With a wide grin, Peter snuggled down under the covers willing sleep to come and carry him away, for tomorrow he would make his escape.
THREE
I slept badly that night, my slumbers punctuated by dreams about giant heels invading London. They clomped heavily down the Strand on their way to Trafalgar Square. These visions were interrupted from time to time by the face of Walter Riley, heavily made-up as his alter ego Wilma, floating towards me in the darkness, his red lipsticked mouth agape in a silent scream. Eventually I woke around six o’clock, bathed in sweat, knowing that it was pointless trying to get back to sleep.
I made myself a cup of tea and sat hunched over the gas fire smoking my first cigarette of the day, waiting for the dawn light to force its way around the crimped edges of my blackout curtains. I was surprised how depressed I felt. I had only known Walter Riley a few hours and yet I felt terribly sad about his death – his murder. I smiled wryly at my use of the word ‘known’. Of course I hadn’t known the man, but I had become party to his secret, a secret that he had only shared with a few. Even his wife did not know of his hidden passion. He had struck me as a decent chap and there were already too many decent chaps losing their lives in this bloody war. To become the victim of a fatal handbag snatch seemed unnecessarily cruel. God had a lot to answer for.
After covering Riley’s body with my coat, I had called the police from a nearby telephone box and waited for them to arrive. I gave a statement to an Inspector Barraclough, a middle-aged stoical copper of the old school, who, from his appearance, looked as though he’d long passed the age of retirement – but then no one retires now there’s a war on. I had never encountered him before, but he approached the situation in a calm, business-like manner. He hadn’t raised an eyebrow when he discovered the corpse was a man dressed up as a woman.
‘Takes all sorts, I suppose,’ he said, lifting Riley’s wig away from his head. ‘We’ve had a spate of handbag snatches in the last month. It’s been like a craze that’s caught on. It started slowly and now it seems every little slimy spiv is having a crack at it. It’s the blackout. It makes it so easy for ‘em.’ He tipped his hat back and sniffed. ‘Still, this is the first time someone’s been killed in the process. That puts it in a different league.’
Unfortunately, I couldn’t give any useful details about the appearance of the killer. I had been too far away and it had been too dark for me to see him clearly. I just knew that he was of a stocky build and about average height – like half of the men in London.
‘Can you keep the unusual nature of the victim’s attire out of the press report?’ I asked with some delicacy and went on to explain my connection with the dead man. I wanted Riley to retain some dignity at the end of his life.
Barraclough nodded. ‘There’s nothing to be gained by titillating the readers with the poor bastard’s private quirks. Obviously his wife will have to be informed.’
I grimaced at the thought. How would hard-hearted Sandra react? I believed I could guess. ‘I’ll leave that little task to the official police, if you don’t mind,’ I said, affecting a shy smile.
I treated myself to another cup of tea and a slice of toast before I set about my morning ablutions. It was just after eight o’clock when I was ready to face the day. I wandered into my office and checked the appointment book. As I suspected, the page was blank. Another day of crosswords and thumb-twiddling lay ahead while I waited to see if the doorbell or the telephone would ring, heralding a client with a nice juicy, lucrative case. Not a likely prospect but one had to live in hope.
As things turned out, I did not have to wait long for the thick metal clatter of my doorbell. It was not, however, the precursor of a client or a case; it just announced the arrival of my old mate Detective Inspector David Llewellyn of Scotland Yard. He didn’t even wait for me to answer the door. He just barged in, flung his hat on my desk and sat in the chair opposite me.
‘I hear you’ve been keeping company with strange lady friends,’ he said, unable to keep the merriment out of his voice.
‘News travels fast at the Yard.’
‘News like that has got bloody roller skates on.’
‘Mr Riley was a client.’
‘Oh, Mr Riley was it? I heard different.’ David smirked one of his annoying smirks.
‘I suppose you have a reason to call on me so bright and early, Inspector,’ I said wearily, ignoring his levity.
‘Well, if you could rustle up a cup of char that would be a start. Unless, of course, you’re busy …’ he said pointedly, running his finger in the dust on my desk.
‘You’ll have to do with black coffee. I’m out of milk.’
He pulled a face. ‘I suppose so …’
I went through to the kitchen and made the coffee. On my return, David had slipped off his overcoat and was smoking a cigarette. I plonked the mug down by his elbow.
‘That’s great, man. You don’t have a digestive biscuit or a fig roll to go with it do you?’
‘The sign outside says Hawke Investigations not the Cosy Café.’
‘Touchy this morning, aren’t we?’
‘Much as I’m pleased to see your wrinkled Welsh face, I presume you have a reason for this visit.’
David sipped his coffee and gave a sharp intake of breath. ‘Boy, that’s hot,’ he said. ‘Purpose, yes. It’s about your lady friend, Mr Walter Riley. As it’s really no longer a case of handbag snatching but one of murder, it’s landed on my desk.’
‘Good for you.’
‘I just thought I’d pop round and have a chat with you. I’ve read your statement but I wondered if you could talk me through the business again. I want to try and determine whether this was a casual killing or a premeditated murder.’
‘Well, there was nothing casual about the killing, but for my money Mr Riley just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time—’
‘And in the wrong frock, eh? Tell me about it.’
I did as David requested, giving him a full blown detailed account from the capital letter to the full stop. When I’d finished, he remained silent for a few moments, stroking his chin.
‘Poor bugger,’ he said at last. His demeanour was now more sober and the wry amusement regarding Riley’s murder had evaporated.
‘Exactly.’
‘And you really can’t give me any more detail about the bastard who did this?’
I shook my head. ‘I wish I could. It happened so quickly and it was dark.’
‘What about the car? Number plate?’
‘It was a Wolseley. Number plate, no.’
‘Oh Johnny. And you call yourself a detective.’
‘There’s no need to rub it in. I feel bad enough about it already.’
David ruffled his thinning blond hair. ‘I’m only joshing, boyo. You know me.’
‘Yeah.’
There was an awkward silence and then suddenly David gave a deep sigh and galvanized himself into action. He took a final swig of his coffee before grabbing his coat and hat and heading for the door. ‘Well, I’d better get back to the Yard and start banging my head against a brick wall. A random killing with no clues. Where the hell does one start? Man, I hate days like these.’
‘Let me know if I can help in any way. I’d really like to be a party to nailing the vermin who did this.’
‘I’ll keep you informed. Perhaps we can have a pint in the Guardsman one lunchtime later in the week. In the meantime if you remember anything else about the shooting that might help …’
I nodded.
‘Thanks for the coffee. Get some biscuits in next time, eh?’
With a friendly wave, he was gone. I sipped my coffee and felt glum. It wasn’t only David who hated days like these.
FOUR
Mrs Booth observed that Peter was much more cheerful the following morning. It wasn’t anything he said – indeed he said little – but it was in his brisk and easy manner as he attacked his breakfast. His eyes were brighter and the soulful dispo
sition that had held him in an emotional strait jacket the previous evening seemed to have vanished overnight. She was glad about this and determined not to question him any further about his lateness and the loss of his coat. She guessed something unpleasant had happened to him and no doubt it would take a team of wild horses to drag the truth out of him. He wasn’t a bad lad and she was quite fond of him despite the fact that although he’d been staying with them for some months now she had not been able to get close to him. Their relationship still bordered on the polite and the formal. There was an invisible barrier around Peter. He allowed you to get only so near. It was as though, she thought, he was afraid of trusting anyone for fear of getting hurt.
Ever since losing her own son to diphtheria many years ago, Rose Booth had given up the idea of having children – a child about the house again. The idea was too painful. The ghost of her own little boy, Robert, still haunted the place. She caught sight and sometimes the smell of him from time to time and her heart ached.
It was because of this that she had resisted the idea of taking on an evacuee when the war started and the youngsters came down to Devon in their droves, but when her sister had asked her to look after Peter, she reconsidered the situation. Perhaps having a boy in her home would be good, not just for her but for Arthur as well. He had not been keen and had also resisted but she had talked him round. Reluctantly he agreed. Arthur had never lost the anger he felt over the death of their son and having Peter in the house opened the wound further. He kept away from the boy and was surly with him purely because he saw the slight pale London lad as someone who was trying to take the place of his Robert.
At first Rose Booth was enthusiastic and optimistic, but Peter’s quiet withdrawn ways had merely reawakened painful memories and reminded her that she was much older now and past the mothering stage. She was discomforted by his presence and she felt guilty that she couldn’t be more for the boy than a glorified landlady.
As Peter cleared his plate, she felt the urge to ruffle his hair in an affectionate gesture, but she resisted it. It just didn’t seem right to her and she knew the lad would stiffen and feel awkward at such an open show of emotion.
Breakfast over, Peter went upstairs ostensibly to clean his teeth and have a wee before setting off for school. However, after his ablutions, he stole into his bedroom and from under the bed he retrieved the small suitcase that he had packed in the middle of the night. It contained some of his clothes and a few of his favourite comics. Opening the bedroom window, he leaned out and carefully dropped the suitcase so that it landed safely in the branches of a bush below him. It was just the sort of trick that his hero Tiger Blake would perform when he was making one of his many escapes.
Returning down stairs with his little school satchel, he discovered Mrs Booth in the hall. She held out a rather shabby and worn little raincoat. It was the one that Peter had arrived in.
‘I’m afraid you’re going to have to wear this for the time being,’ she said, trying to affect a smile. ‘It’ll be a while before we’re in a position to get you a new one.’
Peter felt a deep pang of guilt. ‘That’s OK,’ said Peter, returning the half smile sheepishly. He was sorry to be deceiving Mrs Booth. He knew she was a good woman. Kind and caring. He was also aware that it was as much his fault that he wasn’t happy here.
She helped him on with the coat and then unexpectedly gave him a hug. ‘You be a good boy at school today, eh,’ she said planting a kiss on his cheek. She had never done that before and Peter felt a lump forming in his throat. It was as if she knew he was leaving for good. Momentarily incapable of speech, he nodded and headed for the door. Just before closing it he turned and smiled at her.
‘Bye,’ he said.
Once outside, Peter raced to the side of the house, retrieved his suitcase from the straggly bush, replacing it with his satchel. He wouldn’t be needing that now.
Then he set off at a brisk pace down the lane that would lead him to the bus stop. He was taking his first step for London.
And Freedom.
And Johnny.
FIVE
‘Like a fag?’
Rachel Howells looked up from the contemplation of her empty tea cup. Standing over her was a young man with a cheeky grin, a pug nose and piercing blue eyes. His hat was pushed to the back of his head so that his Brylcreemed quiff escaped over his forehead like a set of greasy clockwork springs. In his hand was an open packet of Senior Service. She eyed it cautiously.
‘Go on,’ he said cheerily, holding the cigarettes under her nose. ‘Take one. They won’t bite. And neither will I.’
‘Ta.’
‘S’all right. My pleasure.’ He pulled a chair up to her table and slipping a lighter from his pocket lit her cigarette. ‘Looks like you could do with another cup of tea an’ all.’
She said nothing but gazed at the young man shyly from under hooded eyes and gave a winsome smile.
‘Hang on,’ he said, jumping up and heading for the counter. He returned a few minutes later with two cups of tea.
‘There you go, girl. Get that down you.’ He grinned as he placed the tea by her elbow.
‘That’s kind,’ she said quietly, stubbing out the half-smoked cigarette. ‘Why are you doing this? You don’t know me.’
‘Nah’, he said, leaning forward and winking at her. ‘But I’d like to. When I sees a pretty girl all alone in a milk bar staring into space, I reckon she’s in need of a friend. And I think, well, maybe I could be that friend.’
Harryboy lounged back in his chair eyeing the girl up with all the confidence in the world. She was quite tall with mousy brown hair and a diffident manner which marked her out as an easy target. She was a bit on the plump side but quite a looker. Good figure with nice breasts swelling beneath her tight woollen frock. He didn’t half fancy prising those juicy thighs apart for a bit of the other. He’d been watching her for a while. As soon as he had spotted the battered brown suitcase stowed beneath her chair he reckoned this was a naïve piece of skirt up from the country somewhere needing a little bit of help and human succour. And he reckoned he was just the man for the job.
‘Harryboy Jenkins is the name. What’s yours?’
‘I’m Rachel. Rachel Howells.’
‘Nice name. Nice accent. You’re not from London, are you?’
She shook her head. ‘I’ve never been here before. I just arrived.’
‘Where you from, Rachel Howells? Edinburgh, eh?’
She laughed at his joke and gave him a gentle slap on the arm. ‘Course not, you idiot,’ she grinned. ‘I’m from Wales. A town called Mumbles.’
‘Blimey, that sounds a rum place.’
‘It’s a dull place.’ The smile faded. She hadn’t wanted to be reminded of home just now. A few lonely hours in London had dented her confidence and she had just begun to wonder if she had done the right thing in leaving.
‘So you’ve come up to the metrops to see a bit of life, ‘ave yer?’
She lowered her head. ‘You could say that.’
‘Yeah, well, that’s why I’m here too. Life’s too short not to have fun, ain’t it? Especially with this war on. Never know when the bleedin’ Nazis’ll be knocking at your door ready to cart you off to one of them concentration camps. So I says, have a laugh while you can. That’s my motto. What d’you say?’
She gazed at him with a kind of simple admiration. He oozed confidence and self-assurance and she liked that. ‘I reckon you’re right.’
‘ ’Course I am. Only a fool has regrets. You takes your chances while you can. So, now you’re here in London, might as well enjoy it, eh?’
Rachel grinned and nodded. She felt her spirits reviving.
‘That’s the ticket. Well, if you’ve nothing on today I reckon we could have a good time together. You and me. Y’know, see a few sights. Have a bite to eat. My treat. What d’you say?’
‘Oh, I don’t know.’ Her voice was hesitant but Harryboy could see that her eyes told a different
story.
‘Come on, gel. As I say, you only live once. I’m a harmless bloke. You’ll be safe with me. Honest.’ A sudden thought struck him and he pulled out his wallet and spread it open on the table. It was bulging with notes. ‘See there, Rachel Howells, I’ve more than enough money for both of us.’
Her eyes widened with surprise as she gazed at the contents of the wallet. She had never seen such a large amount of cash before. ‘Is that yours?’
‘Well, it’s not bleeding Churchill’s, is it? ‘Course it’s mine,’ he added proudly, stowing the wallet back in his jacket. ‘I’m not just a pretty face, yer know.’
‘Not backward in coming forward either are you, Harryboy?’
‘I fancy coming forward with you,’ He leaned closer as though he was going to kiss her, but he stroked her cheek gently instead. ‘So, my gel, what d’you say?’
‘OK, then.’ She smiled shyly. ‘But I hope you don’t think I’m a cheap pick-up.’
Harryboy pulled a long face, adopting a hurt expression. ‘Do I look like the kind of bloke who goes in for cheap pick-ups? I ask you.’
Her smile broadened. ‘No, I suppose not.’
‘Right then. Drink up and I’ll show you some of the sights of London.’
Rachel Howells did as she was told.
The pattern had been set.
As it turned out, Harryboy never quite showed Rachel the sights of the wounded city. He had never intended to. He was more interested in getting the girl back to his hotel room for a bit of how’s your father which he managed to do quite easily without raising a sweat.
This gullible country mouse was no match for him. Two hours later little Rachel Howells was spread on her back on the bed in his hotel room, stark naked while Harryboy laboured over her, thrusting himself deep into her plump willing body. Now he was raising a sweat.
Without Conscience Page 3
