Forests of the Night (16 page)

When he realized the full horror of what he had done, that's when the guilt and remorse set in and the tears. And we were back to the script again.

Maybe.

And then there were the phone calls. Was he concocting these to distance himself from the crime? Inventing threatening messages to throw me off the scent? I thought not. His response was too immediate, too natural to be contrived. And so, that must mean somewhere out there was another person looking into the death of Pammie Palmer. Someone with a dangerous mission.

*   *   *

Once back in the city I made my way to Charing Cross Hospital. There I received the good news that Peter had regained consciousness and was sitting up and taking solids. Apparently he'd scoffed down a hearty breakfast and had been chatting to the nurses. I was envious. Luckily I had encountered the sister who had been on duty when I'd been to see Peter so there was no problem about me going in to see the boy.

When I asked if I could have a chat with him alone, the sister gave me a wary eye but there was a twinkle in it. She told me that I had ‘just five minutes' and I was ‘not to weary the mite'.

Peter was reading a copy of
The Beano
when I went in. He looked up and at first he gave me an instinctive smile of recognition but then his features clouded, uncertain how he should regard me. I suppose I still represented a figure of authority, someone who could take him back to from where he had escaped.

‘Hello there, Peter. Remember me? Johnny, the Spam man.'

He smiled again despite his unease.

I pointed at the comic. ‘What's Big Eggo up to this week?'

‘Oh, he's trying to get his football back from his neighbour's garden but she catches him and throws a tub of water over him,' he said enthusiastically, happy to share the information.

I chuckled. ‘Let me see.' He passed over the garishly coloured comic and I skimmed the simple drawings illustrating the adventures of Big Eggo, the ludicrous humanized ostrich who featured on the front page of
The Beano.
I pretended to follow the plot and chuckled again before handing the comic back. ‘He always gets it wrong, does Big Eggo. I'll bring you some more comics when I come again.'

‘One of the nurses got me this one,' he said softly, and then looked away shyly. I suspected that he was steeling himself for the moment when I started asking him awkward questions about his home and his mother and father.

‘I'll see if I can find you a
Tiger Blake Adventure Comic.
I know you like him.'

At first Peter's eye lit up with pleasure at the thought of a Tiger Blake comic and again they darkened with uncertainty.

‘Oh,' I said, ‘have you gone off old Tiger? Is that since you saw him?' It was an outrageous prompt but I had to take the risk.

Peter looked at me sharply and his tiny frame stiffened. He shook his head. ‘I saw … I saw him crying … like a sissy.'

I shook my head sadly. ‘Crikey, that's not like old Tiger.'

‘No. He never does it in the pictures. He's tough and brave and…'

‘Certainly is. Did you see the way he knocked those Germans about in
The Lost City
?'

Peter grinned. His whole pale, shiny face lit up with pleasure. ‘Yes, when he hit that fat Nazi over the head with that thing and he fell through the window into the river. That was great.'

I laughed along with him. ‘So are you sure this chap you saw crying really was Tiger Blake?'

Peter sat forward in bed, nodding his head vigorously ‘Oh, yes, I'm positive it was him.'

‘Where was this?'

‘Well, it was when I was trying to get into the park.…' He hesitated, realizing where I had led him.

‘Regent's Park?' I asked gently.

He gave me a nod.

‘Oh, don't you worry about all that. I know where you hid … and all those things. That doesn't matter now. I'm not here to tell you off or anything. I'm more interested in Tiger Blake. Can't believe he was crying.'

‘Oh, but he was. I was across the street from him. I was just about to climb over the railings when I heard him. I thought it was a lady at first – the noise I mean 'cos it was like my … like a lady's kind of crying. Y'know.' He gave a high-pitched whimpering sound as a demonstration.

‘Yes, I know,' I said conspiratorially.

‘Well, I looked and saw it was a bloke. As he walked along, he was sort of staring at his hands. It was fairly dark 'cos it was the blackout but the moon sort of lit him up.'

‘Why was he looking at his hands?'

‘Well, they seemed to be covered in some dark stuff. Don't know what it was.… It could have been mud I suppose. Anyway, then he looks up, sort of puts his head back.…' Peter demonstrated once again. ‘And I saw him quite clearly. The moon shone down right on his face. No doubt. I'd know Tiger Blake anywhere. And he was crying. His face was wet and he kept making that funny squeaky sound.'

‘Well, I'll be blowed. What a surprise.'

‘Yeah. I don't think I like him any more. You're not supposed to cry if you're a man are you? And a Special Agent as well.'

‘Well, I suppose he might have been pretending. He could have been on a case and he had to pretend he was crying, upset over something, to convince the enemy he was a softy.'

‘To fool them? Like he did in
Tiger Blake and the Castle of Death
?'

‘That's it.'

Peter pursed his lips. ‘I never thought of that.'

‘Bet that's the answer.'

Peter nodded thoughtfully. ‘I expect you're right.'

‘You didn't see anyone else about at the time, did you? Someone in the shadows?'

Peter shook his head. ‘No. There was no one else.'

‘Well', I said cheerfully, ‘I'm glad we've got that sorted out. I'd hate to think that good old Tiger was a softy.'

‘Me too,' Peter grinned at me.

‘Anyway, how are you feeling?'

‘OΚ, I guess.'

‘Are they feeding you any better than I did?'

Peter giggled. ‘I had two whole boiled eggs this morning with some soldiers.'

‘Wow, lucky you.'

At this point the sister made an appearance. ‘You two been having a nice chat?'

‘Yes,' I said, ‘sorting one or two things out.'

‘Really?' She smiled that severe smile that nurses in authority seemed to manage with great aplomb. ‘Well, it's nearly time for Master Peter's medicine and then he needs a good rest, so I'll have to ask you to go now, Mr Hawke.'

‘Certainly, Sister.' I gave an exaggerated bow. Peter grinned at my clowning. ‘I'll be back tomorrow with some comics,' I told him.

As I headed for the door, I took the sister to one side. ‘Could I have a word with you outside before I go?'

She nodded. ‘I'll just give the patient his medicine and I'll be with you in a moment.'

*   *   *

‘What's going to happen to Peter?' I asked when the sister joined me in the corridor.

She gave a heavy sigh. ‘Well, he maintains that his mum and dad are dead and that's about as much as we can get out of him. He doesn't fit any of the missing children's files the police have, so he's a bit of a mystery. He's obviously a distressed little boy. He wets the bed.' She sighed again. ‘I'm afraid when he's well enough to leave here he'll be taken into an orphanage if only as a temporary measure while further investigations are carried out. But I don't hold out much hope that anything will be found out. There's hundreds of lads and lassies in a similar situation and there's not enough manpower to cope with the situation.'

My stomach lurched at the mention of orphanage. The contemplation of such bleak institutions chilled me to the marrow as though I'd been dipped in an ice-cold pond. I knew all about orphanages. I was an old campaigner. I had the bruises and the traumas to prove it.

For a moment I had a vision of a younger me staring out of the window of the cramped dormitory at Moorfield towards the high wall with the broken glass cemented into the top of it. The glass glinted in the moonlight like vicious diamonds. I was wondering what the world beyond the grim confines could offer me. Certainly something better than the harsh regime of Moorfield, I was sure. I felt a hand pull at my pyjama jacket as Paul, my brother, attempted to guide me back to my bed. ‘If you're caught out here, you'll be for it, Johnny,' he whispered in my ear. Ever the guardian angel was Paul. With some effort he pulled me away from my dreams and back to the cold hard bed with its rough blanket.

Moorfield the home for orphaned boys. Home? Prison, more like.

‘Are you all right?' the sister asked.

‘Yes, I suppose so,' I said, faking a smile and shaking off the ghosts of my past. ‘I have some personal experience of orphanages. They are not exactly the institutions that make for a happy childhood.'

‘But without them where we would be? Especially now there are so many poor blighters who have lost their parents in this bloody war.'

‘Bloody war, indeed. Look, Sister, I want to help as much as I can with this boy, Peter. Somehow I feel responsible for him. Don't let them take him away before you let me know.' Quickly, I scribbled my telephone number on a piece of paper. I could have given her one of my cards but I didn't want her to know that I was a detective. That fact might change her whole opinion of me. It usually did.

‘I'll make sure, Mr Hawke,' she said, smiling as she secreted the paper under the fold of her stiff uniform. ‘It won't be for a few days yet. The little mite is still quite weak.'

‘Thank you. And call me Johnny, please.'

She blushed a little. ‘I'm Sister McAndrew … Susan.'

I leaned forward and gave her a kiss on the cheek and she blushed even further. ‘That's enough of that,' she said gently, ‘or I'll think you're only here for ulterior motives.'

‘Absolutely.'

We both laughed and took pleasure in the moment, realizing that we were snatching a gentle, whimsical interval from the ragged, grey, dispiriting play of life.

‘I'll be back to see Peter tomorrow.' I gave her a wave and strolled down the bleak corridor with something approaching a warm feeling in my heart.

twenty-two

Two Telephone Calls

(1)

Sandra Moore was bored. She was often bored. There was little in life to entertain her except buying smart clothes, attending nice parties and dining in expensive restaurants. Since this awful war had started with its wretched rationing, these activities had been severely restricted. What was worse, some of her friends had deserted her, left London for the country to escape the bombing. She would have loved to go with them. She saw their desertion not as an act of cowardice and self-preservation but one of eminent sense and rationality. Oh to be holed up in some comfortable ‘funk hole' hotel with them. But Gordon was tied to the capital with his job, one which gave him an income with which he was able to provide her with all the civilized comforts she required, indeed insisted upon, to make her life bearable.

Sandra had one great love in her life – herself. She had forsaken all other loves but herself. Gordon, whom she had relegated to the periphery of her existence, was glimpsed only as a provider. If a horse could have earned the same amount of money as Gordon – preferably more – it would have done for her just as well. Better, actually, because a horse could be stabled outside the house.

These idle thoughts strolled through Sandra's mind as she puffed on her third cigarette of the morning. Stubbing it out half smoked, she moved to the mirror and checked her makeup. It was perfect. She forced a broad unnatural smile at herself to check the laugh lines. Not bad. She was indeed a handsome, some would say pretty woman who belied her forty-three years. Or at least she thought so.

The shrill ring of the telephone broke in upon this self-congratulatory reverie. She pursed her lips. Who could this be? Was it a summons for lunch by an old friend in town for the day or some even more exciting prospect? She hoped so.

Sandra moved elegantly to the telephone table in the hall. She did not rush. She had no intention of creating the impression that she was eager for the call – although she was. She was eager for anything that would lift her out of the mind-numbing ennui in which she was immersed.

‘Sandra Moore,' she purred into the receiver.

‘Ah', said the voice at the other end, ‘the wife of the whore murderer.'

This certainly wasn't the call Sandra was hoping for. She was about to put the telephone down when the caller spoke again. ‘Don't go, Sandra, I have important information to impart to you.'

‘Who is this?'

‘A friend.'

‘Then identify yourself.' For one fleeting moment she wondered if it really was one of Gordon's cronies making this tasteless call.

‘Not at the moment, Sandra,' came the hoarse and muffled voice again. ‘But let me give you the reason for calling you. I just wanted to put you in the picture about your husband and Pammie Palmer.'

‘Pammie who?'

‘Don't you read the newspapers, Sandra? Pammie Palmer, the whore who got herself killed in her flat in Regent's Park mansions. Did you know that your husband was one of her customers, eh?'

Sandra was well aware that Gordon sought sexual favours elsewhere and she didn't care as long as he didn't seek them with her and he kept his sordid flings away from the domestic arena.

‘Do you have a point? If not I shall put the phone down.'

‘Oh, I have a point, Sandra. Very sharp and piercing is my point. Not only was your film star husband a client of the Palmer trollop but he also murdered her. He stuck a knife in her chest.'

Sandra gave a little gasp of disgust.

‘Now, Sandra, I don't expect you to take my word for it. I want you to ask your husband about it. Don't be bashful. Just ask him outright. “Why did you kill the Palmer whore?” I'm sure his reaction will be very interesting. Do try it out. I shall ring you again to find out what he said. Goodbye, Sandra.'