Without Conscience

by David Stuart Davies

  ‘Stupid cow,’ he said with disdain and then left the shop.

  TWENTY - FOUR

  Muffled against the cold October morning, which was still murky and uninviting, Dave Roberts, the tea bar owner, arrived early to set up his stall for the day. He wasn’t looking forward to what he perceived would be quite a dramatic episode which was destined to take place that morning. That’s if the little boy Peter reported for his washing-up duties. And he had no reason to believe the lad wouldn’t. He was desperate enough. Dave wasn’t happy about the situation, but he hoped that he was making the best of a bad job. After all, he kept telling himself, I’m acting in the young un’s best interest – though he doubted whether the boy would see things in the same light.

  As Dave approached the tea bar, his figure looking like a squat phantom hurrying along the Embankment in dark relief against the gradually lightening sky, he spied the boy standing by the parapet, hugging himself against the cold,

  ‘He’s here already,’ muttered Dave to himself, as he quickened his step.

  The boy stepped forward as he recognized his new employer.

  ‘Mornin’, son,’ Dave cried cheerfully. ‘You’re a keen one.’

  Peter nodded and smiled.

  Dave picked up the small crate of milk left by the door, unlocked the premises and switched on the lights. ‘Once I got this old boiler going, it’ll warm the place up and then we can start brewing the tea. Won’t be long before we get a queue of punters.’

  While Dave busied himself with the boiler, Peter stood by the door, eyeing up the left-over cakes from the previous day.

  ‘Help yourself to one, if you like,’ said Dave, observing the boy’s avaricious glances. ‘The new ones won’t be here for another hour.’

  Peter did not need to be told twice. He snatched up one of the buns and, all decorum abandoned, almost swallowed the thing whole. His cheeks bulged and his mouth moved furiously as he munched his way through the cake. He had spent some of his wages on fish and chips the night before, but sleeping rough again – this time in a shop doorway as he had done when he first ran away from his mother – had enhanced his hunger pangs.

  With a grunt and a muttered swear word, Dave pushed up the recalcitrant hatch by the serving area which formed a canopy over the front of the stall, allowing the cold morning air in. Dave shivered involuntarily. ‘Co-or, it’s parky out there. OK, lad, grab a cloth and wipe down the counter and then swill those pots out and put them to drain.’

  Peter swallowed the last of the cake and set about his allotted tasks.

  Dave surreptitiously glanced at his watch. It was just after 6.30. Sandy said that he’d come along just after 7.30. He’d got to make sure he kept the boy occupied until then.

  Within ten minutes the first customers began arriving, melting out of the early morning mist like grey shadows. They were a mixed bunch: a number of overalled workmen, some smartly suited business types, and the odd serviceman, all desiring a hot brew to wake them up properly and prepare them for the rigours of the day. Within half an hour there was quite a large group assembled around the serving hatch. Many were Dave’s regulars who exchanged chit chat and repartee with the proprietor. By now Peter was at his washing-up duties. A smile touched his pale and tired features. He was happy to have his hands in warm water again, being useful to someone.

  By 7.30 the red streaks of dawn were fading from the sky and a bright, sharp autumn day was in prospect. London was fully awake now. The traffic roared past the little tea bar and the Embankment was thronged with pedestrians most of whom hurried by, each wrapped in their own concerns. Very few people dawdled along. This was the time of day for going or returning with a purpose. From time to time Peter would glance over his shoulder to catch a view of the passing show, the shady cavalcade that paraded by, but he failed to see the imposing figure of PC Sandy MacGregor materialize out of the crowd and approach the tea bar.

  Sandy touched his helmet in gentle salute as he peered over the counter at Peter. He raised a quizzical eyebrow at Dave who responded with a decisive nod. PC MacGregor made his way around to the back and let himself inside. As the door opened, Peter looked up in surprise. He thought perhaps it was the delivery of today’s cakes, but instead, it was a large policeman in a shiny cape. So big was he that he had to remove his helmet in order to stand up straight inside the cramped quarters.

  He smiled kindly at Peter, but the boy’s heart froze. He knew instantly that the policeman had come for him. He knew that look. That kindly but serious expression. Dave must have told him. Ratted on him. He was trapped. There was no way of escape this time.

  ‘Hello,’ said the policeman, bending down so that his face was on a level with Peter’s. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘It’s Peter.’

  ‘Hello, Peter. I’m Sandy.’ He held out his hand and Peter shook it tentatively. ‘Where do you live?’

  Peter looked at the broad, sympathetic features of the policeman and then at Dave who turned his head away with a guilty sigh and began wiping down the counter absentmindedly. Peter knew that it was pointless to come up with a set of lies. They knew. Of course they knew. So he said nothing but concentrated all his efforts in fighting back the tears which he did quite successfully.

  PC MacGregor ruffled Peter’s hair. ‘Run away from home, have we, eh? Why was that then?’

  For a moment Peter remained silent. He didn’t know what to say … where to begin. At length he said, ‘I was unhappy.’

  ‘Were your mum and dad hitting you, being nasty to you?’

  Peter shook his head. ‘I’ve got no mum and dad.’

  ‘I see.’ PC MacGregor stood up and turned to Dave Roberts. ‘You did right to report this. He’s obviously been sleeping rough.’

  Dave looked embarrassed and avoided Peter’s censorious glance.

  ‘Well, lad,’ said MacGregor, his tone taking on a sterner, more official tone. ‘You’d better come along with me to the station and we’ll sort you out. Can’t have you wandering the streets with no one to look after you, can we?’

  To Peter there seemed to be a world of misery and discomfort in the phrase ‘we’ll sort you out’. He knew what that meant.

  ‘I’m all right, thank you. I don’t need no help.’

  ‘Let me be the judge of that, eh?’ said the policeman matter-of-factly.

  ‘What about my job here? Can’t I just stay and help Dave?’

  ‘A lad of your age should be in school, learning, not washing pots.’

  ‘The policeman’s right lad,’ said Dave gently. ‘This isn’t the place for you.’

  Peter said nothing. The feelings of disappointment and betrayal – yet again – overwhelmed him.

  ‘Come on,’ said PC MacGregor stepping forward and placing a hand on Peter’s shoulder. ‘Pop your coat on and let’s be off, eh?’

  ‘Are you going to put your handcuffs on me?’ asked Peter, glancing at the shiny bracelets clipped to the policeman’s belt.

  ‘I don’t think that will be necessary,’ observed PC MacGregor with a gentle smile.

  Within minutes Peter was being steered along the embankment by the large constable towards the local police station. A blood-red sun was peeking over the jagged contours of the city, bathing its streets in a fiery glow.

  The elation that Rachel felt after she had left Harryboy unconscious in the hotel room soon evaporated. She may have got away from the bastard and taken all his money, but now she didn’t know what to do. Here she was all alone in an alien city not only on the run from a killer but no doubt also wanted by the police as an accessory to robbery and murder. In a few short days her life had splintered and shattered. Her dream of coming up to London and finding happiness and glamour had turned into a nightmare.

  One thing was certain: she would not go back to Wales. She would not go home. She could not face them now. It was too late for going back. It seemed to her that the events of the last few days had effectively severed all links with her past life. She was
a different woman now. Tainted and immoral. No, she had made her bed and now she must lie on it.

  She walked and walked, pounding the pavement as she turned matters over in her mind, trying hard to control her emotions and to stop her thinking about Harryboy and what would happen if he caught up with her again. That was unlikely, wasn’t it? In a city of a million strangers, the odds of bumping into that twisted bastard again were infinitesimal. Surely? She tried to convince herself of this but failed. The harder she tried to blank his face from her mind, the stronger it became, as though by some magical force he had imprinted his image permanently on her brain. Occasionally a figure would emerge from the crowd, swaggering towards her, trilby pulled low and she would halt in her tracks with heart-stopping terror thinking he had caught up with her, only to realize as the man got nearer that he looked nothing like Harryboy.

  After a while, she took herself in hand and found a room in a small guest house near the British Museum, a bolthole where she could rest and hide away until she decided what to do. She bought a small bottle of gin and drank it quickly, seeking alcoholic oblivion. Putting her head under the covers, she soon got her wish. If the truth be known, it wasn’t just the alcohol which had carried her off into a deep, dreamless sleep, it was also the stress and anguish she had suffered over the last few days – ever since she had met Harryboy Jenkins.

  She slept peacefully for almost twenty four hours.

  The next day, she woke in slightly better spirits. Time away from that demon had done a little to heal the large wound, but it would take much more than time to make her whole again. She breakfasted at a small place in Russell Square and then made her way to Oxford Street to buy herself some new clothes and visit a hairdresser to have her hair cut and dyed. She was desperate to change her appearance – to become a new woman. It was a cosmetic way of sloughing off her past.

  When the hairdresser had finished, she looked at herself in the mirror. Her face was still blotched with bruises but now her mousy brown hair fell about her face in glossy blonde curls. For the first time in her life, Rachel Howells thought she looked pretty. She even smiled back at herself.

  It was while she was paying the hairdresser that she came upon the little card in her handbag. At first she was puzzled by it and then she remembered. Of course, it had been given to her by that kind chap with the eye patch in the little café in Soho. He had offered to help her. He had sensed that she was in trouble and was concerned. On reflection he seemed the kindest person she had encountered since she arrived in the city. She read the card carefully: John Hawke, Private Detective, 7 Prior’s Court, off Tottenham Court Road. Then she placed it back in her bag having made an important decision.

  TWENTY - FIVE

  Within a few hours of his ‘little adventure at the tobacconist’s’ as Harryboy thought of it, he had visited Bourne & Hollingsworth where he bought himself a new suit and then he’d taken rooms in a reasonably smart hotel near Hyde Park corner, where he redressed his wound. He was feeling good again. He had some money in his pockets, he had a nice gaff and he was as free as air. And he didn’t have no silly tart tagging along with him to complicate his life.

  However, the particular silly tart he had in mind occupied his thoughts. His arm, which still throbbed unpleasantly, was a constant reminder of her treachery. He had some unfinished business with her and until that was dealt with – until she was dealt with – he wouldn’t be fully at ease. He wouldn’t be able to relax and get on with things until he’d shown her a lesson – the final lesson. The bitch would make the ultimate sacrifice for what she had done. However, there was one little problem, he had to find her first, didn’t he? London was a big place. He knew from personal experience how easy it was to lose yourself in this sprawling city.

  But he had an idea.

  It was late afternoon as he sauntered down Dean Street and entered Benny’s café. Unlike the mornings, at this time of day the place was quiet with only a few customers. The little Jewish guy who ran the place was leaning on the counter idly perusing the crossword in some newspaper. He looked up as Harryboy entered and took a seat. On catching sight of his new customer something like a frown flitted across the old boy’s features before he picked up his order pad and made his way to Harryboy’s table.

  Smiling in what he considered a charming manner, Harryboy ordered a pot of tea and bun. Benny took the order in a businesslike manner but without returning the smile. He remembered this brute all right. He was the bully with the pretty girl – the one he had told Johnny about. Now he was on his own. Why was that? What had he done with the girl? He hoped, maybe, that she’d had the sense and the guts to leave him. The alternative scenario didn’t bear thinking about.

  He returned some minutes later with the order. Harryboy smiled at him again. ‘I was wondering if you could help me, chum,’ he said touching Benny’s arm. Benny flinched.

  ‘You want a pastry, perhaps?’

  Harryboy shook his head. ‘No, nothing like that. A bit of information is what I’m after. I’m trying to locate someone. A customer of yours.’

  ‘A customer …’ Now Benny was really puzzled.

  ‘Yeah. A young bloke with an eye patch.’

  Instinctively Benny said, ‘Oh, you mean Johnny.’ He blurted it out without thinking. He could have bitten off his tongue as soon as the words had escaped his lips.

  ‘Johnny, eh? Yes, that would be the bloke. I need to get in touch with him urgently.’ His fingers clamped themselves tightly around Benny’s arm so that he flinched. ‘You can tell me where I can find him, can’t you, eh?’ Harryboy’s voice remained calm and polite but there was an undertow of menace that chilled the café owner.

  Benny shook his head nervously. ‘I don’t know him really. Just his name. He’s just a customer. I don’t know where he lives.’

  Harryboy shook his head in mock dismay. He knew that this Jewish fellow was lying. He could see it in his eyes. If he didn’t know this Johnny character he wouldn’t be so edgy – so frightened. ‘Now I just want to know where I can find Johnny, that’s all. It’s not asking much, is it? A little piece of information and in return I’ll leave you and your nice little café alone.’

  Harryboy smiled sweetly and hooded his eyes.

  With a determined effort, Benny wrenched his arm free from Harryboy’s grasp. ‘Look mister,’ he said, somewhat breathlessly, his heart pounding against his ribs, ‘I told you I don’t know this feller apart from his name. I can’t help you. This is a café not an information centre. Now I suggest you drink up your tea before it gets cold.’ Before waiting for a response Benny swung round and hurried away, his whole body shaking.

  Harryboy gave a tight grin. So, the old fool wants to play it the hard way, he thought, as he bit into his bun. Well, I’m happy to oblige him. It’s obvious he knows where this Johnny hangs his hat and he’ll tell me. No doubt about that. I’ll just have to be more persuasive.

  A few minutes later, Harryboy having finished his snack moved to the counter and threw a few coins down. Benny, who had been pretending to sort out some items in the cash drawer, looked up nervously. Harryboy touched the brim of his hat with his forefinger. ‘See you,’ he said pointedly and flashed his unsettling smile before he left, leaving the door ajar.

  Benny waited a few moments before grabbing the telephone and dialling Johnny’s number. There was no reply.

  It was dusk and the blackout blinds were being drawn. Standing across the street from Benny’s café, Harryboy could see that the old fool was about to shut up shop for the day. Trade had run dry. There had been no customers for at least fifteen minutes.

  Skittering his cigarette end into the gutter, Harryboy sauntered across the road and entered the café. It was as he had determined, empty apart from the proprietor who was busy wiping down the tables with a damp cloth. Benny looked up as he entered, ready to turn away this latent customer with a ‘sorry we’re closed’ but on seeing Harryboy he froze, mouth slightly agape.

  Harryboy le
aned against the door and smirked. He was pleased that his presence had obviously unnerved the little Jew. ‘As I was saying … about this feller with an eye patch.’

  ‘Leave my premises now,’ snapped Benny, rallying himself. He could feel his heart beating faster than a castanet but he wasn’t going to be intimidated by this two-bit hoodlum. ‘You’re trespassing. Get out now or I call the police.’

  Benny’s flourish of bravado amused Harryboy all the more. The smirk broadened and then quite suddenly it disappeared. ‘You’re gonna call no one,’ he said quietly, slipping the revolver out of his coat pocket. ‘And if you don’t tell me what I need to know, you’ll never be calling anyone ever again. Do I make myself clear?’

  On seeing the gun pointing at him, Benny paled. ‘Look, I told you before, I don’t know this man.’

  Harryboy fired the gun. In the empty café it sounded like an explosion, the noise echoing and reverberating around the room. The glass case on the counter which had housed a few limp pastries had shattered into a thousand fragments.

  Benny moaned at his loss.

  ‘You next,’ said Harryboy, stepping forward quickly and grabbing Benny by the collar and pushing him against the counter so hard that he cried out in pain. When Harryboy placed the barrel of the gun to his forehead, Benny almost fainted with the shock.

  ‘Now then,’ snarled Harryboy, his face close to Benny’s, as he pressed the gun barrel hard against skin, ‘tell me where I can find this Johnny character …’

  TWENTY - SIX

  After seeing two uniformed officers spill out of the police patrol car and hurry into Studely Mansions, I hurried away in the direction of Kensington High Street where I caught an underground train. For what seemed like hours but was in fact two fairly short tube journeys, I found myself face to face with sardined humanity, rattling along down a dark snaking tunnel in a crowded metal tube with the brim of a bowler hat in my eye and a ladies umbrella prodding my backside.