‘My God!’
‘And now he’s dead. Stabbed to death. All because he loved Pammie.’
Epstein’s features paled and with an unsteady hand he reached for the decanter of brandy on the table behind him. He poured himself a large measure and gulped it down. ‘So according to you some maniac is on the loose and I’m next on his list? Is that what you’re saying?’
‘You sum the situation most succinctly.’
‘Then I must have police protection.’
I threw Epstein a grim smile. ‘They’ll just laugh at you.’
‘What do you suggest then? I simply wait like some tethered goat until this madman tries to kill me?’
‘I suppose I am suggesting that.’ I held up my hand to silence Epstein’s protests. ‘Now wait a minute and hear me out,’ I snapped. ‘You describe our murderer as mad and … yes that is probably true. But he is a cunning one. Now his blood is up and he’s aware that he cannot get away without being caught for much longer, he’ll feel the need to strike soon very soon.’
‘That’s a great comfort.’
‘Cuts down on the waiting time.’
‘I get the impression that you are enjoying this, Hawke.’
‘Far from it, but I am trying to be realistic. Now, what are your plans after closing up the office tonight?’
Epstein gave me a nervous glance. ‘Tonight! As soon as that! Tonight. You really think.…’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘Christ almighty!’ He brushed his hand across his high forehead which was beginning to moisten with perspiration. ‘What a nightmare.’
‘So … what had you intended to do?’ I prompted.
Epstein shook his head distractedly. ‘I … I hadn’t given it much thought. I don’t know. Probably I was going to work late a little and then grab a bite to eat. Maybe a trip to the cinema and then go home.’
‘No lady friend to meet?’ I raised a disappointed eyebrow.
‘Not at the moment.’
‘Pity. I don’t think our man would strike if you were accompanied. I reckon the best thing is for you to do as you say – a meal and the flicks. Act as normal and I shall be in the shadows watching you.’
‘You mean I act as bait? You must be off your head. I’m going to call the police.’ His hand shot out and snatched up the receiver. The buzzing noise seemed unnaturally loud and filled the silent room. I made no move to stop him but as his finger hooked into the dial, I leaned forward with a steady stare.
‘What exactly are you going to say? How are you going to explain things?’ I said, softly.
He seemed on the verge of responding to my questions but then gave up the effort. Slowly, he replaced the receiver and the buzzing noise ceased.
Leo Epstein sat back in his chair, his shoulders bowed and his face a grim mask of despair. ‘It would seem that I have no choice,’ he said in a monotone.
‘That’s how I see things,’ I said in cheery agreement.
* * *
As I came to the closing moments of the re-run of this interview in my mind, old Nosy Rosie, the barmaid with the inquisitive demeanour, came to my table to empty the ashtray and wipe a damp cloth over the top. ‘By Jove, love,’ she smiled, leaning close to me so that I could smell her cheap perfume and see further into the chasm of her ample cleavage, ‘for a feller who’s in love, you’ve got a face like a wet weekend.’
‘They run in my family.’
‘Well, if you ever need cheering up, just let Rosie know.’
‘Certainly will,’ I said, retreating once again into my false shyness.
Without another word she gave me a wink and swept on to the next table. When she had her back to me, I skipped out of the pub in search of anonymity again – and some peace in which to think.
It had begun to rain, that rain which falls like a fine mesh curtain and soaks you through to the skin. Pulling up my collar and tugging my hat forward, I walked, trying hard to calm the panic of uncertainty which was growing inside me. What if I was wrong in my conclusions? What if I had figured out the situation all wrong? When it came down to it, it was only my personal interpretation of events and maybe I’d misread the signs. Maybe.
I was no Sherlock Holmes. I had not made any major brain-leap deductions. There could really only be one possible culprit for the murders – couldn’t there? It was just that Chief Inspector Knight and his gang had closed their minds to any other interpretations of the facts. And it was left up to me to pin the tail on this murdering donkey. And the only way to do that was to catch the bugger on the job. He must know his days were numbered and so he had to strike soon if he was to kill Epstein, the third man who had cared for and yet used his daughter.
twenty-eight
Sister Susan McAndrew waited in the corridor. She was filled with apprehension, although in her heart of hearts she knew the outcome. Nervously she fingered the slip of paper that John Hawke had given her the day before. He’d seemed a nice chap and genuinely concerned about the boy.
In the dim corridor she could hear the muffled noises of the hospital: the creak of the trolleys, the slamming of doors, hushed conversations, the hum of some machine or other and the occasional cry of pain. It was the backdrop to her life; she couldn’t imagine being without it.
Eventually Dr Walker and a grey-faced man in the smart double-breasted suit emerged from the private ward. Their faces were expressionless, but she knew what decision had been made.
Sister McAndrew stepped forward and smiled, using this as a prompt for the two men to pass on the information, to confirm her worst fears about Peter.
The grey-faced man who had been introduced to her briefly as Mr Stanley ignored her as though she didn’t register with him at all, but Dr Walker smiled at his colleague. He knew that she cared desperately about the boy and had formed a strong attachment to him. This, if anything, was the only weakness that Sister McAndrew had in her nursing duties. She cared too much. She lacked the ability to treat patients with kindness and attention while maintaining a distance. She became too much involved. Caring too much really was a weakness. It could only bring about greater stress and reduced efficiency. However, he mused, he supposed that it was better this way than the rather harsh and brusque nature of some of the older nurses who had been coaxed out of retirement to help during this time of war. They were martinets of the old school and if brow-beating a patient into health was a scientific technique, they were masters, or rather mistresses of it.
Walker returned McAndrew’s smile. ‘Well, Sister,’ he said kindly, ‘the boy has made a splendid recovery thanks, no doubt, to your ministrations. And so he’s ready to move on. Mr Stanley believes he can find a place for him at Moorfield House – that’s a boys’ home out Windsor way. Isn’t that right, Mr Stanley?’
The grey-faced man deigned to acknowledge this with a curt nod. ‘I see no point in delaying matters,’ he said, his voice strangely hollow and without character or inflection. ‘Obviously, the boy is hiding the truth about his background, but short of beating it out of him there’s no way we can discover more about his origins. If he says his parents are dead then we just have to accept that. I’m not going to sanction more time and effort in a futile attempt to investigate further. We have too many orphans to deal with as it is, without causing ourselves extra trouble for a snivelling little liar.’
Sister McAndrew flinched at Stanley’s description of Peter. The phrase seemed to sum up how far this man had hardened his heart to the tasks of dealing with orphans. She would have liked to have put the man right, telling him that Peter was a lovely boy but was damaged, disturbed by something in his past which haunted him and which he tried to blot out from his memory. He wasn’t ‘a snivelling little liar’ but a brave and frightened casualty of the terrible times they were living through. He needed kindness, attention and, above all, time to come to terms with a life without a mother or a father. He was not going to get that of course. He was to be bundled up and taken to Moorfield, an institution for pare
ntless children where the facilities of kindness, comforts and attention were in sparse supply. Whatever frying pan poor Peter had fallen out of, he was about to land in the fire.
‘I see. When is this to take place?’
Stanley sniffed. ‘As soon as possible. I will need to speak to the matron at Moorfield this evening to verify that we have a bed for the boy. Once that is settled, I can arrange for his transfer some time tomorrow. I’m sure, Doctor, that you’ll be pleased for this to happen as soon as possible. No doubt you’ll have sore need of the bed.…’
‘We certainly do,’ nodded Dr Walker.
‘Right, then, it’s settled. I’ll call first thing in the morning with details.’ Without a glance at Sister McAndrew, he turned and strode off down the corridor, his brightly polished shoes squeaking, almost as in protest.
Dr Walker sighed as he looked at the miserable features of Sister McAndrew. He touched her gently on the shoulder. ‘None of this, please,’ he said briskly. ‘We’ve done our bit. There are more casualties on the conveyor belt needing our attention.’
‘I know,’ she said softly. ‘I’ll just pop in to see if Peter wants anything, then I’ll get back to the ward.’
* * *
Peter was reading a comic when Sister McAndrew came into the room. He looked up eagerly with expectation, his pale shiny features spotlighted by the bedside lamp. He tried not to show his disappointment when he saw that she was his visitor.
‘I … I thought you might be Johnny. He said he’d come today. He was going to bring me a Tiger Blake comic.’
Sister McAndrew smiled in spite of herself. ‘Well, today’s not over with yet, I suppose. I’m sure he’s not forgotten. If he doesn’t get here today, no doubt he’ll be round to see you in the morning.’ She hoped so, or he’d miss the boy altogether before he was carted off to Moorfield House. She had rung John Hawke twice that afternoon when she knew that Mr Stanley was coming and all that his visit implied, but there was no reply.
‘You like Mr Hawke … Johnny … don’t you?’ she said, plumping up the boy’s pillows.
‘He’s … all right,’ answered Peter, with the shy reserve of the young. And then added, more naturally, ‘He makes me laugh.’
Sister McAndrew gave a weary smile. ‘Ah, that’s a rare gift these days.’
There was something about the nurse’s behaviour that suddenly worried Peter. Her tone, her stance were different somehow. Something had made her unhappy and she was trying to hide it.
‘Are they sending me away?’ he asked, with a sudden cold realization.
Peter’s face was pale and frightened. There was desperate hope and fear evident in his expression as he sat up in bed and grasped Sister McAndrew’s hand.
‘Ssh, now,’ she said gently. ‘There’s no need to fret. Everything’s going to be all right.’
Peter gasped and shook his head. ‘I don’t want to go away. I’m happy here.’
Sister McAndrew could not help but smile. ‘But you don’t want to live the rest of your life in a hospital, do you?’
‘Yes,’ he cried, tears welling up in his eyes.
‘Now that’s silly. You’re better now. They’ll find a nice place for you to stay where you can be looked after with children of your own age.’
‘A prison?’
Sister McAndrew ran her cool hand over the boy’s forehead. ‘No, of course not. Prison is a place for naughty people. You haven’t done anything wrong, have you?’
Peter shook his head, the terrible gravity of his situation slowly sinking in. He would be taken to a children’s home and his life would be over. He knew it. He had read of such places in his comics and they were prisons. He would be beaten and fed on bread and water. He bit his lip; he bit it hard to prevent further tears trickling down his cheek.
‘Are you sure Johnny … hasn’t been here today?’ he said eventually, when he felt he had his emotions under control.
‘Not yet, but I’m sure he wouldn’t deliberately let you down.’
This platitude cut no ice with Peter. He had been roughly handled most of his life. He had heard promises and excuses galore from his mother. He could sense a lie or a desperate cover up when he heard one. So, even Johnny, whom he was really beginning to like, had turned out just like the rest. This revelation hardened his heart and with a gesture of bravado, he wiped his tears away.
‘I’m tired,’ he said, softly. He wanted the nurse to go, to leave him to think things over. She was a nice lady but he knew that she could do nothing to help him.
Once again she ran her cool fingers across his brow. ‘Of course,’ she said in a cooing fashion. ‘You get a good night’s sleep. Everything will seem a lot better in the morning.’
He didn’t reply, but just snuggled further down under the covers. Already his eyelids were fluttering. Sister McAndrew leaned forward and planted a gentle kiss on his forehead. Her heart ached for the little boy and she cursed herself for being too sensitive.
As he she reached the door, she turned and saw that already Peter was fast asleep. For some reason a fragment of poetry floated into her mind – some lines of Shakespeare she had learned at school: sleep that knits up the ravelled sleeve of care. And so it does, she thought, but with morn’s early light the whole thing is unravelled again.
With a heavy heart, she closed the door.
Within seconds, Peter’s bright eyes were wide open. Silently, he slipped from the bed and opened the cabinet beside it, the one which contained his clothes.
twenty-nine
I had just positioned myself in the doorway almost adjacent to Epstein’s offices when I remembered.
Peter!
I was meant to visit Peter in the hospital and take him some comics. I muttered an oath under my breath. How could I have forgotten? I had been so wrapped up in my own concerns about Eve and the bloody Pammie Palmer case that I had let the matter of Peter slip my mind completely. I was disgusted with myself. I had betrayed his trust. I had let the lad down – like others in his past. Those who had driven him to roam the streets, sleeping in doorways and denying memories of any previous existence. I was no better than them.
I imagined Peter, sitting up in bed, his eyes trained on the door expecting a visit from his new friend clutching a whole batch of comics, including some Tiger Blake ones. Every time the door opened, his expectations would rise and then be dashed. And it was my fault. My failure. And I, above all, the miserable orphan with the one eye, should have known better – should have cared more.
I would have to get to the hospital as soon as I could tomorrow and hope that it wasn’t too late to repair the damaged emotional bridges. At the thought of my failings in this matter, I felt a heavy weight settle upon my senses. If any good was to come out of this whole wretched affair it would be the emotional rehabilitation of Peter and I had already thrown a spanner into the works. I cursed myself again.
It was around five o’clock and still raining. I huddled into my damp raincoat and lit a cigarette. Across the road I observed the lights go on in the Epstein offices. I could see thin streaks of illumination visible at the edge of the blackout curtains. If the ARP warden had seen those, there’d be trouble.
It had been agreed with Epstein that after Eve and Dawn had left the premises for the evening, he would stay on for another fifteen minutes before locking up. It was then my job to tail him while he went for a meal and took a trip to the cinema before going home. All this in the expectation that the murderer would at some point have a go at him. It was my job to see that he didn’t succeed.
I was well aware that this wasn’t a foolproof plan but it should – I hoped – bring about a swift conclusion to the case. It should. But then again, this particular mongrel could be baying against the incorrect arboreal growth.
Just after 5.30, Eve and Dawn appeared on the street. They chatted for a while sheltering from the rain under a shop awning and then they went their separate ways. Eve, her face drawn and miserable, walked past me on the other
side of the street, oblivious of my presence in the doorway. Her shoulders were hunched against the rain and her whole demeanour was one of misery as though she was withdrawing into herself. No doubt she wasn’t relishing the thought of telling her husband what had happened today and how he had little choice but to give himself up and return to his regiment.
With a sharp click, clack of her heels on the wet pavement, she disappeared down the street and out of sight. I wanted to go after her, kiss her and give her all the support that I could. But it wasn’t possible. It wouldn’t be right. And I had a job to do.
As the clock ticked on, both the traffic and pedestrians diminished. By 6.00, all the shops had closed down and the street was almost deserted. There was no sign of Leo Epstein. The thin shafts of light at the windows of his office told me that he was still there. Or to be precise, that someone was there. Then another thought struck me: all it meant was that the lights were on.
I began to grow uneasy.
By 6.30, I knew it was time for some action. Checking carefully that there were no suspicious loiterers abroad, I left my hiding place and crossed the road. The office door of Leo Epstein was locked of course, but with my trusty strand of wire and a steady hand, I soon had it open. I let myself in and with a pocket torch in one hand and my old revolver in the other I made my way up the darkened stairway. At the top there was another locked door. I rapped on the glass panel and called out.
‘Hello,’ I cried.
There was no reply.
A combination of irritation and concern prompted me to smash the glass panel in the door with the butt of my revolver. This allowed me to see into the empty illuminated office beyond, but the recalcitrant door remained locked.
I called out again. ‘Epstein?’ My cry was swallowed up by the shelves of dusty legal papers.
And there was still no reply.
I was too concerned at this unexpected turn of events and too impatient to use my wire to tackle the lock so I used another less sophisticated technique to open the door: my right shoulder and brute force. With a sudden crack, the door swung wide. I stood for a moment on the threshold and waited to see if the noise had roused anyone. It didn’t; the office was as silent as the grave.
Forests of the Night Page 16
