Hell Is Always Today

by Jack Higgins

  “Maybe someone forgot to tell you, son,” Brady put in, “but Grace Packard had intercourse just before she died.”

  “Here, you needn’t try that one.” Harold put out a hand defensively. “All right, I’ll tell you the truth. I did go with a woman last night.”

  “Who was she?” Mallory asked calmly.

  “I don’t know. I bumped into her in one of those streets behind the station.”

  “Was she on the game?” Brady suggested.

  “That’s it. Thirty bob for a short time. You know how it goes. We stood against the wall in a back alley.”

  “And her name?” Mallory said.

  “Do me a favour, Superintendent. I didn’t even get a clear look at her face.”

  “Let’s hope she hasn’t left you something to remember her by,” Brady said grimly. “Why didn’t you tell us about this before?”

  Harold had obviously recovered some of his lost confidence. He contrived to look pious. “It isn’t the sort of thing you like to talk about, now is it?”

  The constable came in with a cup of tea, placed it on the table and whispered in Mallory’s ear. The Chief Superintendent nodded, got to his feet and beckoned to Brady.

  “Miller’s on the phone,” he said when they got into the corridor.

  “What about Harold, sir?”

  “Let him stew for a few minutes.”

  He spoke to Miller from a booth half-way along the corridor. “Where are you speaking from?”

  “Phone box outside Faulkner’s place,” Miller told him. “He’s up there now with his lawyer and Joanna Hartmann.”

  “You’ve spoken to him then?”

  “Oh, yes, thought I’d give him a breather, that’s all. We’ve reached an interesting stage. You were right about the gloves, sir. He didn’t even attempt to deny having had them. Gave exactly the reason for lying about them at the coffee stall that you said he would.”

  Mallory couldn’t help feeling slightly complacent. “There you are then. I don’t like to say I told you so, but I honestly think you’re wasting your time, Miller.”

  “Don’t tell me Harold’s cracked?”

  “Not quite, but he’s tying himself up in about fifty-seven different knots. I think he’s our man. More certain of it than ever.”

  “But not the Rainlover?”

  “A different problem, I’m afraid.”

  “One interesting point, sir,” Miller said. “Remember Faulkner told us he gave the girl ten pounds?”

  “What about it?”

  “What he actually gave her was a ten-pound note. He says she tucked it into her stocking top. Apparently made some crack about it being the safest place.”

  “Now that is interesting.” Mallory was aware of a sudden tightness in his chest that interfered with his breathing—an old and infallible sign. “That might just about clinch things if I use it in the right way. I think you’d better get back here right away, Miller.”

  “But what about Faulkner, sir?”

  “Oh, to hell with Faulkner, man. Get back here now and that’s an order.”

  He slammed down the phone and turned to Brady who waited, leaning against the wall. “Miller’s just come up with an interesting tit-bit. Remember Faulkner said he gave the girl ten pounds for posing for him. He’s just told Miller it was actually a ten-pound note. Now I wonder what our friend in there would do with it.”

  “Always assuming that he’s the man we want, sir,” Brady reminded him.

  “Now don’t you start, Brady,” Mallory said. “I’ve got enough on my hands with Miller.”

  “All right, sir,” Brady said. “Put a match to it if he had any sense.”

  “Which I doubt,” Mallory chuckled grimly. “Can you imagine Harold Phillips putting a match to a ten-pound note?” He shook his head. “Not on your life. He’ll have stashed it away somewhere.”

  At that moment Henry Wade appeared from the lift at the end of the corridor and came towards them, Harold’s trousers over his arm.

  “Anything else for me?” Mallory demanded.

  Wade shook his head. “I’m afraid not. He was with a woman, that’s all I can tell you.”

  “Nothing more?”

  Wade shrugged. “No stains we can link with the girl if that’s what you mean. Sometimes if you’re lucky you can test the semen for its blood group factor. About forty per cent of males secrete their blood group in their body fluids. Of course it won’t work if the subject isn’t a member of that group. In any case you need a large specimen and it’s got to be fresh. Sorry, sir.”

  Mallory took a deep breath. “All right, this is what we do. We’re all going back in there. I want you to simply stand with the trousers over your arm and say nothing, Wade. Brady—just look serious. That’s all I ask.”

  “But what are you going to try, sir?” Brady demanded.

  “A king-size bluff,” Mallory said simply. “I’m simply betting on the fact that I’m a better poker player than Harold Phillips.”

  18

  Nick Miller replaced the receiver and stepped out of the telephone box into the heavy rain. Mallory’s instructions had been quite explicit. He was to drop the Faulkner enquiry and return to Headquarters at once and yet the Scotland Yard man was wrong—Miller still felt certain about that. It was nothing he could really put his finger on, something that couldn’t be defined and yet when he thought of Faulkner his stomach went hollow and his flesh crawled.

  But orders were orders and to disobey this one was to invite the kind of reaction that might mean the end of his career as a policeman. When it finally came down to it he wasn’t prepared to throw away a life that had come to mean everything to him simply because of a private hunch that could well be wrong.

  He crossed to the Mini-Cooper, took out his keys and, above his head, the studio window of Faulkner’s flat dissolved in a snowstorm of flying glass as a chair soared through in a graceful curve that ended in the middle of the street.

  There was a heavy silence after Miller left and Faulkner was the first to break it. He crossed to the bar and poured himself a large gin. “I can feel the noose tightening already. Distinctly unpleasant.”

  “Stop it, Bruno!” Joanna said sharply. “It just isn’t funny any more.”

  He paused, the glass half-way to his lips and looked at her in a kind of mild surprise. “You surely aren’t taking this thing seriously?”

  “How else can I take it?”

  Faulkner turned his attention to Morgan. “And what about you?”

  “It doesn’t look too good, Bruno.”

  “That’s wonderful. That’s bloody marvellous.” Faulkner drained his glass and came round from behind the bar. “How long have you known me, Jack? Fifteen years or is it more? I’d be fascinated to know when you first suspected my homicidal tendencies.”

  “Why did you have to bring that wretched girl back with you, Bruno? Why?” Joanna said.

  He looked at them both in turn, his cynical smile fading. “My God, you’re both beginning to believe it, aren’t you? You’re actually beginning to believe it.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” Joanna turned away.

  He swung her round to face him. “No, you’re afraid to give it voice, but it’s there in your eyes.”

  “Please, Bruno…you’re hurting me.”

  He pushed her away and turned on Jack. “And you?”

  “You’ve a hell of a temper, Bruno, no one knows that better than I do. When you broke Pearson’s jaw it took four of us to drag you off him.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

  “Face facts, Bruno. Miller’s got a lot to go on. All circumstantial, I’ll grant you that, but it wouldn’t look good in court.”

  “That’s your opinion.”

  “All right, let’s look at the facts as the prosecution would present them to a jury. First of all there’s your uncontrollable temper, your convictions for violence. The medical report when you were in Wandsworth said you needed psychiatric treatme
nt, but you refused. That won’t look good for a start.”

  “Go on—this is fascinating.”

  “You bring Grace Packard back here late at night and give her ten pounds to pose for you for two or three minutes.”

  “The simple truth.”

  “I know that—I believe it because it’s typical of you, but if you think there’s a jury in England that would swallow such an explanation you’re crazy.”

  “You’re not leaving me with much hope, are you?”

  “I’m not finished yet.” Morgan carried on relentlessly. “No more than a couple of minutes after she left you went out after her. You bought cigarettes at that coffee stall in Regent Square and she was killed not more than two hundred yards away a few minutes later. And you had her gloves—can you imagine what the prosecution would try to make out of that one?”

  Faulkner seemed surprisingly calm considering the circumstances. “And what about the ten-pound note? If it didn’t exist why should I bother to mention it in the first place?”

  “A further complication…all part of the smokescreen.”

  “And you believe that?”

  “I think a jury might.”

  Faulkner went to the bar, reached for the gin bottle and poured himself another drink. He stood with his back to them for a moment. When he finally turned, he looked calm and serious.

  “A good case, Jack, but one or two rather obvious flaws. You’ve laid some stress on the fact that I had Grace Packard’s gloves. I think it’s worth pointing out that I had them before she was killed. In any case, the gloves are only important if you maintain that Grace Packard was killed by the Rainlover. Have you considered that?”

  “Yes, I’ve considered it,” Morgan said gravely.

  “But if I am the Rainlover then I killed the others and you’d have to prove that was possible. What about the woman killed the night before last for example? As I told you when you called for me last night, I’d been working two days non-stop. Hadn’t even left the studio.”

  “The body was found in Jubilee Park no more than a quarter of a mile from here. You could have left by the back stairs and returned inside an hour and no one the wiser. That’s what the prosecution would say.”

  “But I didn’t know about the murder, did I? You had to tell me. Don’t you remember? It was just after you arrived. I was dressing in the bedroom and you spoke to me from in here.”

  Morgan nodded. “That’s true. I remember now. I asked if you’d heard about the killing, picked up the paper and discovered it was Friday night’s.” He seemed to go rigid and added in a whisper, “Friday night’s.”

  He went to the chair by the fire, picked up the newspaper that was still lying there as it had been on his arrival the previous evening. “Final edition, Friday 23rd.” He turned to Faulkner. “But you don’t have a paper delivered.”

  “So what?”

  “Then how did you get hold of this if you didn’t leave the house for two days?”

  Joanna gave a horrified gasp and for the first time Faulkner really looked put out. He put a hand to his head, frowning. “I remember now. I ran out of cigarettes. I was tired…so tired that I couldn’t think straight and it was raining hard, beating against the window.” It was almost as if he was speaking to himself. “I thought the air might clear my head and I needed some cigarettes so I slipped out.”

  “And the newspaper?”

  “I got it from the old man on the corner of Albany Street.”

  “Next to Jubilee Park.”

  They stood there in tableau, the three of them, caught in a web of silence and somewhere in the distance thunder echoed menacingly. Morgan was white and strained and a kind of horror showed in Joanna’s face.

  Faulkner shook his head slowly as if unable to comprehend what was happening. “You must believe me, Joanna, you must.”

  She turned to Morgan. “Take me home, Jack. Please take me home.”

  Faulkner said angrily, “I’ll be damned if I’ll let you go like this.”

  As he grabbed at her arm she moved away sharply, colliding with the drawing board on its stand, the one at which Faulkner had been working earlier. The board went over, papers scattering and his latest sketch fell at her feet, a rough drawing of the group of four statues with a fifth added.

  There was real horror on her face at this final, terrible proof. As she backed away, Morgan picked up the sketch and held it out to Faulkner. “Have you got an explanation for this, too?”

  Faulkner brushed him aside and grabbed Joanna by both arms. “Listen to me—just listen. That’s all I ask.”

  She slapped at him in a kind of blind panic and Morgan tried to pull Faulkner away from her. Something snapped inside Faulkner. He turned and hit Morgan back-handed, sending him staggering against the bar.

  Joanna ran for the door. Faulkner caught her before she could open it and wrenched her around, clutching at the collar of her sheepskin coat.

  “You’re not leaving me, do you hear? I’ll kill you first!”

  Almost of their own volition his hands slid up and around her throat and she sank to her knees choking. Morgan got to his feet, dazed. He staggered forward, grabbed Faulkner by the hair and pulled hard. Faulkner gave a cry of pain, releasing his grip on the woman’s throat. As he turned, Morgan picked up the jug of ice water that stood on the bar top and tossed the contents into his face.

  The shock seemed to restore Faulkner to his senses. He stood there swaying, an almost vacant look on his face and Morgan went to Joanna and helped her to her feet.

  “Are you all right?”

  She nodded, without speaking. Morgan turned on Faulkner. “Was that the way it happened, Bruno? Was that how you killed her?”

  Faulkner faced them, dangerously calm. His laughter, when it came, was harsh, completely unexpected.

  “All right—that’s what you’ve been waiting to hear, isn’t it? Well, let’s tell the whole bloody world about it.”

  He picked up a chair, lifted it high above his head and hurled it through the studio window.

  Miller hammered on the door and it was opened almost immediately by Jack Morgan. Joanna Hartmann was slumped into one of the easy chairs by the fire, sobbing bitterly and Faulkner was standing at the bar pouring himself another drink, his back to the door.

  “What happened?” Miller demanded.

  Morgan moistened dry lips, but seemed to find difficulty in speaking. “Why don’t you tell him, Jack?” Faulkner called.

  He emptied his glass and turned, the old sneer lifting the corner of his mouth. “Jack and I were at school together, Miller—a very old school. The sort of place that has a code. He’s finding it awkward to turn informer.”

  “For God’s sake, Bruno, let’s get it over with,” Morgan said savagely.

  “Anything to oblige.” Faulkner turned to Miller. “I killed Grace Packard.” He held out his wrists. “Who knows, Miller, you might get promoted over this.”

  Miller nodded slowly. “You’re aware of the seriousness of what you’re saying?”

  “He admitted it to Miss Hartmann and myself before you arrived,” Morgan said wearily. He turned to Bruno. “Don’t say anything else at this stage, Bruno. You don’t need to.”

  “I’ll have to ask you to accompany me to Central C.I.D. Headquarters,” Miller said.

  He delivered a formal caution, produced his handcuffs and snapped them over Faulkner’s wrists. Faulkner smiled. “You enjoyed doing that, didn’t you?”

  “Now and then it doesn’t exactly make me cry myself to sleep,” Miller took him by the elbow.

  “I’ll come with you if I may,” Morgan said.

  Faulkner smiled briefly, looking just for that single instant like an entirely different person, perhaps that other self he might have been had things been different.

  “It’s nice to know one’s friends. I’d be obliged, Jack.”

  “Will Miss Hartmann be all right?” Miller asked.

  She looked up, her eyes swollen from weeping an
d nodded briefly. “Don’t worry about me. Will you come back for me, Jack?”

  “I’ll leave you my car.” He dropped the keys on top of the bar.

  “Nothing to say, Joanna?” Faulkner demanded.

  She turned away, her shoulders shaking and he started to laugh. Miller turned him round, gave him a solid push out on to the landing and Morgan closed the door on the sound of that terrible weeping.

  19

  It was quiet in the Interrogation Room. The constable at the door picked his nose impassively and thunder sounded again in the distance, a little nearer this time. Harold held the mug of tea in both hands and lifted it to his lips. It was almost cold, the surface covered by a kind of unpleasant scum that filled him with disgust. He shuddered and put the mug down on the table.

  “How much longer?” he demanded and the door opened.

  Mallory moved to the window and stood there staring out into the rain. Wade positioned himself at the other end of the table and waited, the trousers neatly folded over one arm.

  Harold was aware of a strange, choking sensation in his throat. He wrenched at his collar and glanced appealingly at Brady who had closed the door after the constables had discreetly withdrawn. The big Irishman looked troubled. He held Harold’s glance for only a moment, then dropped his gaze.

  “What did you do with the tenner?” Mallory asked without turning round.

  “Tenner? What tenner?” Harold said.

  Mallory turned to face him. “The ten-pound note the girl had in her stocking top—what did you do with it?”

  “I’ve never handled a ten-pound note in my life.”

  “If you’d had any sense you’d have destroyed it, but not you.” Mallory carried on as if there had been no interruption. “Where would you change it at that time of night—a pub? Or what about the station buffet—you said you were there.”