Placing myself directly behind the door, I waited. I was sure that old White Rabbit would have seen me come in. I just hoped he would behave as I expected him to.
Thank the Lord he did.
I could hear his laboured breathing before I caught sight of him through a narrow crack in the door. He was still limping and his face was wet with perspiration. Gingerly he touched the door, pressing it open a little further and then he stepped forward, standing on the threshold, his gun pointing into the darkness.
Now it was my time to act. With all my might, I hurled my weight against my side of the door, forcing it to slam shut or as shut as it could do with a short man standing in the way.
The door hit France head on. I heard a cry and a gunshot and through the crack I caught a glimpse of him as he fell backward, landing flat on the ground. Pushing the door open with my foot, I ran outside, ready to kick the living daylights out of my captor, but he lay still on the ground, not moving a muscle. At first I thought he must have hit his head on a stone or something very hard and was concussed. But that wasn’t the case. As I knelt down beside him, I could see a dark shiny wet patch on his overcoat around the midriff. And it was spreading. Then I noticed his right hand, the one holding the gun. It was twisted inwards, the barrel of the gun pointing towards the spreading stain. I had caused the man to shoot himself. The force of the door hitting him must have snapped his hand back against his stomach as he pulled the trigger.
Indirectly I had been responsible for his death, but I reckon I wasn’t going to lose much sleep about it.
As a frosty October dawn made its presence felt over London, an orange sun slowly rising over the bomb-damaged contours of the city, I was sitting in the office of Detective Inspector David Llewellyn at Scotland Yard telling him of my night’s adventures. Cradling a mug of hot coffee in my hand, I gave him a full account of the Walter Riley case, even including my frantic attempts to cut my bonds after Bernard France had shot himself. I had in fact found an old oil drum and by rubbing the rope against a rusty jagged lip, I managed to fray it sufficiently for me to slip free. The whole arm-aching procedure took about twenty minutes – far longer than it does for those tough guys in the movies.
After that I had scooped up France’s body and placed it in the back of the Wolseley and driven to Scotland Yard where I waited for David to arrive. He had been dragged from his bed a couple of hours earlier than usual because of me and he wasn’t in the best of humours.
‘In essence, Bernard France confessed to two murders: Walter Riley and the person you call Amanda,’ said David, jotting down the information in his notepad.
I nodded. ‘I don’t know her real name.’
‘Don’t you mean his real name? He is a bloke, isn’t he?’
‘If you say so.’
‘What I don’t get,’ said David, running his hand through his hair, ‘is Sir Robert Gervais’ actual involvement.’
I shook my head. ‘I don’t pretend to fully understand the relationship here but France was much more than Sir Robert’s secretary. He was his self-appointed protector …’
‘His lover?’
I shrugged. ‘Possibly. He obviously loved Gervais. He killed for him.’
‘To protect his secret: that he likes dressing up in women’s clothing.’
‘He lives dangerously for such a prominent person, visiting The Loophole Club on a regular basis, dressed as Helen. Discovery of his unusual proclivity—’
‘His perversion, more like.’
‘Discovery would bring scandal to anyone, but to a fellow in such a privileged and important position as Sir Robert it would destroy him. He had a bolthole in Kensington, a flat in Studely Mansions; he rented it under the name of Webster. He shared it at times with France. This was where he keeps his dresses.’
David pulled a sour face. ‘Do you think that he sanctioned these murders, or did France act off his own bat?’
‘Well, old Sir Bobby was fairly well involved in trying to do away with me. Whether he would have pulled the trigger … I don’t know. In essence, he was just being the delivery boy: passing me on to his guardian angel. I think he relied on France to keep his life clean and simple and free from unpleasant ripples, rather like employing a homicidal butler. However, I don’t think he would ever give the precise instruction for someone to be killed. He didn’t have to. France knew instinctively what to do.’
David gave a tight grin. ‘It’s all rather bizarre, boyo. I feel a little out of my depth here. I have no trouble with the straightforward murder merchant, but men who dress up as women and use their lovers to kill for them …’ He shook his head in despair. ‘This bloody war.’
‘I don’t think this is something you can blame on old Adolf Hitler. I reckon you’ll find this sort of thing has gone on through the ages.’
‘Not in Wales, it hasn’t!’
David was only half in jest and I smiled indulgently.
‘What now?’
‘You’ll need to make a statement for us detailing all you’ve told me, including your encounter with Sir Robert dressed as a woman. Then we’ll have to bring him in for questioning. Let’s hope he wears a suit.’
I walked back to Prior’s Court. I thought the fresh air would clear my head and help to revive me. It had been a long weary night and I was about done in. However, it was strangely pleasant to make my way through the early morning streets, watching the city and its inhabitants brace themselves for a new day. The pedestrians hurried by me en route to work, or returning home after a night shift some-where. No one seemed to dawdle. Everyone had a purpose and, it seemed, a vigour to carry it out. Except me. I hadn’t the energy but to stroll along, smoking a cigarette as I did so. The sky was blue, the air was crisp and the sun was dazzlingly bright and for some inexplicable reason I felt relaxed.
Well, I pondered, I had reduced my series of problems by one. The Walter Riley case had been solved after a fashion and the murderer had met a fitting end. I would leave David and the powers of Scotland Yard to deal with Sir Robert Gervais. I didn’t feel sorry for the man because however much he distanced himself from the killings, he knew about them and whether directly or indirectly, he had sanctioned them. The tragedy was that the whole business stemmed from a quirk of nature. Dressing up as a woman may be odd, but it wasn’t a cardinal sin. There are far worse activities being carried out in this blighted city, but slipping on a brassiere and a dress, if you are a man, does invite blackmail with all the nasty repercussions that brings.
I would in due course contact Sandra Riley out of courtesy and inform her of the facts. After all, she did employ me in the first place, even though she also dismissed me later, but that under duress after she was threatened by France. However, the main thing on my mind now was getting home, making myself a strong cup of tea and then going to bed for a long sleep; then I could face the other complications in my life.
THIRTY - THREE
It was time to move. He’d waited long enough in this bed being spoon fed by his mother, who also had taken him to the toilet as though he couldn’t wipe his own backside. He’d been doing that for years. But he’d been clever. He’d pretended to be weak, which he wasn’t. He was all right now, strong enough to escape, and he’d be even better when he got back to his hideout.
With grim determination, Harryboy pulled himself up into a sitting position in the bed and called out to the dozing constable in the corner of the room.
‘Here, mate. I need a pee.’
The policeman roused himself from his sleepy reverie and grimaced. This wasn’t bloody police work, was it? Being a glorified wet nurse. Looking after a little turd like Harryboy Jenkins and helping him to piss into a bottle. That’s not what he joined the police force for: to be a bloody nanny to a murderer. He’d rather be directing traffic. Reluctantly he retrieved the heavy china bottle from under the bed and handed it to Harryboy, who had already pulled back the covers in readiness.
‘Ta, mate.’
Harryboy took
the bottle from the constable and then without hesitation smashed him hard across the face with it. The policeman fell to the floor with a strangulated cry, a mixture of shock and pain. Blood gushed from his nose and a cut on his forehead. Harryboy jumped out of bed and aimed a second blow, this time on top of the policeman’s head. The bottle cracked hard against his skull and he lay very still, the life seeping out of him.
Harryboy emitted a childish tuneless whistle as he set about divesting the policeman of his clothes. The constable was somewhat taller and slimmer than Harryboy, but he managed to cope with the uniform. Harryboy stripped off his own pyjamas and with lively enthusiasm pulled the policeman’s trousers high into his crotch so that they didn’t hang too long over the boots, which to his surprise were almost a perfect fit. It was all a big dressing-up game to him. His pleasure was increased when he discovered a large penknife in one of the pockets of the policeman’s tunic. He opened it up, caressing the blade. ‘Nice and sharp,’ he muttered to himself in a sing-song voice. His smile grew wider. This was an ideal deterrent for anyone who tried to prevent him from reaching his hideout.
Ten minutes later, Harryboy Jenkins was dressed for the street in what he considered was his ‘great disguise.’ He slipped on the policeman’s long grey raincoat which had been hanging by the door. He glanced in the mirror and looked at his face. He was very pale, with very dark circles under his eyes, but apart from that he looked his old self, more or less. But, unfortunately, there was the blood-soaked bandage on his head. He couldn’t walk around with that on show. However, he knew that it might be dangerous to take it off. His brains might fall out. He giggled at the thought. The image of a squirmy sponge plopping out of his head onto the floor amused him greatly. Slowly he looked around the room for inspiration and saw the policeman’s old trilby under the chair on which he’d been sitting.
‘You won’t want that anymore, will you? Now that you’re dead,’ he chortled, addressing the inert figure by the bed, whose head was now encircled with a halo of blood.
Snatching up the hat, Harryboy Jenkins placed it gently on his head and then carefully pulled it down so that the bandage was completely covered. He adjusted the brim in order to shade part of his face and then grinned at his reflection in the mirror. Now he was ready. Now he could escape. Now he could go to his hideout where no one would ever find him.
He pushed open the door and glanced down the corridor. There was no one about. He slipped out of the room and hurried off to the left not knowing whether this would lead him to the exit or not. He had discovered by keeping his ears open and catching fragments of conversations while lying in his bed pretending to be asleep that he was in Charing Cross Hospital, but he’d no notion of the geography of the building. That didn’t bother him though; he knew that luck was on his side.
Just as he reached the end of the corridor, three gossiping nurses bustled round the corner. They were chirping away and laughing, so engrossed in each other’s company that they did not give Harryboy a second glance. This pleased him so much he couldn’t help but have another little giggle. He’d become invisible. He next encountered an ancient porter, struggling along with a mop in a galvanized bucket.
‘’Scuse me mate, I got myself a bit lost,’ said Harryboy in a cheerful manner. ‘Which is the way out of this place?’
With a sigh, the porter put the pail down, relieved to have a reason to unburden himself briefly and, with hand signals and gestures, gave Harryboy a very detailed description of how to reach the entrance foyer.
‘Ta, mate,’ said Harryboy and hurried off.
He had reached the ground floor and was well on his way to freedom when his luck ran out. Some distance away from him, he saw one of the nurses and the doctor who had been treating him. They surely would recognize him if he attempted to pass them by. He was well aware that he looked a bit odd in the ill-fitting raincoat and the trilby clamped to his head. He would attract their attention immediately. They’d only to catch a glimpse of his mush and the game would be well and truly up. On impulse, he opened the nearest door and ducked inside. He found himself in a small private side ward similar to the one he’d just left. In the bed was a small boy who roused himself from his slumbers at Harryboy’s entrance and with some effort sat up.
‘Johnny …,’ croaked the boy dreamily, rubbing his eyes.
Suddenly an idea struck Harryboy. A brilliant idea, he thought. He even chuckled at the thought of it.
‘Yeah, yeah. It’s Johnny,’ he replied. ‘I’ve come for yer. Time to leave, sonny. Let’s have you out of that bed now. C’mon.’
Like an automaton Peter swung his legs on to the floor and stood unsteadily wondering what to do next. Harryboy came over to him and spied the boy’s clothes folded neatly in the open cabinet by the bedside. He snatched them up and thrust them at the boy. ‘Here get these on and hurry.’
Peter gazed up at the man in the large hat, his eyes gradually coming into focus. ‘You’re not Johnny.’
‘No, no. I’m not Johnny, but he sent me to get you. C’mon kid. Get yer skates on.’
Harryboy was convinced that taking the boy along was one of his greatest brainwaves. If the hospital authorities were searching for him, and probably by now they would be, they wouldn’t look twice at a man with a little boy. Father and son. He could walk the corridors with impunity with the lad by his side.
Reluctantly and with great awkwardness, Peter shrugged off the pyjamas that the hospital had provided and began to struggle into his old clothes. Tired and still ill, everything seemed slightly out of focus to him and he felt very hot and clammy all over. Reality had somehow become a heated dream for him. He stopped from time to time thinking that he was going to faint, but he persevered. He so wanted to see Johnny again. Whatever the consequences. In his fevered thoughts, he had come to the conclusion that despite everything Johnny was his only real friend in the world. He should have trusted him. He would trust him now.
‘For Christ’s sake, get a move on,’ snapped the man fiercely as Peter fumbled with his shoe laces.
‘Yes, I’m coming,’ he mumbled.
Eventually, Harryboy helped the boy into his grubby gabardine and they were ready to leave. Peering through the porthole window into the corridor, Harryboy checked that for the moment the coast was clear and then man and boy emerged from the room.
‘Keep your head down, boy, and hold my hand,’ Harryboy snapped.
‘My name is Peter,’ he said, slipping his hand into the stranger’s – the man who had come from Johnny.
The two of then walked down the corridor towards the sign on the wall which said ‘Way Out’ that was accompanied by a bold painted pointing finger. Harryboy felt a tingle of excitement. How he loved those words: ‘Way Out’. Soon, he thought, soon I’ll be at the hideout and free. Inside his coat pocket, his hand caressed the open penknife.
Once outside in the bright October sunshine, Harryboy felt exhilarated. He had managed to escape from the goodies. He’d walked out of their fortress, right under their noses and they’d not noticed a thing. Nothing could stop him now. He would be at his hideout soon.
Clasping Peter’s hand tightly and dragging him along, he rushed to the kerb and hailed a taxi. Bundling the boy in the back he gave instructions to the driver.
‘I want to go to Pimlico,’ he said.
THIRTY - FOUR
I had hardly shut my eyes when the telephone rang. I’d decided to take a nap on the couch rather than go to bed. However much I was tempted, I couldn’t spare the time to spend the whole day under the eiderdown. I had too much to do. I reckoned a couple of hours’ shut eye would revive me and then I could set about the business of the day.
I was just surrendering myself to the tendrils of sleep when the telephone’s shrill call dragged me back. It was like a dentist’s drill boring into my consciousness. I tried to ignore the blasted thing, but it was nagging and insistent. Reluctantly, Lazarus-like, I raised myself up and went to answer it.
The v
oice at the other end was familiar and unusually excited. It was Susan McAndrew. ‘Johnny, great news,’ she said, almost shouting down the phone. ‘Peter’s turned up. He’s been found.’
Some inexplicable emotion took hold of me and my body trembled. I was filled with a strange mixture of relief, happiness and what I can only describe as melancholy.
‘Tell me more,’ I said simply, my voice hoarse with suppressed emotion.
‘He’s in hospital here at Charing Cross. He was brought in yesterday suffering from a fever.’
‘Hospital!’
‘But he’s going to be all right, Johnny. I had a word with his doctor. He was in a bad way when they brought him in, but he’s rallied very quickly.’
‘What was wrong with him? Has he been hurt?’
‘No, no, nothing like that. It was a fever but it’s coming down now. I saw him last night and he is gradually improving. I didn’t want to ring you until I’d had a word with the doc to find out the full situation. He is still a little delirious but that’s to be expected. They think he should make a full recovery. It’s just such a relief to get him back.’ Suddenly her excited joy turned tearful.
‘I’m coming to the hospital. I want to see him.’
‘That’s why I rang. Can you come now?’
‘Try and stop me.’
She gave a sad little laugh. ‘Come to reception and ask for me and I’ll take you to see him.’
I had put the receiver down before I realized that I hadn’t thanked her. Oh, well, there would be time for that, I supposed. Suddenly my weariness had dissolved and I felt reinvigorated at the news that my little Peter had been found.
I shaved in record time, nicking myself a couple of times in my haste, changed my shirt and was out on the street in less than ten minutes. I hailed a taxi: I wasn’t going to walk this time. The occasion deserved such motorized luxury. As I sat back in the cab, I couldn’t help smiling. It was a broad, unhindered smile, such a smile as I hadn’t worn for many a long day.
Without Conscience Page 21
