Forests of the Night

by David Stuart Davies

  Yes, I needed a woman. It wasn’t the first time, of course. I can’t remember the last occasion I made love to my wife. Well, with Sandra it wasn’t so much making love as entering enemy territory. Our marriage hasn’t been a marriage of any sort for years. We live separate lives. She is content. She doesn’t want anyone else: she has herself.

  However, I am different. I am not ashamed to say that I have sought out women to satisfy my need over the years. Sought them out regularly, if you want to know. Some have been willing young actresses, hoping that by letting me bed them it would increase their chances of stardom. Silly cows. And then, more recently, I’ve paid for services rendered. As I did with Pammie. But she was special. Although there was always a financial transaction at the end of the process, the love-making was tender, exciting. It was as though she cared about you. Not like some of the ten-bob hags round Soho who start filing their nails while you’re on the job, eyes as vacant as an empty coffin. And just as comforting. I really believe that Pammie cared a little about me.

  Anyway, I rang her up that night. Yes, I did use the phone box on Boynton Street. I didn’t want any of the nosy sods at the Corona to hear me. I didn’t care a toss about them knowing I was calling a woman – I wouldn’t be the only one – I just didn’t want them to know about my destiny with the scrapheap. Not just yet anyway. I couldn’t bear those furtive looks of sympathy – or worse still those knowing nods of the ‘not before time’ variety.

  I explained my problem to Pammie. She was very sympathetic and invited me round. She said she had a friend already booked in at nine – she always called her clients friends – but she’d make an exception and see me at eleven. Just to hear her voice made me feel better. I went back to the club to wait. I avoided any more alcohol. I didn’t want to be incapable when I got to Pammie’s. I needed to prove to myself that I could still be a man in one department even if I wasn’t going to be a film star much longer. I had a light dinner and drank copious cups of coffee.

  I walked round to Pammie’s flat feeling strangely numb inside. The pain and sadness had subsided and I was looking forward to an hour of love-making and that was all. It was as though my mind couldn’t go beyond that. I couldn’t see further than midnight.

  When I got to the flat I was surprised to find the door slightly ajar. I knew she would be expecting me, but she usually checked all her visitors through the spyglass in the door before letting them in. I entered and called out her name. There was no response. All the lights were on and the radiogram in the sitting-room was playing some dance band programme. I looked in all the rooms, leaving the bedroom until last. It was as though I knew that’s where I would find her.

  I went in and there she was – lying on the bed with a knife stuck in her chest. She was dressed in a long white negligee and it glistened where the blood had seeped through the material. At first I couldn’t believe what I saw. It was as though I had stepped into one of my own films. This was a stunt double with fake blood. Anytime now someone would call, ‘Cut!’ But they didn’t. The girl did not get up, give me a smile and go for a fag. She just lay there. In this scene she really was dead.

  I stood looking at her for some time, trying to take it all in. Eventually, I felt for her pulse, knowing there wouldn’t be one. I gazed down at her. She still looked beautiful. Her mouth was open slightly and her eyes were wide with terror. In some strange way it was erotic. I don’t know why – I can’t even explain it now – but I put out my hand and touched the blood. It was cold and sticky and adhered to my fingers like strawberry jam. It was then that I started crying. All the personal pain and hurt that I’d felt through the day somehow seemed connected with the brutal death of this beautiful young woman and it was too much for me. I’m not ashamed that I sobbed uncontrollably.

  I left the flat still in some state of distress. My mind had shut down. I didn’t think about calling the police. What could they do? Couldn’t bring her back to life, that’s for certain. Perhaps some spark of self preservation was still working for me. Being involved with the police certainly would be heaping more coals upon my head. Not only losing my job as Tiger Blake, but found in the flat of a murdered prostitute. That certainly would put the tin hat on my career.

  I remember little of what I did next until I arrived home. I know I still had some blood on my hands. I had a bath and scrubbed myself down as though I was expunging the horrors of the whole day. Of course Sandra was already asleep. We don’t even share the same bedroom any more so I was safe from questions. For the first time in years I went to bed that night stone cold sober.

  That’s the truth.

  twenty-one

  When Gordon Moore had finished telling me his story, he stared at his feet for some moments collecting his thoughts. I let him. It was a convincing tale but he was an actor and used to presenting made up events as the truth. How good an actor was he? It had seemed to me that he had almost been relieved to tell someone, treating me as a father confessor, but was it real or a performance?

  I pulled out a pack of cigarettes from my pocket and offered him one.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said quietly. All the previous bombast had evaporated or at least had been put on the back burner for a while. Was this all part of the act as well? As I held out a match and lit his cigarette I noticed that his eyes were moist. If this was a performance it was better than any he had given in a dozen Tiger Blake movies.

  ‘So now I’ve told you what I know about Pammie’s death, shouldn’t you tell me who the hell you are?’

  I passed him one of my cards.

  ‘A private detective.’ He said it as though he had just noticed some dog dirt on his shoe.

  ‘I have been employed by Pammie’s parents to find the murderer.’

  ‘I thought the police had done that already. It was that pimp, her boyfriend, Fraser.’

  ‘You don’t want to believe all you read in the newspapers, Mr Moore. I would have thought you’d know that.’

  ‘Maybe.’ He threw his head back and blew out a cloud of white smoke which obscured his face for a moment. The old arrogance was gradually surfacing again. ‘So what are going to do about what I’ve told you?’

  ‘Store it up here’ – I tapped my forehead – ‘until I’ve finished my enquiries.’

  ‘I see. Do you believe me?’

  I didn’t reply, partly because I wasn’t sure.

  ‘I didn’t kill Pammie. What motive could I possibly have?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve more to find out yet. For example, when I first mentioned Pammie’s murder, you asked if I was “the bastard who’s been calling me”.’

  Moore nodded. ‘I’ve had a couple of calls from some odd ball who says things.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘That I killed her … stabbed her to death!’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘… And he’s going to see that justice is done.’

  ‘What do you think he means by that?’

  ‘You’re the detective! What the hell do you think he means? He’s just a crank.’

  ‘Maybe, but cranks can be dangerous and he must know you visited Pammie on the night of her death.’

  Moore’s eyes flickered nervously. ‘Yes,’ he said slowly. Obviously this thought had not struck him before.

  ‘And you’ve no idea whatsoever who the caller is?’

  ‘Not a clue.’

  At this point our conversation was interrupted by a tap at the door and Tristan’s head popped into view. ‘You all through?’

  ‘You could say that,’ muttered Gordon Moore, pouring himself a large gin.

  * * *

  While I travelled back to London, I re-ran Gordon Moore’s story in my own personal mind cinema. While all the details rang true, it would have been easy for him just to change the details of what happened after he reached Pammie’s flat. Perhaps he was drunk and they had a row. In the mood he was in he could have done anything. Anything … like sticking a knife in her chest.

  When he real
ized 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.