things on his mind like charging Samuel Fraser. It wouldn’t have surprised me if he had forgotten all about the murdered girl’s parents in his zeal to obtain a conviction.

  I felt sure that the Palfreys wouldn’t have tied in the fuzzy picture of Pammie Palmer which was in the papers that morning with their beloved plain-Jane daughter. At least I hoped so.

  My stomach churned unpleasantly as I rang the door bell. Some instinct told me it would play a tune. It would not be a simple bring-bring, but in keeping with the nicety of the neighbourhood, there would be a tune. And there was. I heard good old ‘Greensleeves’ reverberating down the hallway.

  After a time, Freda Palfrey answered the door. She seemed smaller and paler than I remembered her from the day before. Dark shadows formed grey semi-circles under her vacant eyes. Of course, I told myself, she had put on a brave made-up face to come to town. Lipstick, powder and the other tools of feminine artifice had been brought into play to deceive the world, to hide the pain and anguish of a distressed mother. In the home, such deceit was not necessary. And now, here I was, about to put a final seal on that distress. I hated myself.

  ‘Mr Hawke … we weren’t expecting you. Do you have news?’

  My face must have told her all.

  She stared for a moment at me with a mixture of disbelief and horror. I had come with the tidings that she feared the most, but those which in the deepest secret hidey-hole of her heart she knew would come to her eventually. Her little girl was dead.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said quietly. Inadequate though it was, I didn’t know what else to say.

  Her eyes moistened and her lip trembled but she held herself erect and fought against her rising emotions. ‘You’d better come in and tell us all about it.’

  She led me into a spick and span parlour and left me there while she went to find her husband. ‘He’ll be in the garden shed,’ she muttered matter-of-factly.

  There were two pictures of Pamela in the room but they were of the Pamela of old: plain, dumpy and submissive. She gazed at me unwaveringly with docile, simpering eyes. Ever the actress was our Pamela. There was also a sepia-tinted print on a side table of Mr and Mrs Palfrey on their wedding day. He was wearing a tight pinstripe suit which looked as though it had been painted on while she was in a very frilly wedding dress with a mob cap of a matching material on her head. They looked happy and normal. He had a bright face and a jaunty moustache and his features suggested nothing of the pedantic, small-minded dullard he was to become. She, on the other hand, while pretty seemed frail and grateful.

  ‘Mr Hawke.’

  I turned to face the same couple standing side by side on the threshold of the room as though they were waiting for my permission to enter. What decay thirty years had wrought upon them. They had become other people and somehow the joy of living had leaked out of them.

  I nodded, not trusting myself with words just yet. Taking on the role of host, with a gesture I bid them sit down. Clasping each other’s hands, they perched on the faded moquette sofa.

  ‘What is it then?’ asked Mr Palfrey, already guessing the gist of my response.

  ‘I’m sorry to tell you that … your daughter … Pamela … is dead.’

  I got no
further. Mrs Palfrey clamped her hand to her mouth and gave searing moan before melting sideways into the arms of her husband.

  ‘She was murdered,’ I added.

  ‘Murdered!’ Palfrey reacted with anger. ‘By whom, for God’s sake!’

  ‘That has yet to be discovered, but the police are interviewing her … boyfriend.’ I used this rather circumspect expression because I didn’t think this couple were quite ready for the idea that their beloved daughter had a lover.

  ‘Boyfriend. She had a boyfriend! Was it he who lured her away from us, from her home?’ Palfrey had shaken off his wife now and was staring at me as though I was responsible for his daughter’s death.

  I shook my head. ‘I’m afraid the story I have to tell will distress you. But it’s the truth and I suppose it has to be faced.’

  ‘Don’t talk in riddles, man. What are you trying to say?’

  ‘Pamela deceived you. At home she was the demure rather plain little girl you wanted her to be, but it was a part she played according to your expectations. In reality she was a pretty girl, glamorous even, with an appetite for life and she was determined to enjoy it. She was just waiting for the opportunity to shed her old life with you and step into a new and exciting one in the bright lights of London. The cinema was her drug; it showed her there was another world out there.’

  ‘A wild and wicked one,’ asserted Palfrey, but now his manner was more subdued.

  ‘That was part of the attraction. She met an out-of-work actor and formed a relationship with him. Then she left here to go and live with him.’

  ‘Live with him! In sin?’

  ‘If you mean without marrying him, yes.’

  ‘I … just cannot believe this. It’s some nasty fairy tale.’

  Mrs Palfrey sat up and wiped her eyes. ‘No, it’s not, Donald. Mr Hawke wouldn’t be that cruel. What he’s telling us is the truth. You know it. I know it. We both sensed … we both … but we never spoke.’