The Darkness of Death

by David Stuart Davies

  In the distance she spied daylight—the outside world. This encouraged her to push harder and with less decorum. At one point she stood on a clergyman’s foot; he bore his hurt with muted disdain. She also winded a red-faced fat lady with her small suitcase which collided heavily with her large stomach. The woman looked, thought Max, like one of those well-built females from the comic seaside postcards, although her language was far from comic.

  At last as she stepped beyond the confines of the great railway cathedral into the cold grey murk of a December evening, Maxine gave a sigh of relief. Here she was back in London again—and soon she would see Johnny.

  Thirty-Three

  With Sergeant Sunderland at the wheel of the police car, we sped back towards the West End and I did my best to justify my thoughts to a certain sceptical inspector.

  ‘This is more than a hunch, David,’ I said earnestly. ‘It is a deduction based on logic.’

  David grimaced. ‘Crikey, where’s your bloody deerstalker? You’re starting to sound like Sherlock Holmes now,’ my friend exclaimed.

  I ignored the remark. ‘I think we both agree that it’s most likely that Vic Bernstein murdered his own brother…to unburden himself.’

  ‘It looks like it. “Unburden himself”—now there’s a nasty idea. What sort of heartless sod would shoot his own brother in cold blood?’

  ‘A heartless sod like Vic Bernstein, I suppose. Now that the game is up, he was clearing the path of any hindrances in order to help him escape. Men without scruples will do almost anything once hemmed into a corner.’

  ‘So he saw Anthony as a hindrance.’

  ‘That’s the way it looks to me. Otherwise why kill him?’

  ‘There may have been a quarrel…’

  ‘But he was shot at close range in the back of the head. That suggests a cool, calculated execution.’

  ‘You could be right.’ The tone was grumpy and reluctant but that was always the nearest David got to concurrence with my ideas. Despite our friendship and camaraderie, to his mind, he was the professional and I was just the lucky amateur.

  ‘So, I reckon that his first port of call would be on his father for cash. The Bamboo House is where the big piggy bank will be kept.’

  ‘But surely the old man wouldn’t help him? Not now he knows what the blighter’s done. He’ll not know about Anthony…but Gina.’

  ‘He’ll probably not hand over the cash voluntarily, but Vic has very persuasive ways, doesn’t he?’ I moulded my hand into the shape of a gun and pointed it at David.

  ‘I get your drift. Well, we’ll see.’ He glanced out of the window. ‘We should be at the club in a couple of minutes and all will be revealed.’

  Those two minutes dragged on and when we got caught in a small jam caused by roadworks, they were elongated to ten. As fate would have it, when we eventually pulled up outside the club, I noticed a tall man in a dark-blue overcoat slip out of the main entrance. He was in a definite hurry. He had the collar of the coat pulled up high and his trilby slouched low over his face so that his features were hidden and his manner was furtive and suspicious.

  ‘I believe that’s our friend now,’ I cried, leaping from the car.

  I ran forward towards the man who was rushing down the side street at quite a pace.

  ‘Hey, you!’ I called.

  Automatically, the man faltered and turned. Now I got a very clear view of his face. Without a doubt it was the nice fellow who had tried beat my brains out in the hospital.

  It was Vic Bernstein.

  On seeing me his eyes flamed with hatred. He hesitated for an instant as though he contemplated tackling me, but then he thought better of it, probably having seen David and Sunderland bringing up my rear, and he turned on his heel and ran. I followed at speed.

  I ran as fast as I could but my aching brain and weary limbs impeded my progress. Nevertheless I began to narrow the distance between Bernstein and myself.

  Behind me I could hear the clomping feet of David and Sergeant Sunderland.

  ‘Stop!’ bellowed my friend. ‘Stop in the name of the law.’

  Surprisingly, Vic Bernstein slowed down and turned to face us once more. However, this wasn’t in any way a gesture of submission. It was merely to allow him time to pull his gun out of his pocket and fire at us. He let off two bullets in sharp succession. To avoid being hit, I dropped to the ground landing with an ungainly bang on the cobbled surface. I was unhurt, but my head wound began to throb viciously and my vision blurred briefly. The thought crossed my mind that really I should be in bed with a nice hot-water bottle resting rather than chasing after a murderous thug with a gun.

  He fired again, one bullet pinging noisily close to my face, taking a neat chip out of the cobbles. Too close for comfort. I clambered awkwardly to my feet as he turned to run once more.

  I glanced behind me and saw that Sunderland was down on the ground. He had been hit. David was leaning over him inspecting the damage.

  It looked like it was up to me now. Brain-damaged unsteady me. If I didn’t put a real spurt on now, Vic Bernstein would escape.

  With as much power I could muster, I raced down the street after him, each footfall jarring in my head. The thoroughfare narrowed and led into another back street. However, luck was on my side. As he turned the corner, Bernstein slipped on the wet surface and lost his balance. He staggered a few steps before sprawling to the ground.

  I was on him in an instant. Before he knew what was happening, I had landed on his back and wrenched the gun from his hand. My immediate thought was to smash it hard against his skull until he lost consciousness to give him a taste of his own medicine. But what you might call my finer feelings intervened and stopped me. Besides, I thought as I flung the gun down the street as far away from reach as I could, I might very well kill the devil in the process and then I’d really be in trouble.

  It didn’t take Bernstein long to recover his wits however and he rolled over on his back and punched me hard in the face. It was all my childhood bonfire nights rolled into one: sky rockets whizzed, snow mountains whooshed, golden rains fizzed and sparklers sparkled, all parading brightly before my eyes while a group of penny bangers all exploded in unison in my head—my poor old head which had suffered so much recently that I thought it was about to close down altogether. Fireworks over, whirls of what appeared to be silvery smoke began to roll before my eyes and I slumped backwards on to the cobbles. How I would have liked to have fallen asleep there and then to escape all the pain and discomfort, but I was vaguely conscious of Bernstein clambering to his feet once more.

  Goddammit, Johnny, a voice cried from somewhere inside me, you’re not going to let the bastard get away, are you? I blinked hard in an attempt to clear my vision and with an energy and a speed which manifested itself from I know not where, I jumped to my feet and launched myself on to Vic Bernstein once more. This time he crashed to the ground face downwards. As he landed, he gave a cry of pain. This brought a smile to my weary features. I knelt on his back, thrust my hand on his head, pressing it down on to the slimy cobblestones. He writhed and twisted in a vain effort to unseat me, but like Tom Mix riding an untamed bucking bronco, I remained put.

  Behind me I could hear footsteps. A quick glance back told me it was David.

  ‘Good man,’ he called breathlessly, pulling out a pair of shiny handcuffs.

  I shifted position slightly, allowing David access to Bernstein’s hands and with several dextrous movements he had snapped the cuffs on him.

  I clambered off the still wriggling captive, staggered to the pavement and sat down. I felt as woozy as if I’d downed half a bottle of Johnnie Walker in one gulp.

  ‘You OK, boyo?’

  ‘I will be. I think.’ Instinctively I touched the bandage that was still around my head. It felt like it was the only thing that was holding it together. ‘How’s Sunderland?’ I asked.

  ‘He’ll live. Nothing too serious. I reckon it’s just a flesh wound…thanks to this bastard,�
�� he snarled, hauling Bernstein to his feet. ‘One wrong move, mister, and I’ll bloody shoot you dead.’ He pulled out a revolver from his pocket and prodded his captive in the back with it.

  Bernstein stared into space. He was neither defiant nor cowed. His face was a blank. Whatever feelings he harboured behind his stony mask, it was clear that for the moment the fight had gone out of him.

  ‘Right, let’s get you back to the Yard,’ said David.

  Sergeant Sunderland was still lying on the pavement, pale-faced, nursing his leg. ‘At least you got him. I’d hate to think I’d got this for nothing,’ he said, wryly.

  ‘Why, Sergeant, you are the hero of the hour,’ I said. ‘You’ll have a neat scar to impress the girls with now.’

  He grinned.

  With my assistance, Sunderland got to his feet and with his arm around my shoulder I helped him limp back to the car—the unsteady leading the unsteady.

  I drove back to the Yard, with Sunderland in the passenger seat and David in the back with his prisoner. He had radioed ahead and told them to expect us and arrange for medical care for Sunderland and a cell for Bernstein.

  As we pulled up in the forecourt of the imposing building, David grunted, ‘Well, it’s been a messy affair, but I reckon we can draw a line under it now.’

  Thirty-Four

  Max sat back in the cab and stared unseeingly out of the window at the crowds snaking by on the pavements and the familiar edifices of London as the vehicle made slow progress towards its destination. She had decided that she was too tired to use public transport and, indeed, too distracted to cope with the pushing and shoving and sardine-like crush of either the omnibus or tube. She’d had enough of that performance at the station. But most of all, she was eager to reach Johnny’s place—and Johnny.

  Since arriving in London something had come over her, a realization of what she was doing or more precisely why she was doing it. Why had she grabbed this opportunity to return to London with such heart-thumping enthusiasm? Well, this was not merely a pleasure jaunt back to the city for a couple of days just to see her boyfriend. This was something much more serious. The break in Nottingham had brought a focus to her life and in particular to her relationship with Johnny. She knew now that he was not just ‘a boyfriend’, a nice chap to spend her time and have fun with; he was a lot more than that.

  As Max pressed her brow against the cool glass of the taxi window, she acknowledged the fact fully for the first time that this was not a casual affair, or a youthful crush. This was serious. She knew that she was in love with Johnny Hawke. Deeply in love. And syrupy as it may sound, she wanted to spend the rest of her life with him. It was an instinct deep in her soul that informed of this. It was a realization that had been growing stronger ever since she had caught that train to Nottingham. And now that she was back in the city, only moments away from Johnny’s embrace, she was absolutely certain. It was a great feeling. A smile flickered on her lips at the thought. She believed, well, she hoped that he felt the same as she did.

  Eventually the cab drew up outside Priory Court and Max made her way up to Johnny’s office-cum-flat. There was no light on and no response from the bell. He was not at home. Disappointed, she let herself in with a key Johnny had given her. She had wanted her visit to be a surprise and so she had not told him about it. Now she was beginning to regret it. Who knew where he was, or when he would be back? His job as a detective made his life very unpredictable and dangerous. She dismissed this latter thought from her mind lest it upset her further. It was foolish to construct scenarios out of doubt and worry. She would simply have to wait. He would turn up eventually.

  She shrugged, dropped her bag in the tiny sitting room and put the kettle on. While she waited for it to boil, she automatically tidied the room, trying to bring some order the place. As usual there was little more than bread—half a loaf on its way to being stale and mouldy, along with some soft biscuits in the larder. Turning on the gas fire and huddling before it for warmth, Max sipped her tea and nibbled on a soggy digestive and prayed for Johnny’s swift return.

  *

  As the underground rattled down its dark labyrinthine tube, Peter sat next to Caroline, holding her hand, trying to suppress his excitement. Today he was really entering grown-up territory. He was out on a proper date with his girlfriend. They were headed for the pictures in town. The film was Frankenstein Meets the Wolfman, his choice, Caroline was not that enthusiastic, she would have preferred a musical or a romance—and then he intended to take his girl to meet his friend and guardian Johnny. He had told her all about Johnny and how he was a real-life detective who had solved ‘hundreds of crimes’ and put ‘scores of criminals behind bars’. If he was honest, introducing Johnny to Caroline as his girlfriend, would be the most exciting thing that had happened to him in a very long time. He admired and respected Johnny so much and wanted to show off this pretty girl to him. Having Caroline on his arm was further evidence that he was growing up, turning into a mature young man. He knew Johnny would be impressed. The thought thrilled him to the core.

  He looked across at their reflection in the carriage window opposite. Caroline smiled and waved at him in the glass. He returned both the smile and the wave, thinking how very lucky he was.

  *

  Constable Chapman blew on his hands and rubbed them vigorously. He was cold—‘bleedin’ cold’, he told himself—and unhappy to be on cell duty at the Yard. At least when he was on the beat, he could pop into a doorway for a quick fag, or into some café for a mug of warming char, but not down here in ‘the bleedin’ bowels of the Yard’. And they’d only got three prisoners in at the moment. It was hardly a taxing role. The trouble is, he told himself, they think of me as a has-been just because I’m coming up to my fiftieth birthday. But, he assured himself, there’s plenty of life in the old dog yet.

  He paused and looked through the grille of cell number four, the one that contained the new inmate, a fellow called Victor Bernstein. A murderer and a nasty piece of work by all accounts. Apparently he’d shot one of the plainclothes men in the leg. For that alone he deserved the noose. No bleedin’ respect for the law, these days.

  Chapman peered into the dimly lit room. To his surprise, he saw that the occupant was lying on the stone floor face down. To the constable he ‘looked like a dead ’un’ as he told his sergeant later. There appeared to be a small pool of dark liquid by the prisoner’s head.

  ‘Don’t tell me the bleeder’s topped himself,’ muttered Chapman reaching for his keys. He called out to the inmate. There was no response. He waited and watched to see if the man showed any signs of breathing. But there was no sign of life, no gentle rise and fall of the torso. He called out once again. Again: nothing. ‘It had to happen on my bleedin’ watch,’ he muttered to himself, as, with a shaking hand, he unlocked the cell door and entered. To his horror he discovered that the body had gone—disappeared as though by magic—but the small pool of dark liquid remained. Instinctively he knelt down to dip his fingers into the liquid. It certainly looked like blood.

  He never saw the blow coming.

  On hearing the key in the lock, Vic Bernstein had quickly jumped to his feet and taken a position flat against the wall behind the door where he could not be seen. As Constable Chapman bent down to inspect the blood—Bernstein’s own blood scratched from his thumb—he smashed a wooden stool over his head. With a muted groan, the policeman slumped to the floor, unconscious.

  Bernstein slammed the cell door shut and began the process of stripping Chapman of his clothes. Within minutes he had transformed himself into a British bobby. The uniform was ill-fitting—most of them were—but he felt sure he could get away with the deception long enough to make his way out of this place at least. If he was able to get to his flat before his escape was discovered, he had a change of clothes, a gun and a little money there.

  He wasn’t down and out yet.

  With a grin, he kicked Chapman in the ribs and left him locked up in the cell.
/>
  Less than ten minutes later, Vic Bernstein was out on the streets of London once more. Now he was a man with a mission.

  Thirty-Five

  I was given a steaming cup of reviving tea in David’s office at the Yard while he left me to supervise Vic Bernstein’s incarceration in a cell in what he referred to as ‘the dungeon’ lodged in the basement of the building, and to arrange for Sergeant Sunderland to be whipped off to hospital to have his leg attended to. Despite my damaged bonce, all the action and rough stuff had in some strange way energized me and, while my head still ached, I no longer felt like the arthritic weakling I had been in my hospital bed.

  On his return, David also seemed more relaxed. ‘Poor old Sunderland’s with the medics now. Thankfully there appears to be no serious damage,’ he said, slipping into a chair behind his desk. He grinned. ‘He’s a bit of an odd fish, but a good man. I like having him at my side. He always seems to take everything in his stride.’

  ‘That might be a little difficult for the next few weeks,’ I observed wryly.

  David ran his fingers through his hair and nodded, too tired it seemed to appreciate my little joke. I couldn’t blame him.

  ‘Would you like a car to take you home? I can arrange that,’ he said at length, his hand hovering over the telephone.

  ‘No, that’s all right.’

  I had other plans.

  ‘I think a walk will do me good.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ he said with surprise. ‘You look as rough as a sheep’s arse.’

  ‘You have such a way with words. No, honestly, I’m OK. It’s just that I’m in need of some fresh air. I think my brain is starved of oxygen.’

  ‘Fresh air? When did we have any of that in London?’