I should not have been so lax. A bullet whistled past my ear and I stumbled backward in surprise. Horsefield had staggered to his feet and was edging his way to the exit. His leg was bleeding through his trousers, but I reckoned he was not badly hurt. Probably the bullet had skimmed the flesh causing only a slight wound. Well, I hadn’t exactly been in a position to aim with any great accuracy. He paused in his flight and I could see that he was ready to fire again. I knew that this time he wouldn’t miss. With a speed I didn’t know I possessed, I dived into the cubicle, almost landing on Malcolm Salter’s lap. He sighed and his body shifted sideways. He wasn’t dead then, I thought. And neither was I.
I waited a moment before I and my gun appeared around the edge of the cubicle. There was no reaction. Horsefield had gone.
I ran out onto the platform, glancing both ways. A wild array of jostling passengers met my gaze both ways. But again, the hat caught my eye. There he was. There was Horsefield. I spied him some hundred yards ahead of me, racing – well, hobbling – in a speedy fashion down towards the end of the platform, away from the main concourse. I set out after him.
TWENTY
Peter should have been at school and he did feel a slight pang of guilt about playing truant, but he reckoned that his bunking off was in a good cause. At least, he had convinced himself this was the case. He was determined to follow in Johnny’s footsteps and become a detective when he started work and his plan today was in a sense a trial excursion to see how successful he would be in this pursuit. With a bit of luck he may well help Johnny to bring his case to a close. That would be a real feather in his cap and convince Johnny of his talents as an investigator. Well, it was worth a try anyway.
And he had dressed for the part. He had adapted his school clothes – ditching the cap and tie and slipping on his scruffy playing out trousers – while messing his hair and smearing a little dirt on his face so that he looked like a scruffy urchin of whom no one would take any notice. A scruffy urchin of the type, he assumed, would be roaming around the streets of Houndsditch. So successful was his ‘disguise’ that the conductor wouldn’t let him board the bus until he had provided evidence of his ability to pay. He was not in the least bit embarrassed by this challenge as the ‘real’ Peter would have been.
Peter had never been to Houndsditch before, but as a student of crime he knew that it wasn’t very far from Whitechapel, the scene of the Jack the Ripper murders and the violent Sydney Street Siege in 1911. It was a scruffy down at heel district, but most places in London were these days: the dust and debris of war invaded all areas of the city. Peter was well aware that this was a bit of a wild goose chase but he reasoned even wild geese get caught sometimes. He had studied the picture of Bruce Horsefield from the paper and his description. He knew from Johnny that this fellow was in the habit of wearing a grey felt hat, almost like the cowboys wore in the films. Houndsditch was his home territory. Of course it had been reported in the papers that the police had visited his mother and she claimed that she hadn’t seen ‘neither hide nor hair of the blighter since he joined up.’ They had searched her house and, of course, found nothing; but that was not to say that Marshall hadn’t been waiting until the police went away. Of course, Peter realised that they would probably have put a man on to watch the house, but a clever criminal should be able to enter and leave his old home without being seen. But what brought Peter to Houndsditch was not just this thin possibility but his belief that if Horsefield was in hiding, what better place to do it than in his old manor. There would be cronies here who would help him, shelter him and keep the rozzers off his back.
Peter’s plan was to patrol the streets hoping to pick up a clue or, better still, catch sight of Horsefield.
But first he had to indulge in a little dramatic interlude.
He made his way to 25 Napier Grove. The home of Mrs Horsefield.
Old Mother Riley opened the door. Or so it seemed to Peter. Standing on the threshold was a bony old woman with high cheekbones, a prominent nose and fierce eyes which were fixed permanently in the accusative mode. This vision before him was the epitome of the music hall character he’d seen in a few films and had a two-page spread in one of his favourite comics. Her arms from the elbow down were bare and flapped like a trapped seagull in true Mother Riley fashion. The impression that this harridan was indeed the famous comic washerwoman was completed by the tartan shawl draped around her shoulders.
‘Yes?’ she bleated without ceremony.
‘I’m sorry to trouble you, Mrs, but could you let me have a glass of water? I’ve sort of come over a bit faint. I… er... didn’t have no breakfast. Sort of dizzy.’ He rocked backwards and forwards on his heels as if to demonstrate his ‘dizzy’ state.
The woman peered over his shoulder into the street beyond as though she expected to see others there all wanting a glass of water – or perhaps something more sinister.
‘You’re not from round here?’ she croaked.
‘No, Mrs, I’m on my way to visit my grandad. Just a glass of water, please.’ He rocked on his feet once more and rolled his eyes to add further icing to his little dramatic cake. He had carefully rehearsed this performance the night before.
‘Don’t you go passing out on my doorstep,’ the old crone said.
‘I’ll try not to,’ he replied faintly and gave an extra roll of the eyes.
‘All right. A glass of water. Then you get off to your grandad’s.’
‘Thank you.’ He made a move to step inside, but a bony hand on his chest held him back.
‘You wait here. I’ll bring a glass out to you.’
Peter hadn’t expected this. He had thought that he would be invited in to the kitchen. He wanted to case the joint. The plan was failing. The woman, who Peter assumed was Mrs Horsefield, retreated down the hall and disappeared. He took a few steps into the house and gazed down the hallway, hoping some clue would leap out at him. There was a coat rack at the far end with several items of clothing hanging from it. Sadly they all appeared to be those worn by ladies. There was no grey felt hat dangling from one of the hooks.
‘Hey, I told you to stay where you were.’
Old Mother Riley had appeared again carrying a glass of water.
‘Sorry.’ Peter retreated on to the top step.
‘Get this down you and then be off with you. I ain’t no bleedin’ hospital.’ She thrust the glass at Peter, spilling some of the contents down his jacket.
Without a word, he drank the water. It was cold and salty.
‘Thank you,’ he said, as the bony hand snatched the glass from him. Then the door slammed in his face.
Wiping away the drips of water from around his mouth with his sleeve, Peter walked away from 25 Napier Grove hugely disappointed. His dramatic ploy had produced nothing at all – no evidence that Bruce Horsefield was hiding out at home or, indeed, any clue as to where he might be. The plan, for which he had such high hopes, had been a failure.
Thoroughly despondent, he walked a little while up the street and then sat on a low wall to ponder what to do next. He had been so sure that he would be invited in to Widow Horsefield’s kitchen where he would spot some clue that indicated that her son Bruce was hiding out there – two places set at the kitchen table, a pair of men’s shoes in the hearth, a jacket draped on the back of a chair or even the grey felt hat hung behind the door – but nothing. This failure was completely unexpected and he had not thought beyond it.
After wallowing in his disappointment for ten minutes or so, he shrugged his shoulders, realising that as a detective one must overcome setbacks all the time. Johnny would certainly not be beaten by such an outcome. He would have to persevere.
Houndsditch was Horsefield’s stamping ground and it seemed to Peter that a man on the run, like a wounded animal, would return to his own lair. If not his family home, some gaff in the vicinity. So, he would pound the streets, pound the scruffy streets of Houndsditch, in the hope of… something.
And so hauling hi
mself to his feet, Peter began his trek. It was now mid-morning and the streets were fairly empty: those who had jobs were at work, night shift fellows were in bed and housewives were inside doing what housewives do. In one of the streets there were a few kids who like Peter were bunking off school and were involved in an impromptu game of cricket. He hung around and watched and waited and after retrieving the ball from the gutter a couple of times, managed to get himself involved in the game. This led to idle chatter which at length he was able to swing his way. Eventually, he felt comfortable to ask if they knew the local villain who had been in the papers for robbing a bank. A geezer called Horsefield. The query met with blank stares. Even when he described Horsefield, including the detail of his felt cowboy hat, the stares remained blank. Another dead end. Realising that there was nothing to be gained from this particular cricket match, he quickly dropped out and began to mooch his way along another street.
At lunchtime he called in a café for a mug of tea and a piece of cake. He gazed around at the customers, mostly folk on their own, pale-faced and lost in thought. They all looked respectable and sad. No sign of a felt hat anywhere.
The afternoon was spent drearily tramping around streets of the area once more. He passed the Horsefield house again and even scouted around the lane at the back to no avail. Tired and fed up, Peter reckoned he’d better go home. It was nearly five o’clock and he needed to be back for tea or the Horner sisters would get worried. And anyway, it had been a futile mission. Nothing was going to present itself to him now.
But he was wrong.
TWENTY-ONE
When Horsefield reached the end of the platform, he dropped over the edge and began to cross the railway tracks. I was tempted to shoot at him, but I knew that I was no Wyatt-Earp type sharp shooter and I was probably too far away from the target to be successful. However, unlike my quarry, I was an able-bodied fellow – no wound to hinder me – and I reckoned I could soon catch up with him.
In copycat fashion, I slipped over the edge of the platform too and began picking my way across the tracks. By now Horsefield had progressed past the end of the next platform and further out, beyond the confines of the canopy of the station. In turning to see how far I was behind him, he stumbled and fell full length with a sharp cry. Now was my chance. But it was foiled by the appearance of a goods train that seemed to loom out of thin air and shudder slowly past me on the line between Horsefield and myself. The clanking, thundering monster rattled by at a snail’s pace while I stood impotently immobile, unable to move or indeed see my man.
When the train had passed in a cloud of gritty smoke, I peered ahead. There was no sign of Horsefield. ‘Damn,’ I cried out loud and set off across the tracks again in the direction my quarry had been heading. Every so often I saw a splash of red on the iron or the sleepers: blood from his wound. I stopped for a moment and gazed around me. I suddenly realised how bizarre this situation was. Here I was standing in the middle of a tracery of railway lines searching for a wounded man who was escaping with a fortune in stolen notes. I had a vision of myself as viewed from above – a solitary human figure staggering across a series of interconnecting silver rails like some vision created by Salvador Dali or some other crazy surrealist painter.
My reverie was interrupted by the sound of a shot. On instinct I dropped to my knees. One shot, the bullet pinging onto the rails some yards ahead of me. I scanned the scene before me: signals, static rolling stock and those hypnotic silver rails sliding off into the distance – but there was no sign of Horsefield. Where had the shot come from?
And then I spied him. Or rather his legs. I saw a movement behind one of the goods trucks some hundred yards away to my right. In the gap between the wagon and the ground, I saw two legs shifting slightly.
Adopting a low crouch which that fellow from Notre Dame would have been proud of, I made my way as quickly as I could towards the wagon while keeping my eyes focused on those legs. As I grew nearer, I saw Horsefield move to the corner of the truck and peer around the corner. On seeing the loping figure bearing down on him, he fired again. As he did so, I threw myself sideways. Just in time, as it happened, for the bullet thudded into the sleeper where seconds earlier I had been crouching.
Now the legs disappeared altogether. Maybe the devil was climbing up the side in order to get onto the roof for a better view. Certainly, I’d be a much easier target from up there.
I ran the rest of the distance and on reaching the goods wagon I pressed my body to its side. I listened carefully for any sound which may give me a clue as to Horsefield’s actual whereabouts. Had he clambered on to the roof or was he just around the other side clinging on? I could hear nothing, but as I moved stealthily towards the right corner of the truck, I heard the sounds of raised voices. I turned quickly and saw in the distance behind me, three men racing in my direction. One was a uniformed policeman, and the other two appeared to be railway officials, guards or something like that. They were raising their hands in the air and shouting loudly. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but I caught the word ‘Stop!’ It was clear they were some kind of posse and by their demeanour, it seemed I was their quarry.
I had stared at them too long for suddenly I was conscious of a shadow and then a presence near me. I turned quickly but too late. I saw Horsefield. I saw Horsefield with his arm raised high. I saw Horsefield bring the butt of the gun down towards me. I saw blackness.
* * *
When I awoke, I found myself lying on a small utility bed with screens around me. As I tried to sit up, a hand grenade went off in my head. I groaned. The screens parted and a young woman in a nurse’s outfit appeared and smiled gently.
‘So you have returned to the land of the living, eh?’
It was a pleasant voice, low in register and with an accent. Middle European. I guessed that, but I had no idea where I was.
‘Where am I?’ My voice escaped like a tired mole into the daylight.
‘You are in the First Aid room at Victoria Station. You have been hit on the head.’ The explanation was succinct and explanatory and was accompanied by a warm smile.
‘I can feel it. Where… where is the other man? The one who hit me?’
She shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Would you like a cup of tea?’
‘No, no. I must be going.’
‘You’ll be going nowhere.’ This injunction came from a second figure who appeared beside the nurse. It was a police sergeant: a robust red-faced fellow with a comfortable girth.
‘You’ve got a lot of explaining to do, my lad,’ he said as though he was admonishing a youngster for breaking a window with his cricket ball.
‘Horsefield – did he escape?’
‘If you mean the bloke what dinted your skull; yes, he legged it.’
‘He’s a killer.’
‘Is he now? And was it him that did for the bloke in the lavatories?’
Salter. I had forgotten about him. ‘Oh, he’s dead, then.’
‘As a doornail.’
‘The man that I was chasing, a fellow called Horsefield, was the dead man’s accomplice in a bank robbery… I’m a private detective.’
The sergeant held up his hand. ‘Whoa. Save your breath, son. You can tell it all to Inspector Sullivan. He’s on his way here now.’
‘In the meantime,’ said the nurse, ‘how about that cup of tea and a couple of aspirins?’
I nodded in acceptance and another hand grenade exploded in my skull.
The sergeant disappeared, but the nurse sat with me as I drank my tea. She told me her name was Ivana and she was Russian. She was originally from Stalingrad but had left the city at the outbreak of the war and made her way to England. Her family had perished in the terrible battle for the city in 1942 and now she was alone in the world. She seemed to gain some comfort telling me her story – a stranger whom she would never see again. A stranger whom she expected to be carted off to prison any moment now.
Her eyes misted as she spoke of her parents and th
e terrible atrocities that the Nazis had wrought in Stalingrad. She had a strong face, mannish almost, but a lovely smile and deep expressive brown eyes.
I liked her.
Suddenly there was a rustle behind the screens and then Inspector Bernard Sullivan appeared.
‘Oh, it’s you,’ he said.
* * *
Sullivan knew me from my days as a serving policeman. He was a copper of the old school: fair, scrupulous and down to earth.
‘I’d heard you’d gone private. A ladies detective. Spying through keyholes on naughty husbands. So how come you get mixed up in a murder and a nasty affray in a railway station?’
‘Just luck,’ I said and he laughed.
‘O.K. Johnny. Give me the low-down,’ he said pulling up a stool.
As succinctly as I could I filled him in him on the scenario involving Malcolm Salter and Bruce Horsefield. Sullivan listened intently, his eyes twitching all the while, a sign I knew that he was making a mental note of all that I was telling him. He was that kind of copper.
After I’d finished, he rubbed his chin sagely. ‘A bit of a mess all round. You O.K.?’
I touched my head where Horsefield’s gun had landed and found to my surprise that it was bandaged. ‘I’ll live,’ I said.
‘A good night’s kip and a stiff brandy, as my old granny used to say.’
‘So Salter’s dead.’
‘The bloke in the lav. Yes. He hung on for a while but he didn’t make it.’
‘And the money.’
‘Well Sergeant Morris found a bag but it was empty. That’d be the one, I reckon.’
A Taste for Blood Page 11
