27
The door of the locker-room opened. PC O’Connell, who was lacing up his boots, looked up and saw Lowe enter. He looked weary, with dark shadows under his eyes. He shambled in like a man sleepwalking. O’Connell had noticed a change in his colleague in the last month. He had always been a quiet, self-contained sort of a bloke, not easy in company and stilted in conversation, but recently it was as though he had become more isolated than ever. It was as though he had given up on life, given up trying and was merely going through the motions, waiting for something to happen. Death possibly. The war did strange things to people and certainly Lowe was not unique in seeming to be affected in this way. O’Connell just thanked his lucky stars that he never took life so seriously that it would interfere with his optimistic outlook. He could cope, if others couldn’t.
‘Hey, heard the latest? They’ve caught the strangler,’ O’Connell said cheerily, expecting the good news to raise the spirits of his colleague, but Lowe stopped in his tracks and stared at him uncomprehendingly.
‘It’s true,’ O’Connell added. ‘No joke. Llewellyn nabbed him last night after the blighter had just done another girl in. Number three.’
Lowe felt dizzy, the room swaying before his eyes. With some relief he sat down on the bench next to O’Connell. ‘That is…good news,’ he mumbled without enthusiasm.
‘You can say that again. Takes a bit of pressure off us lot, doesn’t it? Now we can stop watching our backs and return to our normal duties: nabbing the black-market spivs.’ He chuckled to himself.
‘Well, there are plenty of those about,’ Lowe responded, raising a weak smile, while his mind was still coming to terms with the shock of hearing that someone had been arrested for the murders—the murders that he had committed. He had never contemplated this eventuality and he really didn’t know how he felt about it.
‘Who is this strangler character then? What do you know about him?’ he asked as casually as his numbed brain would allow.
O’Connell shrugged. ‘Some soldier who’s gone a bit batty. He was AWOL. Apparently the stupid blighter dropped his wallet in the tart’s bedroom.’
Lowe closed his eyes and remembered. The tart’s bedroom: that garish pink glow, the squalid furnishings, the pale corpse on the bed and those dead staring eyes. This vision was vividly imprinted in his mind. Of course, he suddenly realised, they’d caught the young chap Mary had picked up in the pub, the one he’d followed to her flat.
‘Where is he now?’
‘Down below. In the cells, of course, waiting for…“the big interview”.’ O’Connell laughed at his own dramatic delivery. ‘The big confession, more like. He won’t be able to wriggle out of this one. He’s for the noose all right.’
Lowe looked blankly ahead and gave a ghost of a nod. ‘Well, I’m off to the canteen for a cuppa before I brave the naughty streets again,’ O’Connell said breezily. ‘See you later.’
‘See you later,’ Lowe responded in a monotone.
On being left alone, Lowe ruffled his hair absent-mindedly and tried to assess the situation. What do I do now? he thought. What on earth do I do now?
*
Ten minutes later Lowe had made his way down to the cells. Sergeant Braddock was on duty and he raised a cynical brow as Lowe lumbered towards him.
‘Not another one. This ain’t a peep show, y’know,’ he said.
‘Sorry, Sarge?’ replied Lowe, uncertain what Braddock meant.
‘I’ve had a steady stream of ‘em all afternoon.’
Lowe still remained puzzled.
‘Coppers coming along to have a look at the new guest—our little strangler. I could start charging a penny a peek. It’d help supplement my pension. That’s what you’re here for, ain’t it? To have a gander at the strangler.’ He gave wheezy chortle in appreciation of his own wit.
Lowe nodded. ‘Well, yes…I just wanted to see what sort of person he was.’
Braddock emitted a strange tutting noise. ‘Never seen a murderer afore, eh? Grown copper like you.’
Lowe shook his head shyly. ‘Thought it might be useful to see what sort of man goes around killing young girls.’
‘That’s a new one,’ beamed Braddock, his boozer’s face wrinkling with amusement once more. ‘Most of the lads just want a peek out of morbid curiosity.’
‘Well, that as well,’ admitted Lowe, trying not to let the growing frustration show in his voice. Why didn’t the old bastard just let him pass?
‘Be quick then. He’s in cell three. He’s nothing special, mind. He doesn’t have horns or a tail. You’d never notice him in the street—but then that’s like most killers and that’s why most killers get away with it.’
‘Thanks, Sarge,’ said Lowe. Thanks also for the lecture on killers. If you only but knew…eh?
Lowe pulled back the metal plate of the spy-hole and stared into cell three. He saw a man sitting on the edge of the bed, staring despondently into space. He was in his early thirties, of average height, with plain regular features and a mop of unruly hair which was already tinged with grey at the temples. He looked very normal, very average, very innocent. Braddock was right. You would pass him in the street without a second glance. But it was a face Lowe had seen before. It was the soldier from last night. The girl’s last client. Poor bastard, he thought with some compassion, so they’re pinning the job lot on you. This had never been part of his plans and he felt somewhat confused.
‘Do you want a photograph?’
The voice came from behind him, whispered gently in his ear. Lowe turned and found himself facing Detective Inspector Llewellyn.
‘Sorry, sir. I just—’
With some irritation, Llewellyn held up his hand to silence him. ‘I know, I know. You were just curious.’
A red-faced and embarrassed Sergeant Braddock stood in the background. Llewellyn had obviously had words with him. ‘Seen enough?’ asked Llewellyn.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Well, you can see a little more.’ He thrust a large key into his hand. ‘Open up.’
For a moment Lowe thought the inspector was joking, but the steady glint in his eyes told him otherwise.
Lowe did as he was told. He turned the key in the ancient lock, the grating sound echoing down the grim corridor.
Llewellyn stepped forward, pushed the door open and entered the cell.
Paul Hawke jumped to his feet, his tired eyes anxious and desperate.
‘How are you feeling, Mr Hawke?’ asked the inspector, in the casual easy manner he might use when enquiring after a friend’s health.
Hawke did not know how to reply.
‘Are you up to answering a few questions? Sort things out a little, eh?’
‘If it means getting out of here, yes,’ came the reply, a little more assertive than Llewellyn had expected.
The inspector gave a grim smile. ‘Can’t promise that, I’m afraid…but you never know.’ He turned to Braddock. ‘Come on in here, Sergeant and bring your notepad.’
As Braddock squeezed past the tall, imposing figure of Lowe, Paul Hawke noticed the constable for the first time. As he moved to allow the sergeant through the door, his face emerged from the shadows into the garish light of the corridor. It was a face that made Hawke catch his breath. He blinked hard and focused on that large gaunt face. For a split second the two men’s eyes were fixed on each other. And they both knew. Each recognised the other.
28
I was never sure what the third degree was and why it was so much worse than the first and second, but whatever constituted the third degree, the two members of staff on duty at the admissions and enquiry desk at St Bart’s Hospital gave it to me in good measure. They were a pair of ancient stern-faced harridans whose craggy scrubbed features looked as though they lacked the mechanics to activate a smile. A wide variety of scowls, yes; but smiles, no. I’m sure if they’d been given the opportunity, they would have bound me to a chair and shone a bright light on my face and administered drugs to drag the t
ruth out of me.
All I asked was if they could tell me in which ward I’d find Barbara Cogan. My simple request was met with a barrage of questions delivered in machine-gun fashion. Who was I? Why did I want to know? What relation was I to this woman? How could I prove this? What did I know of the circumstances of her admittance to the hospital?
I spun them a tale about being her boyfriend and having only just heard that she was in St Bart’s. The Gestapo sisters took down my details, examined my identity card with close attention as though it was some sort of coded document which when translated would give the details of the Allied troop movements in Europe. Then they withdrew into a huddle and engaged in a hurried whispered conversation, each in turn swivelling her head to stare at me suspiciously. Eventually, one of them told me to take a seat and wait, while the other goose-stepped off, no doubt in search of the firing-squad.
About half an hour later an elderly doctor in a rather shabby white coat approached me in a strange slouching fashion. The tired, rheumy eyes gave evidence of long working hours with little sleep.
‘Mr Hawke, is it?’
‘Yes,’ I replied, standing up.
‘I gather you are enquiring about Barbara Cogan?’
‘Yes, yes, I am. May I see her?
The doctor stared blankly at me in a distracted fashion for a moment before replying. ‘You are her boyfriend?’
I now felt like a cheap fraud for giving that lie. ‘Yes, a friend,’ I replied, modifying my untruth.
The doctor gave a sigh and gently placed his hand on my shoulder. Before he spoke I knew what he was about to tell me. I felt cold steel pierce my heart.
‘I’m afraid it’s bad news, young man. Barbara died about fifteen minutes ago.’
I shook my head not in disbelief but in a desperate attempt to dislodge his words from my brain. I wanted to reject them. I didn’t want them to be real, to be true. Please, God, he must mean someone else.
‘I’m so very sorry,’ the doctor said gently, as he must have done to countless men and women with increasing regularity since the war began. His face registered a kind of exhausted sympathy.
For some moments I felt empty and numb. The thought that a bright innocent young life had been snuffed out by the blinkered hatred of the fascist scum seemed to drain the energy from me. And then suddenly, like a light switch clicking on, a hot tide of anger swept over me. I wasn’t going to let them get away with this. They would pay dearly for Barbara’s death. If only I could get my hands on whoever was responsible…that’s what I would pray for.
‘Can I see her?’ I asked at length.
The doctor shook his head. ‘It wouldn’t be wise. She suffered from extensive burns, you know. It would be better to remember her as she was.’
For a fleeting moment my imagination conjured up the vision of a blackened body, only vaguely recognizable as human, the intense heat of the flames having robbed it of any individuality. With a mighty effort I cast this ghastly image from my mind knowing that it would return many times in the future to haunt me.
I felt my eyes prick with tears. They were tears of sorrow and frustration.
‘I am so very sorry,’ the doctor repeated himself, and then paused as though he had run out of things to say. He gave me a tired smile, then shambled back down the corridor.
I stood for some moments clenching and unclenching my fists, desperately trying to keep my emotions in check. Somehow, I felt this was my fault. I should have realised that those bastards at the Britannia Club would not let the girl get away without punishment. I should have insisted that she went into hiding for a while, moved her away somewhere secret until my business with them was over. Well, I suppose we can all be wise after the event. Sometimes the brutality of my fellow countrymen shocks even a battered and shop-soiled soul like mine.
After a while I realised that the two harridans were staring at me, but their expressions had softened and were touched with sympathy. They knew. They knew that my so-called girlfriend was dead and they felt sorry for me.
Their pity only increased my sense of guilt.
I walked out of the hospital into the growing gloom of a spring evening.
Slowly I made my way back to my place on foot, taking a circuitous route in order to give me time to try to come to terms with the wild whirligig of events which had turned my world upside down in the last few days. I’d not only got Barbara’s terrible death on my mind, burning grooves into my memory, but there was also the situation involving my brother. With Paul, I just didn’t know what to think. In my heart I couldn’t believe that he was capable of murder, but my logic told me otherwise. The mind can propel you to do the most awful things when it is disturbed.
I knew I needed to view things as dispassionately as possible and formulate some plan of action so I could try and find a way out of this mess. As I walked, I was oblivious of my surroundings, making my way by instinctive compass. I smoked several cigarettes, furrowed my brow at regular intervals and I thought until it hurt. When I eventually approached Priory Court all I seemed to have achieved was a headache.
Indoors, I undressed quickly, took a large slug of whisky and headed for the safest place in the world, where pain, worries and troubles are put on hold. I went to bed.
29
Paul Hawke stared at the meagre helping of food on the tin plate. It was some kind of stew and looked disgusting, but he was hungry and so, with a slow reluctance, he spooned some of it into his mouth. It was lukewarm and tasted like soft cardboard. He forced himself to eat it all, despite the protests of his rebellious stomach. He must eat. He must keep his strength up in order to sort himself out.
He swilled the last of the glutinous mess down with a mug of tepid tea. He had no idea what the time was. There was no window in his cell and his watch, along with all his personal possessions, had been confiscated. He had been asleep a long time and when he’d woken up, although he still felt rough and slightly disorientated, his mind was clearer. The alcoholic fog had dissipated. However with this clarity came the stark realisation of his precarious situation. A girl was dead and he was accused of her murder.
A further interview with Inspector Llewellyn had got neither of them anywhere. His memories of the previous night were still not clear and he still couldn’t account for his movements since going on leave. He must, he reasoned, have suffered some kind of breakdown. He hadn’t been aware that he had been so disturbed; it was just a growing, gnawing horror in the pit of his stomach at the thought of having to return. To return to the fighting and the futile loss of life he saw around him every day. He wasn’t frightened of dying himself; it was the thought of the others—his friends, the men he knew, young chaps who one day would be laughing, joking, writing letters to their wives, girlfriends or mothers and the next they were dead meat—pale-faced corpses on makeshift stretchers and a stark entry on a casualty list. A sudden sense of the monstrous futility of life, of the war and its consequences, swept over him and, silently, he wept.
After a while he wiped his eyes with his sleeve. Ironically, the tears had made him feel better. This unexpected release of emotion had been cathartic. It had eased his pain and, more important, helped him to face his own dilemma.
With some determination, he forced himself, yet again, to go over the events of the previous night. They came to him only in snatches of images. There was no continuous scenario. He tried hard to link them. He remembered the girl in the pub, the garishness of her little room and he remembered the sex and the emptiness of the experience. Then the fog really descended. He didn’t remember leaving her, the further drinks he had and his return to the little hotel where the police had found him.
His mind wandered back to the pub and the first encounter with girl. And then he recollected the man. The tall dark man. The man who’d tried to pick her up while he was at the bar getting drinks. He saw his jaded, sallow complexion, the melancholic eyes and the fierce jutting chin. And then he remembered that he’d seen him again. He’d seen h
im in the doorway of this cell. He’d seen him in a police uniform! What had Llewellyn called him...? Lowe. What had he been doing chatting up Mary?
Paul felt his pulse quicken and he began pacing the cell. What did this mean? It probably wasn’t unusual for policemen to take up with prostitutes. It might mean nothing at all. But this prostitute had been murdered. He recalled how furious the man had been when Mary had rejected him. His face was like thunder. And there was something in those strange dark eyes when they had seen Paul again in the cell. Fear certainly, but something more than that. This man knew something.
Paul ran his fingers through his hair in an agitated fashion. Maybe he was grasping at straws here—but straws were all he had at present. What could he do now? Telling Llewellyn might be a mistake. It did sound a little far-fetched and no doubt the police would close ranks. No, he had to speak to his brother.
His brother, the detective. He’d know what to do. He had to see Johnny.
*
As Constable Alec Jones was about to perform his routine inspection of the prisoner, he heard a loud groaning emanating from the cell. Jones slid back the spy-hole and peered inside. He saw the prisoner curled up on his bed, hugging himself and rocking gently while at the same time emitting a regular, rhythmic moaning sound. Jones observed this performance for nearly a minute, undecided what to do. He was unsure whether he should go and fetch a superior officer or find out for himself what was wrong with the prisoner. He noted the empty plate by the bed. The canteen stew was enough to give anyone the collywobbles.
Jones bit his lip with frustration. It was always being impressed on them at the Yard that one should use one’s initiative and here was a case in point. Surely, there was no need to go running for an inspector in order to ascertain whether the fellow in cell three had a tummy-ache.
With a decisive nod, Jones slid the key into the lock and opened the cell door. The prisoner continued to moan and showed no signs of being aware that a policeman had entered the cell.
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