Forests of the Night

by David Stuart Davies

  ‘Pretend it never happened.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose that’s it. In one sense you can’t blame him. He refuses to talk about Pamela. He denies her existence. In fact he’s all but stopped talking to me.’

  ‘And what about you, Mrs Palfrey? How are you coping?’

  ‘As I always have. Stoically, I suppose you might say. Taking each day as it comes. I have a greater degree of acceptance of the cruelty of life than my husband. I was her mother. I can’t forget or deny that. Whatever our children do, they are still ours. I grieve as any mother would.’

  ‘Wouldn’t the grieving be easier if you knew who was responsible for your daughter’s death?’

  ‘I’m not sure that it matters any more. Dead or alive we have lost our Pamela. In truth we lost her before she left home. You might find this difficult to understand, but having found out all about our daughter’s … activities, I believe she is better off dead.’

  I really did not know how to respond to that statement. It was as though the woman had brutally severed all her maternal instincts.

  ‘Is it your desire that I should give up my investigations?’

  ‘I think it would be for the best.’

  ‘But it may result in the wrong man being punished.’

  ‘Wrong people are punished all the time. My husband and I are being punished now, just for being loving parents. I have no wish to guide your conscience, Mr Hawke. Please follow your own beliefs and desires if you must, but do not involve us. To be honest, I never wanted to come to you in the first place. My husband is right. We need to be left alone. Goodbye, Mr Hawke.’

  The phone went dead.

  And so … follow my own conscience … and my instincts I must.

  twenty-four

  Unlike her husband, Sandra Moore did not drink very much. She watched her weight scrupulously and was conscious of the effect that alcohol could have on the smoothness of the skin, the thickness of the waist and the whites of the eyes. But after receiving the telephone call, she had made an exception and downed two large sherries in quick succession. She hoped the drinks would help her relax and allow her to think. She had to decide what to do.

  Sandra knew that if her wretched husband had got himself involved with a whore and had murdered her, she had to distance herself from him as far as possible, while retaining as much dignity and money as she could muster. Of course, it wasn’t certain that Gordon had committed murder. It was a crank call after all. However, there was no smoke without fire and if it was true, she was in great danger of being dragged down with him. She had seen Gordon drunk and angry and in this state she believed that he was quite capable of killing someone.

  Another sherry convinced her that Gordon was as guilty as hell.

  She really could not stay put and wait for the truth to come out. The role of the loyal wife was not in her repertoire. She had to act now. There really wasn’t a moment to lose. She was pleased she had made that decision. The sherry was working. However the next problem was … what exactly should she do? Luckily, she told herself, she didn’t love the bastard. She had no feelings for him whatsoever; in fact she wouldn’t care if she never saw him again. Indeed, that would be a welcome outcome. She had only herself to think about. Her instinct was to pack her things, empty their joint back account and escape to Geraldine’s in the Cotswolds until the whole ghastly business was over. It would be a pity to leave this lovely flat over which she had lavished much care and attention – the furnishings were exquisite – but she could return to it when it was all over. When Gordon Moore was dangling from a rope.

  She suddenly felt the stirrings of anger in her frigid heart. It’s a pity he wasn’t dead already, she thought. That would save a lot of trouble. Sandra’s jaw muscles tightened as the image of her stupid husband flashed into her mind. Whatever happened, she was bound to be affected by the scandal. Damn him! He couldn’t even kill a tart without getting caught.

  She stood up, smoothed down her skirt and headed for the bedroom to pack.

  * * *

  Parker, the porter at the Corona Club had a struggle helping Gordon Moore on with his overcoat. The actor was more drunk than usual and making no attempt to be a willing participant in the exercise. He’d been alone in the dining-room for most of the evening, eating little but drinking copiously. He was on a morbid mission to blot out the world. When it came time for him to leave, it was as though the world was trying to blot him out. Everything was in soft double focus and his limbs had lost their firmness and adopted a rubbery quality.

  It was clear even to his befuddled brain that he’d never make it into his overcoat without some assistance. Parker, who had worked at the Corona Club long enough to be telepathic about such situations, came to his rescue. What followed was like a wrestling match in slow motion in which the coat adopted the persona of a third combatant. After a great deal of huffing and puffing along with a series of inarticulate grunts from both men, the task was completed and Moore leaned against the porter somewhat out of breath.

  ‘Are you all right, sir?’ asked Parker with genuine concern.

  Moore gave a grunt, which was intended to be a laugh. ‘Shall I tell you a little secret, Parker, my friend? I am not all right and I don’t think I’ll ever be all right again.’

  ‘Oh, don’t say that, sir. Every cloud, y’know.’

  Moore gave another laughing grunt. ‘Every cloud is filled with fucking rain and I got no umbrella any more.’

  Parker decided there was no future in following this particular strand of conversation. ‘Shall I call you a cab, Mr Moore?’

  ‘No thanks. I’ll walk a while. I need some fresh air. Good night, old boy.’ Moore pulled himself away from Parker’s support and made his way unsteadily to the door. A passing member gave him a wide berth in case he was involved in a collision and flashed Parker an eye-rolling look. The porter responded with an indulgent smile.

  Once outside the club, the cold air assailed Moore’s senses and he stumbled down the steps and, reaching the bottom, he fell sideways on to the damp pavement. He sprawled lengthways close to the gutter.

  ‘Christ,’ he hissed, as pain shot up his arm. There was no one about and he lay there for some moments before he made a great effort to get to his feet. It was an operation which was conducted in stages. He paused after each one while his head stopped swimming. Once he was upright he wriggled the fingers of his right hand. They ached but it seemed that there was no permanent damage. His arm throbbed, too, but he knew that it wasn’t broken. He took a deep breath and tried to shake the fog of alcohol from his brain. There was little dispersal.

  For some moments he stood, a hunched figure seemingly unable to move. In fact he found some comfort in his immobility, a state in which neither physical nor mental effort was required. Eventually, he heard voices across the street: a man and a woman’s. They were chatting cheerily. Good friends or lovers even, on their way home. Their presence prompted Moore to adopt as normal a pose as possible and he began to walk slowly and carefully down the street. His progress was slow but at least it was progress. By the time he had reached the end of the street, his two companions had disappeared into the night, only their voices, now distant echoes in the darkness, disturbed the silence.

  He breathed deeply allowing the chill air to invade his lungs, hoping it would brighten his senses. He decided that he would walk a little further, in the direction of Hanley Street where, with a bit of luck, he would be able to pick up a taxi. And then home, bed and welcome oblivion.

  With as much determination and energy as he could muster, he set forth. He was desperate for a cigarette but he knew that in his condition extracting the packet and matches from inside his jacket and lighting the bloody thing was beyond his capabilities at present. The co-ordination just wasn’t there. It was taking him all his concentration to put one foot in front of the other. For the moment he would have to content himself with sucking in the night air.

  As he walked – shuffled would be a more accura
te description – he became conscious of another sound: that of footsteps behind him. They were indistinct at first but they grew louder as though they were getting nearer and then they slowed down. God, he hoped it wasn’t an ARP Warden ‘doing his duty’. Pedantic sods they were. He could find himself in some cop shop for being drunk and incapable in a blackout.

  With some effort he stopped and turned around. Sure enough there was a dark figure standing a few yards away watching him. Because of the darkness and his own blurred vision he really couldn’t make out any features.

  ‘Good evening,’ said Moore, his voice thick and slurred.

  The figure stepped a little closer. ‘Gordon Moore?’ The voice was muffled and strange.

  ‘Why, yes,’ replied the actor with some surprise. His brain did not register the danger.

  ‘Gordon Moore, the whore killer?’

  Before Moore could assimilate the implication of this statement, the figure stepped forward and thrust a long blade with great force into his stomach, withdrew it and stabbed him again.

  Moore gave a gargling cry and pulled back, eyes wide with shock as the pain overwhelmed all other sensations. He clutched his stomach and to his horror he saw a dark liquid streaming through his hands and splashing on the pavement.

  He was bereft of words and was only able to express his fear and hurt by a series of horrified grunts. As he staggered backwards, his assailant advanced upon him and stabbed him savagely once more. The blade cut deeply, creating a third and fatal wound.

  This time Moore crashed backwards on to the pavement. He was now only capable of inarticulate croaks of pain as life began to ebb away. He glimpsed the dark avenger turn away and slip back into the shadows. It was the last thing he saw, for then the eternal blackness which comes to us all in time wrapped itself around the prone body of Gordon Moore. Another corpse in the dark forest of the night.

  Within seconds Tiger Blake was dead.

  twenty-five

  The next morning I was up with the lark. Well, to be honest I think the lark was still in the bathroom carrying out its ablutions by the time I was chugging along in a tube to Warwick Avenue, Maida Vale. I was engaged on a little investigation of my own which wasn’t directly related to the Pammie Palmer case but was, perhaps, because of it.

  I sat in the carriage with a set of grey-faced commuters, ill nourished by their ration-book breakfast, facing a day of monotonous grind before returning to their home – if they were lucky enough to have one still – and to another skimpy meal and a night of worry about bombing raids. They all looked as though they were being conveyed to the funeral of a favourite aunt.

  The war was only a little over a year old and yet it was very difficult to remember the wonderful normality of peacetime when food was reasonably plentiful, when we could sleep at ease in our own beds at night and simple pleasures were just that and not desperately snatched moments. That Adolf Hitler had a lot to answer for.

  Daylight was still fighting for superiority of the sky as I made my way from the tube station to Carlton Street. It was a pleasant, broad thoroughfare which had seen better days. There were a few sorry-looking trees and an air of seediness and decay. It did not take me long to find the house I was looking for. It was a narrow, terraced job with the white paint peeling off the front. There was a light on upstairs but as yet the downstairs was in darkness. I peered in through the window but the curtains were drawn.

  Crossing the street, I found myself a little hidy-hole down a narrow passage which afforded me a full view of the house. Once in position I lit up a Craven A and I waited.

  Within an hour I had seen what I didn’t want to see.

  With the leaden weight of disappointment on my shoulders, I headed back to the city and Benny’s Café and some sustenance. My mission had been successful in a sense. I had satisfied my suspicions, but I wasn’t happy with the outcome. Sometimes I can be too clever for my own good.

  ‘You’re a little early for lunch,’ said Benny, flicking the crumbs off the table with a tea towel. ‘It’s good today. Lasagne with some real beef.’

  I grinned ‘Some?’

  Benny gave his shoulders an eloquent shrug. ‘Well, you can’t have everything.’

  ‘Title of my autobiography.’

  ‘Ah, so you’re still carrying the weight of the world around in your shoulders, Mr Johnny One Eye. How about a cup of coffee and a custard tart? That should put you to rights.’

  ‘Custard tart? With some real custard I suppose.’

  Benny beamed. ‘The finest dried egg in London.’

  ‘You’ve convinced me.’ I grinned.

  ‘Be with you in a trice. Oh, say, Johnny, you seen the news today?’

  ‘No. I was up too early for the papers. Don’t tell me Hitler’s surrendered.’

  ‘We should be so lucky. No, it’s in the Daily Mirror. That film star you’re so fond of … Gordon Moore.’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘He’s dead.’

  A cold shiver advanced its way down my back at speed. ‘Dead? How did he die?’

  ‘Says he was murdered.’

  So the phantom caller had struck.

  ‘Let me see the paper, will you?’

  ‘Now I’m a library.’ He hustled off and came back a few minutes later with a cup of coffee, a very pale custard tart, and a crumpled copy of the Daily Mirror.

  True to Gordon Moore’s status as second rate B movie actor, the news of his death was reported on page two. There was a picture of him – taken many years ago looking every inch the glamorous hero – with the headline TIGER BLAKE DIES. The story was brief and scant on details:

  ARP Warden, George Benson, discovered the dead body of film actor Gordon Moore, star of the Tiger Blake film series, in the gutter on Harwood Street W.1. at around one in the morning. It appeared that the actor had been attacked and had been stabbed several times. It has been established that the motive for the crime was not theft as his wallet and all his personal belongings were still upon his person. The police are treating the death as murder. [Remarkably perceptive!] His agent, Bruce Mellor, told our reporter that Mr Moore had been somewhat depressed of late because he had just received the news that he would not be making any more Tiger Blake movies. ‘His death is a great loss to British cinema.’ said Mr Mellor. Mrs Moore’s wife was unavailable for comment. The police are continuing their investigation.

  I bit into my custard tart. Not only was its consistency thoroughly disgusting, resembling a kind of yellow mucus, but it was also quite tasteless. I swallowed quickly and took a gulp of coffee. The industrial strength chicory swilled down the offending confectionery.

  So poor old Gordon Moore was dead. In meeting his end he had vacated his place in my mental library where I had assembled all the possible culprits – those that I knew about at least. The suspects were thinning out. But why had he been killed? Did he know something, something incriminating? If so, was he aware of it? Or was he killed because he had sullied the flesh of Pammie Palmer? Surely not. He wasn’t the only client that she had. And was the person who murdered Pammie the same one who had stabbed Gordon Moore to death? It was the same modus operandi. So many questions and so few answers.

  ‘You didn’t finish your tart.’ Benny loomed over me benevolently.

  ‘I was just savouring it. Good food should not be rushed.’

  ‘In this you are right. Go ahead … savour.’

  I handed him back the Daily Mirror. ‘Sad news about Gordon Moore.’

  ‘Sure,’ replied Benny, slipping the newspaper under his arm. ‘But he had a good life – the film-star life: champagne and girls, the big cars, premieres. What did he know about rationing and trying to run a café on bits of beef, dried eggs and Spam?’

  Without waiting for a reply, he headed back to the counter. With his back to me, I took the opportunity of scraping up the remnants of the custard tart, wrapping them in my handkerchief and ramming it in my raincoat pocket out of sight.

  It was time
to kill two birds with one stone. I took myself off to Bermondsey to see Mr Leo Epstein and I thought I’d invite Eve out for lunch.

  * * *

  Eve didn’t seem particularly pleased to see me but I pretended not to notice. Dawn gave a cheery wave and thrust out her chest at me. I waved back with an appreciative leer.

  With the curling of my forefinger, I beckoned Eve over so that I could have a quiet conversation with her without being overheard. Reluctantly she came over to me.

  ‘I’ve got a bit of business with Mr Epstein and then I thought we could grab a sandwich for lunch together,’ I said sotto voce. ‘There must be a decent pub nearby.’

  Eve gave me a nervous smile. ‘That’s very kind of you, Johnny, but I have rather a heavy workload today and—’

  I shook my head, smiling as I did so. ‘Nonsense. I won’t hear any other answer but yes. We have so much to talk about. Things to sort out. I really want to know all about Ray.’

  She stared at me in amazement and then instinctively turned around to check that Dawn hadn’t heard, but she was busy filing … her nails.

  ‘How…?’

  ‘I am a detective after all,’ I said. ‘We’ll talk about it over lunch.’

  She gave me a resigned nod.

  ‘Good.’ I gave her my broadest smile. ‘Now is the great white chief in?’

  ‘Yes, but you don’t have an appointment.’

  ‘Nah, but he’ll always see me.’

  I gave a sharp rap on the door and entered the sanctum of Leo Epstein.

  He was seated at his desk, smoking a large cigar and he looked up in surprise as I entered. His surprise quickly turned into anger.

  ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ he cried.

  ‘I’ve come to do you a favour.’