Raymond Carter had no idea how long he had been lying in the dark. He had gone past hunger and discomfort. His mind was now drifting towards delirium. He now began to wonder if what he was experiencing was real after all. Was it actually happening? His life before this sable night of incarceration had dominated him was vague and difficult to conjure up. The old Raymond was a mere foggy fragmented memory. His new life was clearer. He recollected that he had been visited in this prison by his old friend Charlie Dokes who had spoken very kindly to him. It had been good to see Charlie again. His one true friend.
Perhaps he was dead? Perhaps this dark chamber was some kind of waiting-room where you were held until They decided where you go. Up in the lift to Heaven or down in a bucket to Hell. Carter giggled at this concept. Or perhaps he was mad. That thought had occurred to him also. But, he reasoned, if he were mad would he wonder whether he was mad or not? Surely madmen do not doubt their sanity. Or do they?
His attention was diverted from this conundrum by a sudden noise. It was the door opening and again a pale sliver of yellow light stretched across the floor as someone entered and then it disappeared as the door was closed.
There was the click of the torch and once more Charlie Dokes’s grinning face appeared as if by magic floating in the darkness.
‘Hello Raymond, old boy. How are you?’ The red lips moved noisily, hypnotically with the words.
Raymond smiled. ‘Hello, Charlie,’ he muttered behind the tape.
‘I’ve come to say goodbye, Raymond. My work is over. The job is done. You’ll not be seeing me again.’
Raymond shivered with emotion. This can’t be real. Can’t be true, Surely Charlie wasn’t going to desert him. Not his old friend Charlie. ‘No,’ he wailed, and tears welled in his eyes and began to roll down his cheeks. ‘Don’t go. Don’t leave me,’ he cried desperately, the words muffled by the tape.
‘How touching. Parting is such sweet sorrow, eh pal. But now I have to go. You see, I’ve served my purpose. There is no need for me any more. It’s time for me to take my final curtain call. Bye bye.’
The torch clicked off and the face of Charlie Dokes vanished.
Raymond Carter squirmed in despair and emitted an inarticulate moan.
From the darkness, came the eerie voice of the dummy. ‘Now cracks a corrupt heart. Good night, sweet prince. And flights of Angels sing thee to thy rest.’
Constable Ernest Barker walked along the side of the Thames by Chiswick basin, indulging in a crafty smoke. There was nobody about and it was that in-between time of day when it was neither day nor dusk. But the clouds had gathered and the light had begun to fade and it was sufficiently dim enough to conceal the glowing fag inside his gloved hands between puffs. He stopped for a moment and stared out at the great expanse of the grey seething water. No matter what Hitler is doing to us or will do in the future, thought PC Barker, in a rare moment of contemplation, he’ll never stop the constant surge of Old Father Thames as it makes its determined way down to the sea. He smiled to himself in satisfaction at this piece of homespun philosophy.
Then he saw it. The thing in the river. At first he thought his eyes might be deceiving him. He leaned forward and peered hard, focusing on the strange object that was floating in the water. Flinging his fag away, he hurried down to the water’s edge to get a better view. Crikey, he thought, it can’t be … But it was. He wasn’t wrong. It was … a body. A small body, lying face down, shifting rhythmically with the swell of the current.
‘Oh, my God,’ he whispered, as the body drifted closer to the shore. ‘It’s the body of a child.’
He glanced around him for help. Moments earlier he had been pleased there was no one about, but now he could do with somebody to assist him. He had to get that … that child out of the water, sharpish. But as his eyes scanned his surroundings, he realized that he truly was alone in this venture. He spied a small rowing-boat fifty yards ahead tied to a wooden pier. Again he gazed around only to establish for certain that he was the solitary figure on the watery landscape. Well, there was no other alternative. He certainly didn’t come from a seafaring family and his only experience was the paddleboats in Regent’s Park lake but …
He clambered aboard the little craft that bobbed with unnerving instability as he did so and then struggled for some moments to retrieve the oars from the canvas wrapping in the bottom and place them in the rowlocks. While he did all this, he was aware that the sky was now darkening at a faster rate. He swore in frustration and then cast the little vessel out on to the swell of the big river.
It took him about a minute to establish some kind of rhythm with the oars and then he tried to point the recalcitrant vessel in the right direction – towards the shape floating in the river some way behind him. He used the word ‘shape’ in his mind, avoiding the term ‘body’ although in his heart of hearts he knew that was what it was.
As he pulled manfully on the oars, the boat drew nearer and nearer until it was almost floating alongside the ‘shape’. PC Barker drew in his oars and leaned forward over the edge, reaching out towards it. He saw now that it was a little thing, not man-sized at all. His heart sank as he realized that it was, as he suspected, the body of a small child. A young boy.
Gradually, the boat edged closer until he was able to grab hold of one of the arms which were floating outstretched. As he did so, he gave a yelp of surprise and dropped it back in the water. There appeared to be nothing in the sleeve as though … as though it were empty.
Gingerly, he reached out again and grabbed the arm and hauled the thing aboard. It was as light as a feather. It fell, a sodden mess in the bottom of the boat.
Barker gazed down at it and his jaw dropped open in shock and surprise. The thing he had retrieved from the river was not a child. It was not a living thing of any description. It was a doll. A dummy dressed in a brightly striped blazer and brown slacks. The shiny immobile face stared up at him with a grisly rictal grin. Then he noticed that planted in the centre of its chest was the handle of a knife.
THIRTY-ONE
* * *
Leaving The Old King’s Head, I made my way back to my office, my mind buzzing. After my talk with Greta Fielding I was now certain who my man was – the fellow who had been threatening Raymond Carter and who had murdered Arthur Keating and Evelyn Munro. Despite my detective work bearing fat juicy fruit, strangely I experienced no sense of elation or relief at reaching this conclusion. I just felt rather weary. It was a sad and depressing business and I knew there could be no happy ending for anyone. I was dealing with damaged lives and probably an unhinged mind. However, it was my duty to try and rescue Raymond Carter, if it was not too late.
On reaching Hawke Towers, I made myself a strong black coffee to clear my head. Then I made two phone calls. The first gave me the necessary information I required to make my next move. I scribbled down the address I needed and then rang Max at her shop. I knew she would be there during the daylight hours. It was a joy to hear her voice again. The gentle, soothing Gallic tones were like a tonic to my ragged soul. She told me that she was fine and it had been good that she had opened up the shop today after all because she had just received a large order for a set of Pierrot masks for some theatrical extravaganza due to open at one of the big London theatres in the spring. I was very happy for her. I also told her that I believed she was no longer in danger. Without going into any details, I let her know that I thought the case was coming to a conclusion.
‘That is good news, Johnny. But please take care,’ she said quietly, so quietly it was difficult to hear her voice above the hiss on the line.
‘I will and when it’s all over I’ll take you out for a celebratory meal. Just the two of us this time.’
‘I will look forward to that.’
I was still smiling after I’d put the receiver down. But the smile did not linger. I had work to do and, as usual, I had no idea what the outcome would be. Reluctantly I retrieved my revolver from the locked drawer of my desk. I
didn’t like guns and didn’t feel comfortable carrying one. I knew that they cancelled things out in a final way. There was no going back after the trigger was pulled. In my book life wasn’t cheap; and it wasn’t my job to be a dispassionate avenging executioner. I liked to discover the truth without the need for violence, but I knew that I’d be a fool to set out on this expedition without some kind of solid protection. I did want to come back after all. I slipped the gun into my coat pocket and then retrieved the small torch from the kitchen.
‘Right, boy,’ I said to myself, ‘time for Johnny Hawke to ride to the rescue.’
I was just about to switch the light off and leave when my office door creaked open to reveal a small shape in the doorway. It was Peter.
‘Hello, Johnny,’ he said wistfully.
‘What on earth are you doing here?’ I cried, ushering him in and closing the door. He stood before me, a plaintive little creature in his grey belted gabardine and school cap almost pulled over one eye. With his scuffed shoes and wrinkled socks, one around his ankle and the other pulled up to the knee, he looked like the archetypal schoolboy of the cartoonist’s imagination. A sort of forlorn Just William.
‘I needed to talk to you,’ he said with a sniff, his eyes beginning to water.
Now of all times.
His face looked as cold and miserable as one of Benny’s stale buns. ‘What’s the matter, old chap?’
‘It’s … Raymond and Charlie, Charlie Dokes. I thought you could tell me the truth. I’d heard that he … Raymond was a murderer. That he’d killed Miss Munro off his radio show. I know you’re on a case for him, I thought you’d know all about it. He didn’t do it, did he?’ Peter recited this almost like an automaton as though he had been rehearsing the speech. When he finished, his body seem to deflate.
‘Let me get you a cup of tea and a biscuit. And then we’ll see what I can tell you.’
Without a word, he followed me through into the section I grandly called my living-quarters. I lit the gas fire and placed my shivering pal in a chair in front of it while I brewed him a pot of tea. I managed to find a couple of fairly edible digestive biscuits to accompany it.
Once he was slurping the brew I sat opposite him. Where to start? ‘I can see you’re upset at the idea of someone as funny and nice as Mr Carter actually killing someone. Well, I can tell you that I’m fairly certain that he didn’t.’
Peter gazed at me over the brim of the mug, his features brightening for a moment. ‘Then why did he run away?’
I smiled and gave a little shrug. ‘Well, I don’t know everything, Peter. But I think that he has gone into hiding so that the real murderer doesn’t find him. And now it’s my job to discover where he is before the real killer does.’
Peter’s eyes widened in excitement. ‘Who is the real killer?’
‘We don’t know yet.’
‘But you are on the case?’
I nodded. ‘Oh, yes.’
‘So Raymond is an innocent man.’ He leaned forward eagerly, desperate for the confirmation that his hero Raymond Carter was not stained with sin.
‘He’s not a murderer, but he is perhaps not as nice a man as you might think from his radio show and seeing him on stage. That’s just a performance.’
Peter gave me a puzzled look.
I ran the back of my hand gently down his cheek and smiled sympathetically. ‘Life is not so simple as good men and bad men, Pete, old boy,’ I said, remembering my own youthful naïveté and the harsh awakening as gradually the veils were lifted to reveal the truth about mankind. ‘We all have a bit of both in us – some good and some not so good. You will admit that you are a bit naughty sometimes and maybe a bit selfish.’
He nodded reluctantly.
‘Well, I reckon so am I. And indeed all grown ups are to some extent, but of course it’s more serious then. Most folk are only slightly naughty or selfish or cruel, but a small number of people let this side of their character take charge.’
‘Like Harryboy Jenkins.’ Peter shuddered as he mentioned the name of the man who had kidnapped him and nearly killed him some time before. I think I had allowed the name, the character and the incident seep out of my memory like sand in an egg-timer. But just the mention of this demon brought it all back, crisp and vivid.
‘Yes,’ I said at length, testing myself to say that name again, ‘like Harryboy Jenkins.’
‘But Raymond Carter isn’t like Harryboy, is he?’
‘No, no, he’s not a killer but he has done some bad things in the past.’
‘What has he done?’
‘I’ll tell you some other time.’
‘I want to know now.’
‘Maybe you do, but I say no. If you want to be treated like a grown up you have to get used to people saying no and meaning it. And you need to be more considerate of others….’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Have you seen the time? It’s after four. You should be home now. Edith and Martha will be worrying about where you are. You’ve come here because you wanted to find something out and you’ve not given them a thought. You’ve not bothered to consider the worry you’re causing them.’
Peter’s face clouded with concern. ‘I didn’t think.’
‘That, my young sir, is a pretty weak excuse. I want you to telephone them now and put their minds at rest. Apologize for being thoughtless, explain where you are and say that I’m putting you in a taxi in five minutes to take you home.’
‘Aah, can’t I stay a bit longer?’
I gave him a look, furrowed brows and staring eyes. ‘Phone,’ I said sharply. ‘You’re delaying me; I have urgent business to attend to.’
With slumped shoulders and a face puckered with dismay, Peter trudged to the telephone and dialled the number. It was Edith who answered. In humble tones he explained his wayward actions and apologized, adding that he’d be home shortly. I indicated that I wanted a word.
‘Thank goodness,’ said Edith. ‘We were really getting concerned.’
‘He’s a bit upset about the Raymond Carter business, but that’s no real excuse. Anyway, I’m popping him in a taxi now and he should be with you in fifteen minutes. I suggest you give him his supper and send him straight to bed.’ I knew that they wouldn’t. They’d welcome him with open arms like the prodigal son and make such a fuss of him, but at least Peter had heard my view on the matter. He had to be discouraged from just pleasing himself on a whim. I wasn’t very good at discipline – or hadn’t been in the past, but I was beginning to realize that always being soft with the boy was not only bad for him but I was failing to live up to my responsibilities. He was no kin of mine, but I regarded him as a son or much younger brother. There was a bond between us and as I was the older and, therefore, supposedly more sensible and responsible, I needed to act like a caring and mindful guardian.
‘Right,’ I said as I replaced the receiver, ‘let’s get you into a taxi.’ I paused only to snatch up the piece of paper with the important address before escorting the mute Peter to the door.
THIRTY-TWO
* * *
Raymond Carter was dragged from the dark realm of surreal dreams by a fierce cold sensation which thrust him into breathtaking consciousness. In his now fragile mind it was like travelling in a lift from the basement to ground level at supersonic speed and being dumped with great force on the floor outside the lift. He blinked feverishly only to discover that he was still in his dark prison and that he was still bound and gagged. The sharp freezing sensation came again. It was cold water, which was being splashed in his face. The shock of it made him gasp and attempt to coil up into a foetal position but his limbs, tired, stiff and bruised failed to function properly. The icy water came again, dousing his head. For a split second he had a flashback. He was on the stage of the Palladium in the houseboat sketch. Charlie was giggling heartily as another porthole opened, allowing water to gush all over him. The audience roared with pleasure. The moment faded and reality reasserted itself.
It was a voice he knew.
He felt a hand touch his face and then the tape that covered his mouth was ripped away with some violence. His sharp bleating cry echoed in the blackness. It was a mixture of shock, pain and fear. Then he gasped for air. At last he could breathe properly once more.
His tormentor spoke again. ‘Is that better, Dad?’
‘What?’ Raymond found his voice harsh, croaky and faint as though his vocal chords had forgotten how to function.
‘I said is that better?’
‘You said “Dad”.’ Carter really had to concentrate with all his energy to turn his blurry thoughts into words.
‘Yes, so I did. Dad.’
‘Why…?’
‘Why did I call you Dad? The answer is simple. Because I’m your son.’
The taxi had only just turned the corner, obliterating the waving figure of Johnny Hawke from view before Peter began to moan noisily and clutch his stomach in a melodramatic fashion. The driver glanced in his mirror to catch a view of his young passenger who seemed to be rolling about on the back seat in some discomfort. He frowned. ‘You all right, son?’ he called.
‘No,’ groaned the boy. ‘I think I’m going to be sick.’
The driver braked heavily. ‘Not in my cab, you’re not,’ he muttered, pulling the vehicle up to the kerb. It had happened once before. A respectable-looking gentleman who, it turned out, was as pickled as a gherkin, vomited liberally in the back of his cab. It had taken him hours to clean up the mess and the smell had lingered for weeks, sometimes being the cause of a number of passengers curtailing their journey. If this little blighter was going to be sick, he was going to do it in the gutter.
Requiem for a Dummy Page 21