Hell Is Always Today

by Jack Higgins

  “And he left with Grace Packard. You must have found that rather upsetting, Joanna.”

  “God knows, but she’s had enough practice by now,” Mary Beresford said. “You say he took her home with him?”

  “That’s right, but apparently she only stayed ten minutes or so.”

  “A likely story.”

  “Confirmed by the time the body was found. He says that he gave her ten pounds to pose for him. Would you say that was likely?”

  Frank Marlowe laughed harshly. “More than that—typical.”

  Joanna had gone very white, but hung on to her dignity with everything she had left. “As I’ve already said, he’s very much a law unto himself.”

  “He’s been working on a special commission,” Jack Morgan said. “One of the most important he’s had. It started as a single figure four or five weeks ago and now comprises a group of four. He was discussing with me earlier the question of adding a fifth to give the thing balance.”

  Miller nodded. “Yes, he did mention that.”

  “Then why did you have to ask?” Joanna Hartmann said sharply.

  Miller frowned. “I’m afraid I don’t follow you.”

  “Are we to take it that my fiancé is under some kind of suspicion in this business?”

  “Routine, Joanna, pure routine at the moment. But it has to be done, you must see that surely.”

  “I don’t at all,” she said hotly. “What I do see is that you were a guest in my house earlier this evening because I had imagined you a friend.”

  “Rubbish,” Miller said crisply. “You asked me to your party for one reason only. Because my brother is probably the most influential man in Northern Television and you’re worried because you’ve heard there’s talk of taking off your series at the end of this season.”

  “How dare you?” Mary Beresford said. “I’ll complain to your superiors.”

  “You can do what you damned well like,” Miller helped himself to a cigarette from a box on the table and smiled calmly. “With my present service and including certain special payments my annual salary at the moment as a Detective Sergeant is one thousand three hundred and eighty-two pounds, Mrs. Beresford. It might interest you to know that every penny of it goes for income tax. Gives me a wonderful feeling of freedom when I’m dealing with people like you.”

  He turned back to Joanna Hartmann. “Whether you like it or not you’ve got a few unpleasant facts to face. Number one as far as I’m concerned is that Grace Packard was murdered within an hour of leaving this flat in company with your fiancé, so don’t start trying to get on your high horse because we have the impudence to suggest that he might be able to help us with our enquiries.”

  “I’m Mr. Faulkner’s solicitor,” Jack Morgan said. “Why wasn’t I present when he was questioned?”

  “Why not ask him? He was certainly offered the privilege.” Miller turned very quickly, moved to the door and opened it. “I’ll probably have to see you again, Miss Hartmann,” he said formally. “We’d appreciate it if you’d make yourself available during the next couple of days.”

  “But Miss Hartmann’s due in London tomorrow for an important business conference,” Frank Marlowe said.

  “I can’t prevent her going,” Miller said, “but it would certainly be a great pity if Faulkner happened to need her and she wasn’t here.”

  He closed the door and chuckled grimly as he went along the corridor to the lift. He’d certainly stirred things up there. It would be more than interesting to see what the outcome, if any, would be.

  The heavy silence after Miller had gone out was first broken by Frank Marlowe. “I don’t like the smell of this—don’t like it at all.”

  “Neither do I,” Jack Morgan said.

  Joanna went up the steps to the door, opened a cupboard and took out a sheepskin coat. She pulled it on quickly.

  “Did you come in your car, Jack?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good…I’d like you to run me round to Bruno’s.”

  Her aunt put a hand on her arm as if she would restrain her. “For goodness’ sake, Joanna, don’t be a fool. Stay out of this.”

  Joanna turned on her fiercely. “You don’t like him, do you, Aunt Mary. You never did. Because of that you want to believe that he’s somehow mixed up in this business. Well, I never will.”

  The old woman turned away, suddenly looking her age and Frank Marlowe said, “Want me to come?”

  Joanna shook her head. “Better not. Would you mind hanging on till we get back?”

  “I’ll be here.”

  Jack Morgan opened the door for her and as Joanna turned, her aunt made a final try. “Joanna,” she said sharply. “You must listen to me. It’s for your own good. Think of your career. You can’t afford to get mixed up in the kind of scandal this could cause.”

  Joanna ignored her completely. “Ready, Jack?” she said and led the way out.

  They didn’t talk during the drive to Bruno’s place, but when Morgan pulled in at the kerb and switched off the engine, she put a hand on his arm.

  “You’ve known Bruno a long time, Jack, longer than any of us. You don’t believe he could…”

  “Not a chance,” he told her emphatically. “He’s a wild man, I’ll give you that, but I couldn’t accept the kind of suspicions Nick Miller obviously holds for a moment.”

  “That’s all I wanted to hear.” She smiled her relief. “Now let’s go up and have a word with him.”

  But they were wasting their time. There was no reply to their insistent knocking at Bruno’s door. After five minutes of fruitless effort, Morgan turned to her and said gently, “Better leave it for now, Joanna. He’s probably had enough for one night.”

  She nodded wearily. “All right, Jack, take me home. We’ll try again in the morning. I’ll cancel my trip to London.”

  On the other side of the door, Faulkner listened to the footsteps fade as they descended the stairs. His head was hurting again. My God, but it was hurting. He took a couple of the pills the doctor had given him, poured himself a large whisky and stood at the window and looked out into the night.

  Rain spattered against the glass and he rested his aching forehead against it. But it didn’t help. Quite suddenly it was as if he was suffocating. Air, that’s what he needed—the cold air of night to drive away this terrible pain. He grabbed his trenchcoat and hat and let himself out quickly.

  9

  “Last time I saw you in the ring was when you fought Terry Jones for the area title,” Ma Crowther said. “I thought you had it in your pocket till he gave you that cut over the eye and the ref stopped the fight in the third.”

  “I always did cut too easily,” the Gunner said. “If it hadn’t been for that I could have gone right to the top. The Boxing Board took my licence away after the Terry Jones fight on medical advice. Just a vale of tears, isn’t it?”

  He looked anything but depressed sitting there at the table wearing an old sweater the girl had found him and a pair of boots that had belonged to her father. He had already worked his way through three fried eggs, several rashers of bacon and half a loaf of bread and was now on his third cup of tea.

  “You’re a funny one and no mistake.” Jenny Crowther shook her head. “Doesn’t anything ever worry you?”

  “Life’s too short, darlin’.” He helped himself to a cigarette from the old woman’s packet. “I shared a cell once with a bloke who was big on this Yoga lark. You’ve got to learn to relaxez vous. Live for today and use the talents the good Lord’s given you.”

  Jenny laughed helplessly. “I think that’s marvellous. Considering the way you make a living.”

  He wasn’t in the least embarrassed. “So I scrounge a few bob where I can. The kind of people I hit can afford it. Insured up to the hilt they are. I don’t go around duffing up old women in back street shops.”

  “The original Robin Hood,” she said acidly. “And what happens when someone gets in your way on a job? Do you go quietly or try to smash
your way through?”

  She piled the dirty dishes on to a tray and went into the kitchen. The Gunner moved across to the fire and sat in the opposite chair to the old woman. “Is she always as sharp as that?”

  “She has to be, lad, running an outfit like this.”

  “You mean she’s in charge?”

  “Her Dad passed on a couple of months back—cerebral haemorrhage. Jenny was a hairdresser, a good one too, but she dropped that and took over here. Been trying to keep things going ever since.”

  “Having trouble, then?”

  “Only what you’d expect. We’ve eight drivers and two mechanics and there isn’t one who wouldn’t take advantage if he could. And then there’s the foreman, Joe Ogden. He’s the worst of the lot. He’s shop steward for the union. Always quoting the book at her, making things as difficult as he can.”

  “And why would he do that?”

  “You’ve seen her, haven’t you?” She poured herself another whisky. “What about you? Where do you go from here?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know, Ma. If I can get to the Ring Road I could snatch a lift to any one of a dozen places.”

  “And then what?” He made no answer and she leaned across and put a hand on his knee. “Don’t be a fool, lad. Give yourself up before it’s too late.”

  Which was exactly what the Gunner had been thinking, but he didn’t say so. Instead, he got to his feet and grinned. “I’ll think about it. In any case there’s nothing for you or Jenny to worry about. I’ll clear out of here in an hour or so when it’s a bit quieter, if that’s all right with you.”

  He went into the kitchen and found the girl at the sink, an apron around her waist, washing the dishes. “Need any help?”

  “You can dry if you like.”

  “Long time since I did this.” He picked up a tea towel.

  “Even longer before you do it again.”

  “Heh, what have I done?” he demanded.

  “It’s just that I can’t stand waste,” she said. “I mean look at you. Where on earth do you think you’re going to go from here? You won’t last long out there with every copper for miles around on the watch for you.”

  “Whose side are you on then?”

  “That’s another thing. You can’t be serious for a moment—not about anything.”

  She returned to the dishes and the Gunner chuckled. “I’m glad you’re angry anyhow.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Better than no reaction at all. At least you’re interested.”

  “You’ll be lucky. The day I can’t do better I’ll jump off Queen’s Bridge.”

  But she was smiling and some of the tension had gone out of her when she returned to the washing-up. “I was having an interesting chat with your gran,” the Gunner said. “Seems you’ve got your hands full at the moment.”

  “Oh, we get by.”

  “Sounds to me as if you need a good man round the place.”

  “Why, are you available?”

  He grinned. “I wish I was, darlin’.”

  The judas gate banged outside and steps echoed across the yard. Jenny Crowther frowned. “That’s funny, I dropped the latch when I went out earlier.”

  “Anyone else got a key?”

  “Not as far as I know. I’ll see who it is. You’d better stay here.”

  He waited, the kitchen door held open slightly so that he could see what took place. Ma Crowther appeared from the other room and watched as Jenny opened the front door.

  The man who pushed his way inside wore a donkey jacket with leather patches on the shoulders and had obviously had a drink. He was hefty enough with arms that were a little too long, but his face was puffed up from too much beer and the weak mouth the biggest giveaway of all.

  “And what might you want at this time of night, Joe Ogden?” Ma Crowther demanded.

  “Leave this to me, Gran,” Jenny said calmly. “Go on now. I’ll be in in a minute.”

  The old woman went back into the sitting-room reluctantly and Jenny closed the door and turned to face Ogden. She held out her hand. “You used a key to open the outside gate. I don’t know where you got it from, but I want it.”

  He smiled slyly. “Nay, lass, I couldn’t do that. I like to be able to come and go.” He took a step forward and put his hand on the wall so that she was caged in the corner by the sitting-room door. “We could get along just fine, you and me. Why not be sensible? A lass like you’s got better things to be doing than trying to run a firm like this. Keeping truckies in their place is man’s work.”

  He tried to kiss her and she twisted her head to one side. “I’m going to give you just five seconds to get out of here. If you don’t, I’ll send for the police and lay a complaint for assault.”

  He jumped back as if he had been stung. “You rotten little bitch,” he said, his face red and angry. “You won’t listen to reason, will you? Well, just remember this—I’m shop steward here. All I have to do is say the word and every man in the place walks out through that gate with me—they’ll have no option. I could make things very awkward for you.”

  She opened the door without a word. He stood there glowering at her, then moved out. “All right, miss,” he said viciously. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  She closed the door and turned, shaking with rage. “I’ll kill him. I’ll kill the bastard,” she said and then broke down and sobbed, all the worry and frustration of the weeks since her father’s death welling up to the surface.

  Strong arms pulled her close and a hand stroked her hair. “Now then, darlin’, never say die.” She looked up and the Gunner grinned down at her. “Only one way to handle a situation like this. Put the kettle on, there’s a good girl. I’ll be back in five minutes.”

  He kissed her full on the mouth and before she could say anything, opened the door and went out into the night.

  Joe Ogden paused on the corner, swaying slightly for he was still about three-parts drunk. So she wanted it the hard way did she? Right—then that was the way she could have it. He’d show the bitch—by God he would. By the time he was finished she’d come crawling, begging him to sort things out for her and then he’d call the tune all right.

  He crossed the street and turned into a narrow lane, head down against the driving rain, completely absorbed by a series of sexual phantasies in which Jenny Crowther was doing exactly as she was told. The lane was badly lit by a number of old-fashioned gas lamps, long stretches of darkness in between and the pavement was in a bad state of repair, the flags lifting dangerously.

  The Gunner descended on him like a thunderbolt in the middle of one of the darker stretches and proceeded to take him apart savagely and brutally in a manner that was as exact as any science.

  Ogden cried out in pain as he was propelled into the nearest brick wall with a force that took the breath out of his body. He swung round, aware of the pale blur of a face and swung a fist instinctively, catching the Gunner high on the right cheekbone.

  It was the only hit he was to make that night. A boot caught him under the right kneecap, a left and a right screwed into his stomach and a knee lifted into his face as he keeled over, for the Gunner was never one to allow the Queensberry rules to get in his way in this sort of affair.

  Ogden rolled over in the rain and the Gunner kicked him hard about the body half a dozen times, each blow judged to a nicety. Ogden lay there, face against the pavement, more frightened than he had ever been in his life, expecting to meet his end at any moment.

  Instead, his assailant squatted beside him in the darkness and said in a strangely gentle voice, “You don’t know who I am, but I know you and that’s all that matters. Now listen carefully because I’m only going to say this once. You’ll get your cards and a week’s pay in the post Monday. In the future, you stay away from Crowther’s yard. Make any kind of trouble at all, union or otherwise, and I’ll get you.” He grabbed a handful of Ogden’s hair. “Understand?”

  “Yes.” Ogden co
uld hardly get the word out as fear seized him by the throat.

  “See that you do. Now where’s the key to the outside gate?”

  Ogden fumbled in his left hand pocket, the Gunner took the yale key from him, slammed him back hard against the pavement and walked away.

  Ogden got to his knees, dizzy with pain and pulled himself up against the wall. He caught a brief glimpse of the Gunner running through the lighted area under one of the lamps and then he was alone again. Quite suddenly, and for the first time since childhood, he started to cry, dry sobs tearing at his throat as he turned and stumbled away through the darkness.

  Crouched by the open doorway in the loft above the old barn in the exact positon the Gunner had occupied earlier, the Rainlover waited patiently, wondering whether the man would return.

  The door opened for the second time in ten minutes and the girl appeared, framed against the light, so close that he could see the worry on her face. He started to get up and beyond through the darkness, there was the creaking of the judas gate as it opened. A moment later, the Gunner appeared.

  He paused at the bottom of the steps and tossed the key up to Jenny. “This is yours.”

  She glanced at it briefly. “What happened?”

  “Oh, you might say we came to an understanding. He’s agreed not to come back. In return he gets his cards and a week’s pay, first post Monday morning.”

  She tilted his head to one side and examined the bruise that was spreading fast under his right eye. “Some understanding. You’d better come in and let me do something about that.”

  She turned and the Gunner followed her. After he had closed the door, the yard was dark again, but something moved there in the shadows making no more noise than the whisper of dead leaves brushing across the ground in the autumn. The judas gate creaked slightly and closed with a soft click. In the alley, footfalls faded into the rain.

  The Gunner emptied the glass of whisky she had given him with a sigh of satisfaction and turned his head to the light as she gently applied a warm cloth to the bruise under his eye.