Leaving the key in the lock, Jones closed the door and advanced on the troubled inmate.
‘Now then,’ he said gruffly, ‘what’s up with you?’
He received no reply. He leant over the bed and put his hand on the man’s shoulder. ‘Now, come on, mate, what’s the problem? Is it tummy-ache? How bad is it? Do you need to see the doctor?’
Jones attempted to pull the prisoner round to face him. As he did so, the groaning man turned swiftly and before Jones knew what was happening there were hands around his throat. He tried to pull back but he was held in their iron grip. The two men struggled for a while, then suddenly the prisoner released Jones and smashed his fist into the young constable’s face. There was a dull crunch of breaking bone as Jones fell backwards, crashing against the wall, banging his head. Warm blood trickled down his face. The prisoner pulled the dazed policeman to his feet and hit him once again, consigning him to the land of darkness and dreams.
Paul worked speedily. He stripped the constable of his trousers and tunic and exchanged them for his own. They weren’t a bad fit. The tunic was a little tight but it would do. Then he dressed the policeman in his own clothes and gagged him with his handkerchief. He hoisted the unconscious constable and laid him on the bed with his back to the spy-hole. He patted the head of the unconscious new inmate. ‘I’m sorry, I hurt you but needs must, I’m afraid,’ he said wryly.
He peered out into the dimly lighted corridor. It was deserted. He emerged, locked the cell door and, with some trepidation, set about finding his way out of the building. He was vaguely aware of the route he had taken when he had been brought into the Yard. He remembered being escorted down a spiral staircase to the cell and here at the end of the corridor there was the very same spiral staircase. He clambered up it at speed, his feet clanging on the worn metal steps, hoping he would not bump into a copper coming down. At the top he found himself facing another fairly featureless corridor which had several doors leading to what he assumed were offices. He felt in his trouser pocket and discovered a large blue handkerchief. He made his way down the corridor, holding the handkerchief to his face as though he was about to blow his nose, thus partly obscuring his features.
Two constables suddenly appeared round the corner. They were in deep conversation and hardly gave him a glance. They were wearing regulation raincoats which had a sheen of dampness on them, suggesting to Paul that they must have just entered the building. Therefore, he reasoned, there must be a door leading to the outside nearby. Brightened by this thought he moved on, still holding the handkerchief to his face. Now he passed a series of frosted windows down the left-hand side of the corridor. He stopped and tried to open one but they were securely fastened.
‘Hey you!’ a voice called out.
For a moment Paul froze with fear and then slowly he turned in the direction of the voice. He saw a burly man in a tight double-breasted suit beckoning to him. He had just stepped out of one of the offices. ‘Hey you, constable, come here,’ he called again in a voice that suggested he expected instant response.
There was nothing Paul could do but obey the brusque command. It was pointless trying to make a run for it. He had no idea where to run. Certainly it was pointless going back in the direction he had come. He just had to try and bluff it out. Trying to keep calm he approached the man who he assumed was some kind of plain-clothes officer.
‘What’s your name, lad?’
Paul plucked a name from thin air. ‘Carter, sir. PC Carter.’
‘I’ve not seen you around before.’
‘My first week, sir.’
The officer grunted. ‘They never tell you anything in this place. Right, lad, I’ve got an errand for you.’ He dipped his hand into his trouser pocket and extracted a few coins. ‘Here,’ he said, dropping money into the palm of Paul’s hand, ‘nip along to the canteen, there’s a good lad, and get me, that’s Chief Inspector Knight, a cup of tea—milk with three sugars—and a sandwich. Spam or cheese, whichever they’ve got left.’
‘A sandwich?’ Paul couldn’t believe his ears.
‘You’ve heard of them. Two pieces of bread stuck together with a filling inside.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And make it snappy, lad. OK. I don’t want my char to be cold by the time you get back.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Paul forced a grin and, after attempting a half-hearted salute, he pushed past the large inspector and hurried along.
Inspector Knight retreated into his office, unaware of the fact that he’d never see his money again or a cup of tea and a sandwich.
Paul’s successful encounter with Knight had given him a boost of confidence. He still kept the handkerchief to hand, but now he walked with more assurance. At last he passed a window without frosted glass which looked out on to an inner courtyard beyond which he could see traffic and pedestrians. There was no one about, no figures in blue who would question him as he made his way out on to the street. And he could see the grey sky filled with ragged, scudding clouds.
He could smell freedom.
And then he came upon it. The outside door. The thin wooden barrier that stood between him and escape. But it was locked. Sensibly it was locked. They couldn’t have any Tom, Dick or Harry come wandering into the building, or wandering out of it either.
A thought struck him. That would mean that all employees of the Yard who used this access would have their own key…surely. With some urgency he inspected the pockets on his borrowed tunic and sure enough the top left-hand breast pocket rattled. He unfastened the silver button and extracted a small key ring.
After three attempts he found the required key that opened the door. Nervously, he stepped outside. The air was cold and damp but it was like nectar to him.
With a broad smile wreathing his features, he stepped outside and breathed in deeply. Then he closed and relocked the door behind him.
He knew that his troubles were far from over, but for the moment at least he was free and able to set about proving his innocence.
Unfortunately for Paul Hawke, as Fate had designed her dark scenario, he was seen effecting his escape. He was not seen by anyone who would raise the alarm, someone who would be desirous of his recapture. He was seen by Lowe.
30
I went home with the intention of getting drunk. I wanted to set I sail to the Isle of Oblivion on a sea of whisky. However, by the time I let myself in to Hawke Towers, the common-sense side of my brain had convinced me that such action was futile. Getting pie-eyed would not bring Barbara back, or unravel the tangled skein of my life; it would only wreck my brain, give me a mouth like sandpaper and fuel my depression. With a grimace, I decided to settle for a black coffee and a Craven A.
With these restoratives, I sat on my battered sofa staring into space, trying to work out what to do next, but my mind kept wandering away from its task as it has a habit of doing when faced with a difficult problem. My eyes were caught by the twisting column of smoke spiralling lazily up to the light-fitting. I thought back to a week ago when my life seemed much less complicated, less bloody and hurtful. That was the way of things, of course: you never appreciate how lucky you are until you aren’t! Now it was too late.
Then I thought of Barbara. The image of her pretty dark-haired face filled my mind. I remembered our meal together at Benny’s, how she had devoured the food with such enthusiasm. I smiled at the thought—but not for long though, for I also remembered the dark and smoking shell of her house, the blackened banisters, the smouldering ash and the stench of murder that lingered there. I knew that her death and the manner of her death would haunt me for a long time. I felt guilt, too. Somehow I should have prevented it. Somehow I should have protected her. Somehow. I knew that her brutal murder had laid upon me the responsibility of revenge: an eye for an eye—a life for a life. It was a responsibility I would not shirk.
I took a drink of coffee. It had gone cold so I abandoned it and lit another cigarette. I was glad now that I hadn’t hit the whisky bottle.
The alcohol would have provoked both my anger and despair and propelled me into taking some foolish and reckless course of action. I had to move with caution especially where the Britannia Club mob were concerned. Behind that pseudo-civilised, upper-class respectable façade, lay a vicious, cruel and crazy bunch of murdering bastards.
I felt my pulse begin to race as I thought about the smug, oily countenances of Sir Howard and Guy Cooper. I didn’t know how far they were involved in Barbara’s death, but that didn’t matter. Even if they hadn’t arranged it, they had inspired and no doubt countenanced such action. I took a deep drag on my cigarette and cast them from my mind. They could wait. The most pressing business was my brother. As I considered his predicament I ached for a whisky. Surely one good slug would help, would ease the barbed wire I felt wrapping itself around my brain. I began to weaken at the thought of the smoky liquid splashing into a stout tumbler and before my mind had been completely convinced, I found my body getting up from the chair and heading for the filing-cabinet. I had just pulled the drawer back and spied the bottle of Johnnie Walker lying enticingly on its side, when the doorbell rang.
With mixed feelings I slid the drawer to gently and answered the door. I found David Llewellyn and Sergeant Sunderland standing before me with expressions borrowed from some Greek tragedy.
I let them in without a word. What now? I wondered, but I reckoned I had no need to put such thoughts into words. I could see from their grim faces that they would tell me soon enough without any prompting from me.
David stroked his chin and sighed. ‘Paul’s escaped.’
At first I thought I had misheard. ‘Paul’s what?’ I said, unable to find any word similar to ‘escaped’ which I might have heard incorrectly.
‘He’s bloody well escaped. Done a runner.’
‘From the Yard?’ I was still having difficulty accepting the statement.
Sunderland clarified the matter. ‘He feigned illness, clobbered the constable on duty and, dressed in his uniform, he managed to get out of the building.’
It sounded like a scene from a Christmas pantomime of my youth, or part of the adventures of Mr Toad at least. I couldn’t help but smile.
David sighed again. ‘This isn’t a laughing matter, Johnny.’ He was right, of course, but sometimes it helps to see the farcical side of life. I nodded, suitably chastened.
‘Is he here?’
‘Paul?’
David nodded wearily. ‘Where else would he go? He has little money. He’s wearing a policeman’s uniform and as far as we know he has no other friends in the city.’
‘No, he’s not here.’
‘I’m sorry but I’ve got to look around, Johnny. We’ve got to put our friendship to one side now. We’re dealing with an escaped murder suspect—the fact that he’s your brother is of no consequence in the matter.’
‘Sure, I understand,’ I said, rather more coolly than I intended. ‘But he’s not here—and I wouldn’t lie to you.’
‘Officially, I can’t take that risk.’
I knew he was right, of course. I would have felt the same if our positions were reversed, but I couldn’t help being nettled by his observation about putting our friendship to one side.
‘Be my guest,’ I said quietly, sitting on the edge of my desk. ‘You know the layout.’
Without a word the two men set about searching the premises. They didn’t just look in the wardrobe and under the bed and other areas where a grown man could secrete himself, but checked other places too, drawers, cupboards and the filing-cabinet for any evidence to indicate that Paul had been there. Unfortunately for them, the cupboard was bare.
The search over, Sunderland moved to the door ready to leave, while David came over to me.
‘Sooner or later he’ll come here. He’ll be in touch. You can’t help him, Johnny. Not in a reckless fashion, anyway. You must contact the Yard immediately. And hand him over. Don’t try to be the detective hero. You’ll only get yourself in trouble.’
‘Is that your friendly advice?’ I asked.
‘I’m putting a plainclothes man on watch outside for the next twenty-four hours,’ he said, ignoring my sarcasm. ‘We’ll know at the Yard within minutes when Paul turns up.’
Without waiting for any reply from me he moved to the door. ‘Right, Sergeant, let’s be off. Our job here is done…for the time being. Thanks for your co-operation, Mr Hawke,’ he added before closing the door.
I didn’t move for some time and when I did I went to the window and gazed down into the street. There he was. Straight from the central casting agency: a tall figure in a long regulation raincoat and felt hat standing in a doorway opposite the entrance to Priory Court.
And then the phone rang.
It was Paul.
‘Have they gone? Llewellyn and his tame baboon.’
‘Yes. Where the hell are you?’
‘In a telephone box on Tottenham Court Road. I knew they’d come running to you as soon as they’d found I’d scarpered.’
‘Well, you were right. They did, you idiot.’
‘Idiot, be damned. I had to do something to prove my innocence.’
‘Like slugging a policeman and escaping from police custody.’
‘I’m not going down for something I didn’t do.’
Paul sounded a lot stronger, more assured; in fact more like his old self. This encouraged me. ‘So now you are sure you didn’t kill the girl.’
‘Of course I am. I may have been a little strange over the past few weeks but I know I couldn’t kill someone like that.’
‘Well, if it’s any consolation, I never believed you could either. But you’ve been a bloody fool and escaping from the nick really doesn’t help your case.’
‘Spilt milk, Johnny. Spilt milk. Anyway, I need you to help me find the real killer and I think I’ve got you a lead. I have to see you to explain things. I’ll come round to your place in about an hour after it’s got dark.’
‘Oh no you won’t,’ I growled. ‘Thanks to your antics I’ve got a friendly copper watching the premises. You come knocking on my door and you’ll be back in your cell before you know what’s hit you.’
Paul swore softly. ‘What the hell am I going to do? I’ve hardly any money and I’m stuck in this bloody uniform.’
Sometimes I have the ability to think fast and formulate plans on the hoof. This was one of those times.
‘Listen carefully’, I said with hardly a pause in our conversation. ‘This is what we’ll do.’
31
Paul Hawke replaced the receiver with a sigh. With Johnny on his side, he felt sure that things would sort themselves out pretty quickly. So many of the cobwebs that had shrouded his mind had dispersed and he was beginning to feel more like his old self again. At least he had a better chance of proving his innocence now than he would while being cooped up inside a police cell.
He was just about to leave the telephone box, when suddenly the door swung open with great force and a man pushed himself inside, knocking Paul back hard against the receiver.
‘What the…’ said Paul and then words failed him. He was staring into the face of the murderer.
‘Who were you phoning?’ Lowe snapped.
The question came so quickly, Paul hadn’t time for subterfuge. He wasn’t used to deception anyway. Orphanage life had taught him to be prompt and truthful when asked a question.
‘My brother, Johnny,’ he replied.
‘Telling him all about me, I suppose?’
Paul shook his head.
Lowe smirked and pulled a revolver from his raincoat pocket.
He jabbed it into Paul’s stomach.
‘Is there anyone else you’ve told about me?’
‘What is there to tell?’
Lowe pushed the revolver harder into his flesh. ‘Don’t be smart. Just answer the questions.’
‘You killed that girl, didn’t you?’
‘You know that already.’
‘I knew nothing for certai
n…until just now.’
Lowe ignored the remark. ‘Who else have you spoken to?’
‘No one. I’ve only just left the Yard. You know that ‘cause you must have followed me.’
Lowe’s brain had slowed down over recent weeks. Facts needed longer to establish themselves in his consciousness. It took him a few seconds to weigh up what he was being told and to realise that he was being told the truth. What really dominated his thinking now was the fact that this man was a threat. He could expose him. He could bring his mission to a premature end.
Paul could see the confusion and uncertainty in Lowe’s eyes, and another indefinable element that suggested to him that this man’s mental stability was crumbling. His eyes fell upon the gun pressed into his stomach and began to feel very frightened.
‘Look,’ he said breathlessly, ‘all I’m concerned about is getting out of London. Escaping. That’s why I was ringing my brother. He’s going to meet me. Bring me some clothes and money so I can scarper. I’m no danger to you. Just let me go, eh?’
‘Where?’
‘What?’
‘Where’s he meeting you?’
*
As luck would have it, there was no one passing by the telephone box when the gun went off. There was a brief muffled explosion which merged with the sounds of traffic outside. Moments later a tall man in a dark raincoat emerged and walked briskly away.
32
I wasn’t naïve enough to believe that the raincoat man placed so prominently outside Hawke Towers was the only man on the job. David Llewellyn was a far shrewder operator than that. In essence raincoat man was the decoy. There would be at least one other Scotland Yard chappie nearby ready to follow me whenever I left the premises. As the suspect’s brother and, as far as we were all aware, the only friend he had in London, it stood to reason that sooner or later Paul would contact me and I would rush to his assistance. I needed to be trailed wherever I went.
So it was clear to me that I had to lose my shadow before I could meet my errant brother. I wrapped some clothes in a brown-paper parcel, dipped into my emergency stash of cash and left the building as ostentatiously as I could. No point in being cloak-and-dagger about it. Sooner or later my tail would make his presence felt. I walked swiftly, dodging in and out of the stream of pedestrians coming my way. I was determined to make the fellow work hard. On reaching Tottenham Court Road, I leapt off the pavement without warning and hailed a cab. I instructed the cabbie to drive off at speed. However, at the second set of traffic lights, I slipped out of the cab and like a greyhound after the rabbit, dashed down a side street. I circumnavigated the block and then secreted myself in a darkened doorway and waited for ten minutes. I reckoned that my actions should have cut the umbilical cord.
Comes the Dark Page 13