‘I see.’
‘It was all rather upsetting. I wanted to pass on the news to him quietly.’ I was virtually mouthing the words now in a soft unctuous whisper. They seemed to have their desired effect. Mrs Booth nodded sympathetically.
‘Well, yes, Mr Bristow is one of my paying guests. How awful for him.’
‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘Is he at home now?’
‘I believe he is. He rarely goes out during the day.’
‘Well if I might see him, I can pass on the sad tidings and give him some comfort.’
‘Yes, yes, of course.’
My performance had completely won over Mrs Booth who seemed as upset at the bereavement of Mr Bristow’s phantom brother as though he were her own.
‘Come in, Mr…?’
‘Hawke. John Hawke.’ I saw no reason to give a false name.
‘He’s on the top floor.’
It was a very tidy house which smelt of polish and disinfectant. Mrs Booth led me up three flights of stairs to the top of the building.
‘This is Mr Bristow’s room,’ she announced in hushed tones and then tapped gently on the door. ‘Mr Bristow,’ she called. ‘Mr Bristow, you have a visitor.’
There was no response. Mrs Booth threw me a puzzled glance. ‘I felt sure he was in. I certainly haven’t seen him go out today.
She knocked again – louder this time. Still there was no answer.
‘Do you think he’ll be all right?’ I said. ‘Perhaps he’s ill?’
‘Mr Bristow,’ she called loudly, ‘It’s about your brother.’
Silence.
I stepped forward and tried the door. It was locked. This action did not please Mrs Booth.
‘Mr Hawke,’ she snapped. ‘I’ll remind you that this is my establishment. I can’t have you rattling my guest’s doors carte blanche.’
I looked suitably chastised. ‘I’m sorry. Do you have a key? I mean the poor man may be laid out in there, too ill to respond.’
I could see that Mrs Booth considered my idea as arrant nonsense, but none the less she pulled out a bunch of keys from her trouser pocket and applied one to the lock of Bristow’s room. She turned the handle and opened the door a few inches and called out her lodger’s name once again. And once again there was silence.
Gingerly, she entered the room and I followed directly behind her.
The room was occupied.
A man stood by the far wall in the shadows. I couldn’t see his face properly, but I did observe that he was holding a gun.
‘Oh, Mr Bristow,’ said Mrs Booth, seeing the shadowy figure and then added, ‘Oh, Mr Bristow,’ an octave higher when she saw the gun.
‘Get away from the door,’ he snapped, taking a step forward.
We did as he asked.
‘You’re not going to use that, are you, Mr Bristow?’ asked Mrs Booth.
‘As long as you don’t interfere with me. Now get right over there. I’m leaving.’ So saying he moved swiftly towards the door. I wasn’t about to let this fellow slip though my grasp so easily, gun or no gun. I stuck my leg out and he stumbled. I was on him in an instant. I jumped on his back and had my arms around his neck as he staggered forward, carrying me piggy-back style on to the landing.
With a gruff cry, he reversed with great force, ramming me against the wall, smashing my right elbow into the plaster. An electric shock of pain ran up my arm and I released my grip sufficiently for Bristow to pull away.
He now swung round and beat me on the head with the gun. Luckily, I had kept my hat on which softened the blow a little, but nevertheless I did see stars and my legs wobbled and gave way. With a grim reluctance I slumped down to the floor.
He swung back his leg with the intention of booting me in the face, but I managed to grab hold of the speeding limb as it approached me and yanked it upwards, causing his owner to lose his balance. With a yell of surprise, Bristow flew backwards, towards the edge of the staircase where he tottered briefly at the top of the landing before crashing down the flight of stairs to the floor below.
I pulled myself to my feet and peered over the banister. Bristow looked dazed and dishevelled, but was already pulling himself to his feet. On seeing me gaze down upon him, he aimed the pistol in my direction and fired two shots. I dodged down and heard the fierce missiles whiz past me and lodge in the plaster behind me. At this point, Mrs Booth, who had been strangely silent through the shenanigans, began to whimper and shake.
Bristow let off two more shots, keeping me well away from the top of the stairs and then there was silence apart from the bleatings emanating from the distressed landlady.
At length, I peered down to the floor below but, as I suspected, there was no sign of my quarry. He had bolted. I ran down the stairs, along the hallway and out into the street, but there was no sign of Bristow in either direction. He had carried out a very effective disappearing act.
* * *
Twenty minutes later I was sitting in Mrs Booth’s parlour, administering a large glass of brandy to the shaken lady. She had stopped whimpering and the tears had ceased, but she still shivered as though she were sitting on a block of ice.
‘You are from the police, aren’t you?’ were the first coherent words she spoke since entering the room.
‘Not quite,’ I said, lighting a cigarette in an attempt to calm my nerves. Despite my occupation, I wasn’t used to being shot at in the afternoon in a respectable boarding house.
‘What does ‘not quite’ mean?’
‘I am a private detective.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you warn me?’
‘To be honest, I didn’t realise there was anything to warn you about. I didn’t realise this chap would be violent – that he had a gun.’
‘Who is he?’
I shrugged my shoulders. ‘I don’t know. Yet. He’s involved in a mysterious death I’m investigating, but at the moment I don’t know how he’s involved.’
‘Well, he was certainly determined you weren’t going to catch up with him.’
I nodded. ‘I reckon he was more frightened than aggressive. He didn’t use his gun until the last moment.’
Mrs Booth gave me one of her whimpers. ‘But he did use it. In my house. My respectable house.’ The tears began again and I placed my hand on her shoulder in a feeble attempt to comfort her. I felt guilty at having put the poor creature through this ordeal, for having placed her in danger. I never thought my visit would turn out in such a dramatic fashion, but perhaps I should have considered the possibility.
‘Shouldn’t we call the police?’
‘I don’t think that would be wise. It might get your place a bad reputation: harbouring gunmen and such…’
Her look told me she needed little persuading in this matter.
‘You don’t think he’ll come back, do you?’
I gave her a grim smile. ‘That’s the last thing he will do. He’s off to pastures new – wherever they may be.’
This seemed to reassure her and she took another swig of brandy. ‘And he owed me back rent,’ she said softly as though she was speaking to herself.
So my friend Bristow – if that was his real name, which I doubted – was short of the readies.
‘If you don’t mind, I’d like to pop back up to his room and have a look around. See if I can find any clues as to where he’ll go next.’
‘I suppose so. It’ll be a while before I have the courage to go back up there myself.’ She reached over and poured herself another measure of brandy.
* * *
It was a bleak room. Being the attic, the outer wall sloped down almost to the floor with a dormer window fixed at its centre, through which the occupant had a fine view of the street below. I noticed an ashtray by the bed containing a stack of tab ends – Capstan Full Strength. Apart from these scorched souvenirs, the mysterious lodger, Mr Bristow, had left behind very few possessions, most of which were scrunched up in a small brown case: underwear, a few shirts, socks and similar it
ems. There was however a small envelope secreted in the lid containing a couple of photographs. One was of Mr Bristow himself in army uniform with another chap, tall, saturnine and decidedly shifty. The other was a studio shot of a lady I recognised. It was Annie Salter. Glancing on the back of the snapshot of Bristow, I saw in neat pencil the words Private Malcolm Salter and Lance Corporal Marshall. Looking at the pictures again I could see the similarity of features shared by Bristow and Annie. For it was clear that Bristow was indeed Annie’s son. And lo and behold, he was alive and kicking, returned from the dead. That was part of Annie’s terrible secret. Her ne’er-do-well son had not been killed at Dunkirk. Now he was on the run, but there was something about his behaviour that told me that he was terribly frightened of someone or something. Involuntarily, I shivered, as I realised that I was wading into deeper and darker waters.
ELEVEN
He tingled with a strange mixture of excitement and confidence. It had been a long process and now he was about to realise his ambition. He had waited in the wings for so long and now he was about to step out into the spotlight – a very dark spotlight. It was his due. He had endured months of waiting patiently while he built up his relationship with Ralph Northcote, cultivating the man’s intimate friendship, slowly and gently persuading him that there was a fully active killing-and-eating life waiting for him outside the drab walls of his prison. ‘Drab walls of his prison’ – this last phrase made him smile. Northcote had a far worse prison now, enduring a mere existence rather than a life. But that was his own fault: he hadn’t been clever or perceptive enough to be suspicious of the all too accommodating Sexton. Greed and self interest alone had governed his actions and blinded him from the truth.
Well, thought Sexton with a sardonic grin, tonight I am going to enhance your bloody and notorious reputation. Tonight I will kill and feast in your name. He waited in the shadows, in a shop doorway near the municipal hall. It was late but he could still hear the strains of the small band playing inside. A jolly dance to cheer up the tired and jaded natives of old war-ravaged London Town. Sexton imagined the scene inside. A group of geriatric musicians in tired and shiny dinner suits on stage churning out a series of old tunes in three-quarter time, the room misted with cigarette smoke and a motley crew of dancers shuffling around the floor, trying desperately to forget the war, the blackout, the bombing, the deaths and their deprived miserable lives. There would be a few servicemen on leave on the hunt for a goodnight kiss and a fumble afterwards; a few grannies and grandads showing off, dancing with annoying panache; and guilty wives having a quick waltz with a stranger while their hubby was away fighting for King and country overseas. Sexton smoked several cigarettes while he waited, waited patiently, enjoying the taste of the tobacco as it mingled with the cold night air. Eventually the music stopped and the dancers began to leave, stepping out into the dark spring night, their voices bright and chatty, carrying some of the pleasure of the evening with them.
A group of four girls bustled by him, giggling and humming one of the dance tunes. Individually, each was ideal for his purposes, but bunched together as they were there was no chance to select just one of them. Others left the hall in dribs and drabs. A couple seemed to be having an argument on the hall steps. He was a loutish youth with greasy hair, wearing a pin-striped suit that was too big for him. She was a plump girl with an explosion of frizzy blonde hair and a stupid face. He was pulling her arm, trying to persuade her to go one way, while she was of a mind to go in the other. Sexton couldn’t hear what they were saying, but the boy was particularly angry, his voice lowered to a vicious staccato rasp. She started to cry and with a snarl he pushed her away from him and turned to go. Now she seemed undecided and took a step in his direction but he had walked off at such speed that he had disappeared into the night.
For a moment, the girl stood unsure what to do, apart from stifle her sobs with a handkerchief. And then with a dejected sigh, she set off in the opposite direction from the boy, moving along the pavement towards where Sexton was hiding. His pulse quickened. She could be the one if he was lucky. He had picked the spot carefully. Two hundred yards further down the road there was a small park where he had planned to could carry out his work undisturbed.
The street was now empty and quiet apart from the click clack of the girl’s heels on the damp pavement. When she had passed by him, Sexton untangled himself from the shadows and began following her at a discreet distance. Caught up with her own emotions the girl had no sense of the dark shape that was slowly but inexorably bearing down on her.
‘Excuse me, Miss,’ he called softly as they reached the open park area.
Instinctively, the girl turned around to observe the silhouette of a tall man carrying a suitcase.
‘Excuse me,’ he said again, as he stepped forward, close to her, so close that she could see his face in the moonlight which filtered through the straggly night clouds. It was pale and strained and the eyes looming behind large spectacles were strange and somehow hypnotic.
‘I wonder if you can help me,’ he said, placing his suitcase at his feet.
The girl did not know how to respond to his request. She just stared at the stranger blankly. He gave her an odd smile and then, before she knew what was happening, he had his gloved hands around her throat. It happened so swiftly that she hadn’t time to cry out. Her eyes widened in terror and her body rippled in panic, briefly as she began to struggle, but his grip on her throat was too strong and she quickly lost consciousness, slumping like a large rag doll against her assailant.
Quickly he dragged her into the bushes and found a space big enough to lay her down. He then retrieved his suitcase. In the cover of the bushes he began to undress the girl. Slowly and methodically he removed all her clothing in order to reveal her naked form. Taking off his gloves, he ran his fingers over her skin, his head buzzing with excitement, his sexual juices flowing. Then he slipped off his overcoat and placed it neatly on the ground some distance away from the body. Underneath he was wearing a protective white smock. With nervous fingers he opened the suitcase, withdrew the instruments and with precise deliberation began the butchering process.
Some fifteen minutes later, the smock now spattered liberally with blood, he had removed the organs and limbs he required and wrapped them in muslin and newspaper which he carefully stowed away with the instruments in the case. He gazed down with satisfaction at the girl’s mutilated body which glistened in the pale light. He dipped his fingers in one of her wounds and then sucked them dry. A little appetiser before the feast that would follow.
As some far away clock chimed the midnight hour, he stepped from the bushes with his suitcase and its grisly contents and with calm deliberation headed for home.
TWELVE
I spent the night at the cinema with Peter. I had befriended this runaway orphan in the early part of the war* and through various incidents and adventures, I seemed to have become his unofficial guardian. He was now looked after by two spinster sisters, Edith and Martha Horner, but I kept a fatherly eye upon him and tried to provide him with the care and guidance I’d lacked as a child. However, I had neglected my duty somewhat in recent weeks, indulging in my grief over the loss of Max. But now I was determined to make amends.
I picked him up early from the Horners’ neat little villa and treated him to fish and chips – a slap up meal, he called it – followed by the best seats at the Odeon, Leicester Square. I knew that apart from my neglect, the lad needed cheering up. His first big romance had crashed into the buffers and the experience had hit him hard. Poor sod. Although he had no biological connection with me, he seemed to have inherited by some weird kind of osmosis a very tender shell where affairs of the heart were concerned. Well, the greasy fish and chips followed by Abbott and Costello’s antics as they ‘Hit the Ice’ along with a tub of ice cream cheered him up considerably and he was a lot chirpier on the way out of the cinema than he had been on his way in.
We found a little café open in Beak Stre
et, and concluded the evening with a cup of tea. As usual Peter was eager to hear about my latest case, but I directed the conversation away from this particular topic. If his romance had hit the
* see the first Johnny One Eye novel, Forests of the Night
buffers, so, it seemed, had my investigations into Annie Salter’s death. It had been a revelation to discover that her son was still alive and had been dossing down with her for a while and that now it seemed he was in hiding. Well, he was officially dead, so the authorities would not take too kindly to him still breathing the civilian air of London when he should be in the army. Circumstances suggested that he may well have killed his mother, but something told me otherwise. I’m no Sherlock Holmes: this wasn’t a deduction – just an instinct. But carrying a shooter – and, indeed using it – clearly indicated that Master Salter was a bit of a villain. A nice fact to establish, but unfortunately the blighter had slipped through my fingers and was somewhere out there in this vast city impersonating a needle in a hay stack. The sudden recollection of this sad fact must have found its way onto my features.
‘What’s up? You look miserable,’ Peter observed, gazing at me over the lip of his mug of tea.
I shrugged. ‘Nothing important,’ I replied, glancing at my watch. ‘Hey, it’s time I was taking you home. It’s school tomorrow.’
Peter frowned. ‘Hey, don’t treat me like a kid. I’m fourteen you know and mature with it.’
I grinned. ‘I’m not. I’ve got a little problem with trying to find someone. It’s niggling me. That’s all.’
‘Tell me about it. I might be able to help. Remember, when I’m fully grown up, I’m going into the detective business too.’
I was about to say, ‘over my dead body’, but thought better of it. I didn’t want to tempt fate. ‘O.K. And then we get you in a taxi and home.’
Peter nodded with enthusiasm.
A Taste for Blood Page 7
