Forests of the Night

by David Stuart Davies

  For a long moment there was an awful silence while both parents tried to readjust to the reality of the situation. Their little girl was dead and no amount of grief, regret, recriminations, anger or money was going to bring her back.

  It was Mrs Palfrey who spoke first, her eyes moist but calm and her voice even and under control. It was then that I saw that in fact she was much the stronger of the two. The husband was all bluster and routine – his way of keeping the truth at bay. She, on the other hand, had a firmer grasp on reality. Her stern features and flinty eyes suggested to me that she believed unpleasant facts were something to accept and deal with, not to deny or ignore.

  ‘Can you tell us the whole story, please? How she came to be murdered … and everything.’

  I nodded. ‘D’you mind if I smoke?’

  For a fraction of a second, Palfrey’s posture stiffened as though he was going to refuse, but it was an automatic reaction and the moment passed. I told them all I knew about Pamela, her relationship with Samuel Fraser and the manner of her death. As I unveiled this horror tale, the silent Palfreys sat before me, melting into each other like two wax effigies caught in a heat-wave. Their faces were drained of expression and emotion. I was the storyteller from their worst nightmares.

  When I had finished they still maintained the melted tableau for a long while before Mr Palfrey broke away, strode angrily to the window and gazed sightlessly through the net curtains at the prim garden beyond. ‘Are you seriously asking us to believe that our Pamela, our daughter, slept with men for money? That she was a whore?’ He roared the words at the window.

  At this outburst, Mrs Palfrey gave a low moan.

  ‘It isn’t something I would tell you if it wasn’t absolutely certain it was true.’

  ‘She was … a whore?’

  I couldn’t respond to that one without twisting the knife further.

  ‘It was her choice, Father,’ said Mrs Palfrey. ‘Perhaps we … protected her too much. Stifled her.’

  ‘We were loving parents … and she does this to us.’

  ‘I know all this is a terrible shock to you, but we must not lose sight of the most important thing now, which is to catch her murderer.’

  ‘Well. The police have done that. This so-called boyfriend. Her pimp.’

  I shook my head. ‘I am convinced that he didn’t do it. He loved her.’

  ‘Loved her!’ snarled Palfrey. ‘But he let her sleep with other men. What kind of monster is that?’

  ‘We don’t all share the same moral outlook and he did try to make her stop when he realized how much he cared for her.’

  Palfrey turned to face me, his body shaking and his face twisted with conflicting emotions of anger, pain and disbelief. ‘I don’t understand the world any more. I just.…’ He sat on the arm of the sofa shaking his head.

  ‘Can we see her?’ asked his wife softly. ‘I’d like to see her?’

  ‘The police will be along shortly. I am sure and they can arrange all that. I just felt I had to come and tell you myself.’

  ‘That was very thoughtful of you, Mr Hawke.’ Her eyes were moist and sad.

  ‘As I said, I am still on the case. If the police convince themselves that Fraser is the guilty party, they’ll shut down the investigation. They’ll not bother to look elsewhere. If that happens the real killer will get away.’

  ‘Are you certain this pimp fellow is innocent?’ Palfrey said, looking me squarely in the face.

  ‘I am.’

  ‘You have evidence?’

  I shook my head. ‘Not yet, but.…’

  He turned his back on me and stared out of the window once more.

  ‘Then you must go on, Mr Hawke,’ he said, at length, his voice cracking with emotion. ‘Complete your investigations … for us.’

  For the first time, I felt sorry for this little man. He was adrift in an open boat floating on alien waters.

  ‘I will,’ I said simply.

  Without turning round, he said, ‘Freda, the money.’

  ‘Yes, dear,’ she replied, and opened a drawer in the sideboard extracting the large envelope of cash that she had brought to my office. She held out a wad of notes.

  I shook my head. ‘I don’t want your money now, Mrs Palfrey. We can think about fees when the job is done.’

  Awkwardly I rose to leave. ‘I’ll see myself out. I’ll be in touch.’

  Before either of them had chance to respond I was out of the room heading for the front door. At that moment I wanted to put as much distance between me and the Palfreys as possible. The pain of their ruined lives was unbearable. Nothing I could do, even catching Pamela’s killer, could repair the damage. A darkness had fallen upon them which could never be lifted. It was good to get out into the fresh air once again.

  twelve

  Lunchtime found me nursing a pint in The Guardsman and studying the names on Fraser’s list: the intimates of Miss Pamela Palfrey – deceased. Of the four names, two were completely unknown to me, one rang a very faint bell down a long dark corridor but one name was definitely very familiar. Because of this, that particular fellow went to the top of the list. I was just pondering how exactly I was going to deal with the matter in practical terms, when I felt a hand on my shoulder; it was a hand well accustomed to feeling collars.

  ‘I suspected you’d be in here,’ said Inspector David Llewellyn as he plonked down beside me, his pint glass accidentally clinking against mine. ‘Cheers, man.’

  ‘Cheers,’ I replied, managing a half-smile.

  ‘Oh, it’s Mr Gloomy Pants is it? I thought it would be all grins and winks after you got one over on old Dirty Knight this morning. Mind you, from what I’ve heard, you’d better keep out of his way in near future. He’s gunning for you.’

  ‘You know, I reckon he’s the kind of chap I’d prefer as an enemy rather than a friend.’

  David chuckled. ‘I’d say his missus feels the same way. Anyway, I’m not here for idle chatter. I have some news for you. I think your boy’s turned up.’

  ‘Peter?’

  ‘Don’t know his name yet. About eleven, dark-haired, blue gabardine mac.’

  I nodded. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Charing Cross Hospital. One of the lads on the beat discovered him curled up in bushes somewhere in Regent’s Park. He was unconscious when he was found. He’s feverish and running a high temperature but they reckon he’ll be all right.’

  ‘Can I see him?’

  David raised an eyebrow. ‘We’re getting paternal all of a sudden, aren’t we?’

  ‘Come off it, a lad from the valleys doesn’t know what paternal means.’

  ‘I’ve been reading to improve myself.’

  ‘Well, it’s not working.’

  We grinned together, enjoying the brief moment of jokey camaraderie.

  ‘So,’ I said at length, with mock impatience, ‘can I see him?’

  David glanced at his watch. ‘OK, but we’d better be quick, I’ve got a briefing in an hour.’

  ‘So what are we waiting for,’ I asked, standing up and draining my pint.

  * * *

  Charing Cross Hospital is a great Victorian mausoleum of a place, all cracked white tiles and pungent with the acrid smell of disinfectant. It had the architectural finesse of a medieval madhouse. One felt, traversing its labyrinthine and featureless corridors, that you would never find your way out again. You were doomed for ever to haunt these winding white pathways, occasionally encountering other lost souls who had met the same fate. This sense of imprisonment was increased by the windows, what few there were, being taped in a criss-cross fashion as precaution against air raids. It was difficult to believe that there was a vibrant, living, breathing city bustling away beyond those thick foreboding walls.

  The patient we had come to see was in a side room of the children’s ward. A burly porter in a shiny blue uniform stood on guard outside the door. David showed him his credentials and with a silent nod of the head, the sentry allowed us into the roo
m. A small window threw a grey shaft of light on to the bed, illuminating the gaunt face of a young boy asleep, his small body apparently lost under a mound of sheets and blankets. His skin was shiny clean and tinged pink with fever.

  It was Peter.

  ‘Is this the boy?’ asked David, his voice muted to match the atmosphere of the sick room.

  ‘Yes, it’s him. He looks terrible.’

  ‘You’ll see far worse in here, I can tell you that.’ The voice came from behind us. We turned to see a thin-faced, dark-haired sister. She looked careworn and tired, but there was a businesslike brightness about her eyes which was comforting.

  ‘Which one of you is the policeman?’ she asked matter-of-factly.

  David raised his hand.

  ‘And are you the father?’

  I shook my head. ‘No.’

  ‘A relative?’

  I shook my head again. ‘I found the boy sheltering in a doorway a few nights ago and gave him a bed for the night. But he ran away.’

  ‘The poor mite. Well, you’ll get no sense out of him today, I can tell you that. He’s got a high fever and we’ll have to wait for Nature to take her course on that before he’ll be compos mentis.’

  I leant over Peter and laid my hand on his forehead. It was hot and damp. The coolness of my hand caused him to stir briefly, his face grimacing as though some dark memory had returned to trouble his dreams.

  ‘It’s best to leave him be for the moment. He’s in good hands here. He’ll pull through. Young ’uns do if there’s a glimmer of a chance. They have so much to live for.’

  The speech was a preamble to her ushering us out of the room.

  ‘May I visit him again?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t see why not … if the police say it’s all right.’

  ‘No problem there, Sister,’ said David, edging towards the door. ‘I reckon at the moment old Johnny here is the only real friend he’s got.’

  * * *

  It was good to get out into the fresh air again and to be assailed by the hustle and bustle of the Strand. The real living world, however sad and dreary, was getting on with its own mundane business. Normality, what a precious state. I paused, lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply.

  ‘This lad has really got to you, hasn’t he?’ observed David.

  I said nothing. I couldn’t think of anything to say. I really didn’t understand my own feelings so I couldn’t elaborate on them.

  David sensed my dilemma and quickly checking his watch bade me farewell. ‘Got that briefing. See you later.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said as he left.

  ‘Any time,’ he called back, as he disappeared into the seething crowd of grey-faced pedestrians.

  Well, my old son, I said to myself after a few moments, what next? Oh, yes, time to make an appointment with a film star.

  * * *

  I got back to the office around three o’clock. I had taken a fairly convoluted route to walk back partly because I wanted to play around with the odd jigsaw pieces of the Pamela Palfrey case in my mind to see if I could, without too much force, slip them together, interlock them, to see if I was anywhere near creating a picture or even sections of one. I wasn’t. The little curves and sharp edges refused to bond. I needed more. The other reason for delaying my return was that I didn’t fancy going back to my empty, grey, dusty office and the shabby room beyond knowing that they would only emphasize my own empty, grey, dusty and shabby life.

  Once I’d closed the door, I poured myself a whisky and put a lively Benny Goodman record on the old wind-up gramophone hoping they would shake me out of the gloomy mood I was in. They helped a little and then I set to work.

  I told the operator to put me through to Denham Studios. Once I’d connected to the switchboard – a lady sounding like she had a peg clamped to the end of her nose – I asked to speak to the public relations department of Regal Films. There was a long wait and then a voice of epicene qualities spoke shrilly down the line to me. ‘Hello Regal, Tristan speaking.’

  Resisting the urge to ask him how Isolde was these days, I went into my spiel. ‘Hi there, this is Gus Andrews, y’know Gus Andrews of ScreenTime, the magazine of the stars. Well, we’re doing a spread about handsome British heroes of the screen in the next issue and of course Gordon Moore, your very own Tiger Blake, is at the very top of our list. The pinnacle. I’m ringing to arrange an interview with Gordon so we can get the very latest on the new Tiger Blake.’

  I hadn’t gushed as much since I had a bad attack of diarrhoea on a holiday in Wales before the war.

  Tristan seemed overwhelmed by my torrent and held back from replying for several seconds. ‘ScreenTime…? I don’t think I know that one.’

  ‘Oh we’re quite new but we’re catching up on the old-timers. By next year we’ll be outselling Picturegoer.’

  ‘Really! And that’s so-o good.’

  ‘We aim to be better … with your help, Tristan.’

  ‘My help?’

  ‘The interview with Gordon…?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Well Mr Moore has just started filming the new Tiger Blake movie this week and he is ever so busy.’

  ‘Surely you can squeeze me in. Publicity always helps a picture doesn’t it?’

  ‘Well, yes, that’s what I’m here for.’

  ‘Excellent. So when I can I come?’

  ‘Just a minute, Mr … er?’

  ‘Gus Andrews: just call me Gus.’

  ‘Oh, all right then, Gus. Just wait a minute while I check his shooting schedule.’

  I waited while Tristan shuffled some sheets of paper, muttered to himself and sang a snatch of some song unfamiliar to me.

  Eventually he came back to the telephone.

  ‘Well, Gus, you’re in luck. They’ve got a staggered shoot tomorrow. Mr Moore will be here late morning and then there’s a break before a second session around five o’clock. I could try and arrange half an hour with him around three, if he’s agreeable.’

  ‘Oh, Tristan, that would be just dandy. I knew straight away that you were a man who could organize things.’

  There was a pause and I sensed a chest being puffed out. ‘We try our best. If you turn up at reception tomorrow around two-thirty and ask them to contact me in the Regal office, I’ll come down and take you on to the set.’

  ‘Excellent. I look forward to it.’

  ‘So it’s Mr Gus Andrews of ScreenTime, yes?’

  ‘Certainly is.’

  ‘Good, well I’ll do all I can to make sure Mr Moore is agreeable.’

  ‘Thank you, Tristan.’

  ‘My pleasure … Gus.’

  ‘See you tomorrow.’

  And so we parted company. I grinned. That was fun and the mission had been successful. After a while, I pulled out the paper that Sam Fraser had given me with the names of Pammie’s clients and I put a tick by the name of Gordon Moore.

  * * *

  A couple more whiskies and several jolly jazz 78s later and I felt sufficiently brave to make my next phone call. This was one I was not looking forward to making. My fingers hovered over the receiver for some moments before I summoned up the nerve to start dialling. I got through without any trouble.

  ‘Leo Epstein, solicitors. Can I help you?’

  ‘Eve,’ I said. Just one word but she recognized my voice straight away.

  ‘Oh, it’s you.’ Hitler might have received a warmer response.

  ‘I’m ringing to apologize for last night.’

  ‘You needn’t have bothered. From my point of view last night didn’t happen … and neither did you.’

  I feared she was on the verge of putting the phone down. I had to rush on quickly.

  ‘Please, please Eve … Miss Kendal … give me a chance to explain. I know it looks bad.…’

  ‘Bad? It looks like crazy to me. It seems you should be seeing a doctor or something. To go on a date with someone and then leave them to race round the cinema like a mad thing.’

  ‘I was chasing someone. A
runaway boy.’ As I said these words I realized how pathetic and unconvincing they were. I had to over-egg this particular frail soufflé pretty quickly or she’d slam the receiver down on me. ‘He’s a boy involved in a murder case and in great danger. He’s run away and was hiding in the cinema. When I saw him, I just had to try and catch him. It was a young life at risk.’

  I was pleased with that last one: ‘… a young life at risk.’ Surely that would break down the barrier. But Eve was not as easy a nut to crack as Tristan at Regal Films.

  ‘You could have said something,’ she replied, more petulant than angry now. ‘You could have let me know what you were doing charging off like a bull elephant down the row. You know you stamped on one woman’s corns and she complained to the usherette and I got such looks.’

  I smiled at the thought. ‘I’m truly sorry,’ I said. ‘I’ll go away and shoot myself now and never bother you again. What more can I say?’

  There was a hissing pause down the line and then: ‘Well, I suppose you could say … how about another date when I could really make amends for my strange behaviour?’

  Bull’s-eye!

  ‘I could? Yes, I could. And I will. Miss Kendal, I would be delighted if you would give me a second chance to show you that I can be a … a charming and attentive escort. Could we arrange another date?’

  ‘I’m doing nothing this evening.’

  ‘That’s funny … neither am I.’

  I couldn’t believe this cheesy dialogue. I felt that at any minute we would go into our song. Than it struck me that Eve might be setting me up to get her own back.

  ‘Are you quite sure you’d like to meet up?’ I said earnestly.

  ‘But not the cinema this time,’ she said with a stern note in her voice. No doubt she had visions of being abandoned again in the dark with a scowling woman ranting about her corns.

  ‘How about Lyon’s Corner House, Piccadilly Circus, at eight this evening?’

  ‘OK, but please be on time and promise not to run out on me once we’ve ordered a drink.’

  ‘I promise.’

  ‘In that case, I accept. I’ll see you at eight.’

  Before I could reply, she put the phone down.