I was wrong. It was very thorough. There was nothing I could find which would help me trace the killer in any way. I searched through the drawers, the clothes – a strange mix of dresses and men’s suits – Amanda’s handbags, anything that may contain some clue. I drew a blank.
Then an idea struck me. Where did Amanda keep her private information? I thought back to our conversation in The Loophole Club the previous day. When I had given her my card. Where did she put it for safe keeping? Not in her handbag. No. She slipped it discreetly inside her brassiere.
I gulped and stared at the cold corpse sitting on the settee with the wild staring eyes and errant tongue. My blood ran cold. And then my eyes focused on the cream blouse she was wearing and the swell of her chest where her artificial breasts pressed against the material producing a convincing feminine curve.
The thought of unbuttoning the blouse and feeling inside the dead body of a transvestite was not only bizarre in the extreme but it made me feel rather queasy. There was something of the necrophiliac about it.
But I had to do it.
Thank God, no one could see me – otherwise I would be locked up in a pervert’s prison for life.
With nervous fingers, I unbuttoned Amanda’s blouse, while avoiding looking at her wide terrified eyes. As I pulled back the blouse to expose her brassiere, the action caused Amanda’s body to slide sideways and fall onto the arm of the sofa.
I pulled back in shock. It was as though Amanda was objecting to such personal interference.
I stared at the frozen figure for a moment and then with the admonishing utterance, ‘Get a grip, Johnny!’ I resumed my task.
Slowly, I slipped my hand into the left hand cup of her brassiere. It was a strange sensation. At first my fingers came into contact with some material which I took to be a kind of sponge and then I felt a piece of paper. My heart gave a leap and a sly grin fought its way onto my lips. I extracted the paper and standing back from the dead body I examined it.
The sheet which had been torn from a small notebook, was folded in two. I opened it out and written there in neat handwriting was an address. I could only hope that this address would lead me to the murderer.
TWENTY
Peter had run out of money. He sat hunched up on a ramshackle bench, one of those that still remained along the Embankment, staring miserably into space. He wanted to cry but he couldn’t. He had tried to cry, thinking that the tears would ease his distress but they would not come. It was as though they had dried up within him.
He didn’t know what to do. He was beginning to wish that he hadn’t left Devon, hadn’t come to London and hadn’t trusted Johnny. It had all been a big mistake. But he knew he couldn’t go back. Not now. The previous night he had slept under one of the bridges, but it had been cold and uncomfortable and there had been rats. At one point he had woken from his uneasy slumbers to find one of the filthy creatures scampering over him, so close to his face that he could see its beady eyes. He shuddered at the thought.
He had spent his last few coppers on a cup of tea from a tea stall further down the Embankment. The man running the stall had taken pity on the bedraggled youth and given him one of the previous day’s left-over cakes. ‘It’s a bit dry, but if you dip it in your tea, it’ll taste fine,’ he’d said. Peter had taken his advice and indeed the cake did taste good.
One thought that was edging its way into his mind, and one that he was trying desperately to ignore, was the realization that there were only two options open to him now. He could give himself up – find a policeman and tell him the whole story. Then he’d be carted off to an orphanage somewhere. Or he would have to steal. If he didn’t, he’d starve. He really didn’t want to become a criminal but the alternative was far worse. If only he was grown up, he could get a job and earn some money and look after himself. As this thought passed through his mind, it prompted another. Perhaps he could earn money by washing-up. He quite enjoyed it when he was at Benny’s place. The thought of Benny sent a cold nostalgic shiver down his spine. For a brief time – having his breakfast with Johnny in the little café and helping out in the kitchen – he had been the happiest he had ever been. Why had it to end so suddenly? Now he found himself crying. The tears had crept up on him unawares and they rolled down his cheeks leaving clean tram lines on his otherwise grimy countenance.
He sniffed and wiped his face with his sleeve and forced his mind to go back to his idea. Perhaps the nice man at the tea stall would pay him to wash up for him. That would get him enough cash to buy food at least. A phrase that Mr Booth was often repeating about the house came into his mind: ‘beggars can’t be choosers’. Peter hadn’t quite understood it at first but now he saw the sense of it. In essence he was a beggar and he didn’t have much choice – he couldn’t be a chooser. That’s how he saw it anyway.
Well, he’d give it a try. The chap could only say no. Even if he refused, he might feel sorry for Peter and give him another of his stale cakes as a kind of compensation. With brisk determination, Peter wiped the last of the tears away and retraced his steps along the Embankment until he reached the tea stall. It was doing a brisk trade and Peter hung back until there was a lull. Tentatively he approached the counter. The owner didn’t see him at first and Peter had to attract his attention by manufacturing a little cough.
‘Hello again,’ the man said, a faint smile on his lips. ‘You going to be a regular?’
‘I’ve come for a job,’ said Peter.
The man laughed. ‘Have you now.’
‘I’m very good at washing-up. Please let me do your washing-up.’
Suddenly the man’s expression grew serious. The boy really meant it. This was no childish joke.
‘I don’t need no one, son,’ he replied, after some thought. He gazed down at the scruffy scrap of humanity and saw that he had been crying. He felt sorry for the lad. It was clear that he was a runaway of sorts and in sore need of help. ‘I does me own washing-up.’ He was about to add that he hardly scraped a living for himself from the tea bar as it was and that he couldn’t afford to take on any help but he couldn’t bear to verbalize such a depressing thought.
‘Oh, please,’ said Peter. ‘I’d work hard and you wouldn’t have to pay me much.’
The man scratched his chin and gave the situation some thought. Eventually he nodded his head. ‘Tell you what, I’ll give you a trial. Thruppence an hour and see how you get on.’
Peter beamed. ‘That’s great. I won’t let you down.’
‘Come round the back and I’ll let you in. You can make a start right away.’
Peter scampered around to the back of the stall where his new employer admitted him into the cramped interior. Within minutes he had a tea towel around his waist and was dipping numerous pots and plates in lukewarm sudsy water, a smile on his lips.
As the tea-time trade faltered and dwindled, it came time to shut the stall up for the day. The owner, who had told Peter to call him ‘Dave’ handed over the requisite number of coins for Peter’s services. ‘There’s yer wages. You done well, lad,’ he said.
‘Can I come tomorrow?’
Dave sighed. ‘The truth is I can’t really afford to keep you on full time. I barely make enough for meself, let alone payin’ out wages.’
Peter’s face fell. Another disappointment just when things seemed to be looking up.
‘Let’s say I give you a couple more days’ work and then I reckon you gotta move on.’
It was something of a reprieve and Peter nodded his acceptance with good grace.
‘Righto. Now we start early in this establishment. I’ll need you here by six thirty in the mornin’. Do you think you can cope with that?’
Again Peter nodded.
‘Good lad. See you then, eh?’
Peter pocketed the coins and slipped on his coat. ‘Thank you, Dave. See you tomorrow.’
‘Six-thirty sharp,’ said Dave, holding the door of the stall open.
Taking this as his cue to leave, Peter
made a swift exit. Dave watched him as he disappeared into the gloom of the night. He felt sure the boy would turn up the next day. He had to if Dave’s plan was to work.
TWENTY - ONE
Another day. Another hotel room.
Rachel pulled back the net curtain and stared down at the dingy side street. Across the way workmen were busy demolishing the shell of a row of bombed premises. The masonry wavered briefly before crumbling and crashing thunderously into the cavern that had once been the heart of the building. But the noise and the rising clouds of dust and debris failed to impinge themselves on Rachel’s consciousness. Her mind was elsewhere, dwelling on her own dilemma – her own crumbling fortunes. Strangely, although she still had the ache of fear deep within her, the fear of Harryboy and her enslavement to him, she was also bored. Was this how her life would pan out now? She was caught on the grim conveyor belt of long time-wasting hours until the evening before they could commit some crime that would enable them to eat well and move on to another hotel.
Harryboy was lying on the bed smoking and reading the newspaper. For the moment he seemed content and that offered Rachel some respite at least. Nevertheless she was very unhappy. She leaned her forehead against the cool glass of the window and sighed.
Harryboy’s antennae came into play. He looked up from his paper and an unpleasant frown manifested itself on his forehead as he turned his gaze on Rachel.
‘What’s wrong with you?’ he snapped, stubbing out his cigarette in the ashtray on the bedside table with some petulance. ‘Pining after your boyfriend?’
‘Boyfriend! I–I don’t know what you mean? What boyfriend?’ She was genuinely puzzled by this outburst. She’d never mentioned Will to him. He belonged to her old life in Mumbles.
Harryboy cast aside the paper with an angry gesture. ‘Don’t give me that. Do you think I’m stupid? D’you think I’m blind?’
Rachel shook her head in confusion. ‘Honestly, I don’t know what you’re on about.’
‘So you do think I’m stupid.’
‘’Course not,’ she replied quickly, her heartbeat quickening. She recognized that aggressive, whining tone of voice and what it signalled. Was he trying to pick a phantom quarrel so he had an excuse to beat her up again? Please, God, no.
‘I have no boyfriend but you. You know that,’ she added, hoping that affirmation would quell Harryboy’s growing annoyance.
‘What about the one-eyed bloke in the café this morning? I saw you chatting with him. Smiling and simpering. Nothing gets past old Harryboy you know. I’ve got the two eyes.’
‘I don’t know the man. He … he just came over to the table.’
‘What did he want? Was he trying to pick you up?’
‘No. No, he … he.…’
‘Yes? What did the bastard want?’ Harryboy was shouting now, his eyes wide with fury. Rachel realized that this outburst had been building ever since he’d seen the detective chap come to their table. Harryboy had probably been concocting wild stories in his head about what really happened, his anger festering and growing all the while.
‘I’ve never seen the man before. He was a stranger.’
‘But you took a shine to him though, didn’t you? I saw your smile.’
‘I was being polite. He … he just asked if I’d got a light. I just smiled politely. What else could I do? We don’t want to draw attention to ourselves, do we?’
‘He wanted a light, did he?’
‘Yes.’
‘Liar! He wanted you. He tried to pick you up. My girl! And you smiled at him. Smiled at him like you were easy meat. Just like you smiled at me the day I picked you up.’
Rachel shook her head. ‘No, no. You’ve got it all wrong. It was out of politeness. I smiled out of politeness. He means nothing to me.’
Harryboy was off the bed now and advancing on her, a thin sheen of sweat glistening on his furrowed brow. The long slow fuse had reached its target. Now it was about to explode.
Rachel cringed and cowered before him, knowing what to expect.
‘You’re nothing but a cheap tart,’ he bellowed, his face contorted like a furious gargoyle. He raised his fist ready to strike.
It was then that something snapped inside Rachel. No one had ever called her that before. She knew she wasn’t a cheap tart. She had more self respect and dignity. Emboldened by this certainty, she stood up and faced him.
‘I am not a cheap tart,’ she said quietly emphasizing each word with firmness.
Harryboy sneered. ‘Yes, you are.’ And he hit her across the face with the back of his hand. Fireworks exploded before her eyes and she stumbled backwards, just managing to keep her balance by grasping hold of the chest of drawers. From the corner of her eye she spied a small glass ashtray on the chest. Instinctively and with great speed she snatched it up, swung round and brought it crashing down towards Harryboy’s head.
He dodged sideways to avoid the blow but he wasn’t quick enough and it struck him on his right temple. He staggered back on to the bed with a cry, a thin red rivulet of blood trickling down his brow. Harryboy was in a kind of double shock. He never expected the silly bitch to retaliate and he never expected to be wounded. Gingerly he sought out the cut with his fingers. When he examined them and saw the blood glistening there, his rage increased. He jumped from the bed and hurled himself at Rachel. This time he wasn’t going to beat her senseless: this time he was going to kill her.
A strange calming coolness had now settled on Rachel and she was able to anticipate Harryboy’s clumsy actions. With ease she managed to dodge him as he blundered towards her, lashing out once more with the glass ashtray as she did so. This time she caught him on the side of his head. The ashtray thudded against his ear. He gave a yelp of pain and dropped to his knees, clasping his hand to the wounded area. She slid by him and made her way to the door. Harryboy’s jacket was hanging on a hook there. An idea flashed fiercely into her mind. With grim determination, she grabbed it, reached inside and pulled out his gun. It felt heavy in her hands, but, as she gripped it tightly, pressing the cold metal against the skin of her palm, she smiled, and her eyes lit up with excitement. It felt good to hold. And it gave her the upper hand.
By now, Harryboy was on his feet again. At first he did not notice that Rachel had his gun. He moved sluggishly towards her, breathing heavily, his anger now at eruption level. And then he saw the glint of metal in her hand and he stopped in his tracks.
‘Get away from me,’ Rachel said. On the surface her tone was measured, calm and unemotional, but inside she was sick and frightened. Here she was holding a loaded weapon and, God help her, prepared to fire it if necessary. She suddenly realized how far she had strayed from the innocent girl she had been only a few days before. Now she was tainted and this monster standing before her was responsible.
Harryboy responded with a nervous laugh. ‘What d’you think you’re going to do with that, eh?’
‘I’m going to shoot you, if you come any nearer.’
Harryboy laughed again, but it was unconvincing merriment. Rachel could see the uncertainty and indeed the fear in his eyes. The crazy tart might just be telling the truth.
‘Don’t be a fool, baby. You don’t want to kill me. OK so I was a bit rough on you, but that’s no reason to … behave like this. Come on put the gun down. We can sort this out …’
He took a step nearer to her.
She flinched but did not step back. Instead she thrust the gun towards him in a threatening manner.
‘I warned you,’ she said firmly, but Harryboy could see that her hand was shaking now.
It’s all show, a little voice in his head advised him. The silly cow wouldn’t dare pull the trigger. Look how terrified she is. Already her bravado is ebbing away. Go get her, Harryboy. Take her and then teach her a lesson that she’ll never forget.
He did as the voice told him. He rushed at Rachel, his arms outstretched to grab the gun. But before he could reach her, she fired the pistol. There was a sharp crack
like the snapping of a piece of wood and then he felt a searing pain in his left arm. He found himself flung backwards onto the bed again with blood pouring from the wound in his left upper arm. In reality, the bullet had only nicked the flesh and had ended up lodged in the padded headboard. But Harryboy didn’t know this. He believed he had been seriously wounded. The thought of this and the severe pain he felt prompted him to retch at first and then the dark clouds of unconsciousness rolled in swiftly and invaded his senses. He fell back on the bed in a dead faint.
The room thundered with the noise of the demolition work across the street, the noise pounding in Rachel’s brain. She didn’t move for some seconds. She couldn’t. The enormity of what she had done rooted her to the spot. She thought that she had killed Harryboy. She stared with horror at his inert body lying on the bed.
What had she done?
Tears sprang to her eyes, but they were not tears of sorrow for the man on the bed, but for herself. Oh, how far she had travelled down the dark corridor of immorality and corruption. Now she was a murderess.
She dropped the gun with a short disgusted cry as though it had suddenly caught fire in her hand.
Her thoughts now focused on escape. She must get out of there. As far away as possible. She dragged her coat from the chair beside the bed, snatched up her bag and headed for the door. As she did so, Harryboy groaned and shifted his position on the bed. She glanced back at him and to her surprise saw that his chest was rising and falling in a slow regular motion. So he wasn’t dead after all. This realization brought mixed emotions. She was glad that she hadn’t committed murder but she was sorry that the rotten bastard was still alive.
Suddenly, another thought struck her. She retrieved Harryboy’s jacket from the floor where she’d dropped it and extracting his wallet from the inside pocket, she scooped out all the cash and thrust it into her bag.
‘You owe me, you bastard,’ she said, addressing the comatose Harryboy, who lay there, bleeding quietly.
Without Conscience Page 14
