The Unquiet heart dm-2

by Gordon, Ferris,

  “Yes. Where are you? Are you all right?”

  “Can you come round? I mean here to my flat in Battersea? I mean sometime, when you can…”

  “Put the kettle on.”

  It took me the best part of an hour and three buses. I was still economising after that taxi ride from the prison. I buzzed her flat number and she let me in. When the lift reached her floor I found her waiting by the door. She still looked fragile but her face had a hectic flush. I soon found why.

  “They won’t print it! Hutcheson won’t touch it, Danny. Wilson got to him. He showed Jim my confession! The bastard, bastard! Jim said he didn’t believe it but it was too late anyway. No one would believe it. He didn’t want to rake it all up again.”

  I opened my arms and she fell into them. She stood sobbing against me for a while. Her thin back and arms made me curse Wilson and all his kin. Finally I pushed her back gently from me, but held her by her shoulders.

  “Eve, are you surprised? Forget the confession. You’re a reporter. You know when a story goes cold. It’s been nearly six weeks.”

  She freed herself from my hands and went and stood by the window. “I’m not a reporter. He won’t give me my job back. He asked me how it would look if the paper had an ex-Nazi on the payroll.”

  “Wilson put in a good word for you, then?”

  “What do you think?”

  I walked over and joined her at the window. I looked out into the street. Two men were talking. Both wore coats and trilbies though it was mild and dry. One of them walked away. I pulled back, dragging Eve with me.

  “Did you see him? I recognised one of them. The one I accosted in the street.

  Ages ago. The Yank. I’m sure it was him. Have you noticed anything lately?”

  Her shoulders slumped and she reeled away from me and collapsed on the couch.

  “Yesterday. It started again, yesterday. Why won’t they leave me alone?” She began sobbing.

  “You tell me, Eve. Is there anything you’re keeping from me? Anything you’re not saying?”

  Her answer was to sob harder. I left her then, and as I emerged from the building, I tipped my hat at the bloke loitering across the road. He stared at me till I began walking away. I headed back to my office. I had a phone call to make.

  While I was in the hospital Cassells had given me a number to call. It took less than twenty minutes before he phoned me back.

  “Why are you still following her?”

  “We’re not, old chap.”

  “Then who is?”

  There was a long silence from his end. “Look, let’s do this over a drink…” He gave me directions to the Feathers, a pub in the side streets between St James’s Park and Victoria, just behind the tube station. He was lurking in a booth in the empty lounge bar. A scotch was already standing on my side of the table, and an empty pint glass and a whisky sat in front of him. He had a fag going. I didn’t know Gerry Cassells smoked, or drank for that matter. I sat down opposite and he pointed at my glass. I lifted it, nodded and took a sip.

  “Your local?” I asked.

  “I don’t have a local.”

  “We could have met in the park.”

  “Twice round the pond and you’d meet the whole of MI5. This is quiet.”

  I could see why. There were a couple of blokes in the public bar, not talking, just reading their papers. The pub had an air of indifference. The landlord didn’t care if you drank here or not.

  “What’s happening, Gerry?”

  “What’s happening? Hah! You might well ask.” His usual clipped tones had slowed and elongated.

  “I am. Tell me.”

  “You know there’s a new war on, of course?”

  I raised my eyebrows and waited. I wondered how long he’d been here. The pub had been open for an hour. There were other damp rings on the wood table.

  He leaned over. “Us and them. West and east. Capitalism and commies. We’re not shooting yet. But it’s only a matter of time.”

  “What’s this got to do with Eve? Or me for that matter?”

  He took a long drink of his beer, got up and walked to the bar. He walked faster than he should and stood gripping the counter until the barmaid deigned to serve him. Then he returned with foaming pints, and went back for two large whiskies.

  He made a dent in both of his glasses before continuing. He wiped the foam off his moustache.

  “She got in the way. That’s why. Meddling Eve. And her pals. The whole bloody ragbag of them. Stirring up the Middle East, just when we didn’t need it.”

  “Gerry, what the hell are you talking about? She was on our side, remember? Your side.”

  He nodded. “Trouble with doubles is they get confused.” He flapped his hand in the air. “Change sides once, they’ll do it again. She did. Bloody Jewish underground.”

  “But it doesn’t matter now, does it? It’s all over.”

  “Hah!”

  “Gerry, for fuck’s sake stop going hah! Just tell me what’s going on.”

  “S’not over. It’s just starting. A new dance, but same old, knackered players.

  Change partners and dance with me.” He stopped and looked around furtively.

  “Listen. The Reds are the bad guys now, so anyone who isn’t a commie is a good guy. My enemy’s enemy is my friend. Right?”

  I gave him a long incredulous look. “You can sit there and tell me we’re working with the SS now?! The same rotten bastards who started all this?”

  His face twisted. “You think I like it? You think we’re all happy campers now?” he subsided. “It’s not our show any more.”

  I guessed the answer but needed to hear it. “Whose show is it, Gerry?”

  “The Yanks, o’ course. New outfit. Central Intelligence. Truman set it up in January. Replaces all the old departments like the OSS. And they don’t just gather intelligence. They act.”

  “Like SOE?”

  “With more money. Buckets of cash. They’re everywhere. We’re tripping over them in Europe, Far East, Palestine…”

  “Berlin?”

  He nodded. “Buying intelligence. Using the old networks set up by the SS and SD.

  They argue that we’re all on the same side against the commies.”

  Light dawned. “Mulder? Eve’s old boss was on the payroll?”

  Cassells nodded and gulped at his beer.

  “That’s why they’re still following her?” I asked.

  “Her and her new pals.”

  “Irgun?”

  “Yanks don’t want to lose any more of their agents.”

  “Why are you telling me this, Gerry?”

  He lit another smoke and gathered himself up again. “Because it stinks! It bloody stinks. Can’t change my spots. Lost good men and women to bloody Nazis.

  Now we’re supposed to protect ’em. Well, I won’t. Wilson can if he wants. But not me. Time I retired. Thinking of buying a pub. Down in Devon. Got my eye on a place. Noss Mayo. Little village by the sea…”

  “Gerry! What about Wilson? What’s he up to? Is it about Eve?”

  “She shouldn’t have gone after Mulder.” He shook his head.

  “Gerry!”

  “Wilson is MI5’s link man with the Yanks. He does it with relish. Loves the power. Likes how they operate. Action, that’s what it takes! he keeps telling me. Not for me. Not my cup of tea.”

  “What’s he up to?” I pleaded.

  “He put your girlfriend in a little flat, yes? Battersea, isn’t it? So he can keep an eye. And on you. And if necessary…”

  He paused, then like some old ham actor, he drew his finger across his throat.

  “He wouldn’t dare! She was a British agent. Not even Wilson…” I forced myself to be calm. “What can I do?”

  Cassells shrugged. “There’s nowhere safe, old chap. But I’d get her away, get her out of that flat. No need to make it easy for him.”

  I left him there, still nursing his drink and looking like the saddest man in the worl
d. I paced round St James’s Park, my mind in turmoil. By the lake in the evening sunshine, Cassells’ tale sounded like the ravings of a lunatic. I couldn’t, didn’t want to believe what he told me. But it all had the ring of truth. In vino veritas. And behind all this fear and craziness stood my bкte noire, Wilson. Cassells described him as a sort of go-between for the American Central Intelligence Agency and British Secret Intelligence. But I knew Wilson.

  He’d be enjoying this. Sadists need victims. Like what he did to Eve in prison.

  Now he’d be waiting his chance to twist the knife. Personally. Away from official eyes.

  I thought of the stray moggy I fed. I found it with a mouse one day. It didn’t kill it. Not right away. Just caught it, roughed it up, let it go, and caught it again. Time after time. Until the mouse was so terrified and torn it couldn’t move. It just sat there trembling until its heart gave out. The sun dropped behind the trees and a cool wind whipped across the pond. A sudden dread filled me. I walked smartly out of the park.

  It was dark by the time I got to her building. I walked slowly, using the odd parked car for cover. There was no one around. No sign of watchers. I looked up to see if I could see her window. It was hard to pick out one from the identical frames and curtains. The one I decided was hers was in darkness. I took a risk and walked over to her front door. I buzzed several times but got no reply.

  “Forgotten your key, dear?”

  I turned round and found myself gazing down on a bent old woman struggling with her string bag and a stick to climb the four stairs. I stepped down and helped her up.

  “We’ve just moved in,” I lied. “My wife said the buzzer wasn’t working this morning.”

  “Happens all the time. I was telling the caretaker only the other morning. The milk is always late. And the dirt! Dear me, the dirt. Gets into the hall and everywhere. Never swept.”

  She dug around in her bag and finally pulled her purse out. She found her key and let me in. We shared a lift up to her floor and I carried her bag to her front door. I left her once she’d put her light on, and walked to the fire exit and down the two floors to level three. I eased the fire door and peered into the hall. It was dark apart from a single bare bulb glowing in the ceiling. I paced my way quietly to her door and put my ear against the wood. I could hear nothing. But under the ill-fitting door was a faint bar of light.

  I tapped gently on the door, then louder. “Eve? Eve, it’s me, Danny.” Nothing. I kept up the tapping for a bit then drew out the two slender wires I keep in my top pocket. I slid one into the lock and felt for movement. It didn’t take long.

  My SOE instructor would have been proud of me – though he was probably back in the nick again.

  I pushed the door open and stepped inside. “Eve? Are you there? Don’t worry.”

  I stopped dead. It didn’t look as though she would hear me. The source of the light was the bedroom. It illuminated the chaos. Chairs tipped over, couch on its side and cup and teapot smashed on the floor. I walked into the bedroom expecting the worst. But there was no body, no blood. Thank god. Her few clothes were scattered on the floor and across the tumbled bed sheets. Eve hadn’t gone willingly. But where? And was she still alive?

  I left her flat in a cold fury. Where would Wilson take her? Back to prison? But the scene in her flat wasn’t caused by an official visit. The boys in blue wouldn’t have needed to turn the place over to get her to come with them. Waving a warrant would have done the trick. In her frail state she would have gone with them like a lamb to… I didn’t finish the thought.

  I stormed out the building, practically running. Bastards, bloody bastards! Why couldn’t they leave her alone? My panting lungs turned to near-sobs until I pulled up short in the middle of Battersea Bridge and forced myself to take deep breaths. The lights were coming on along the Embankment and making the trees glow in silhouette. Slowly I let the river seep into my mind. Some calmness returned. I had to think. Had to plan.

  An idea came to me and I shoved it away. Crazy ideas come too readily to me. But it wouldn’t leave me alone. So I hopped on a bus heading back to Lambeth and changed to one for Camberwell Green. It was just nine o’clock. The George would be open for another hour. With luck, one or two of the lads might be around.

  TWENTY SIX

  OK, it was a stupid idea. But it seems the lads were as far round the twist as me. They knew all about Wilson. I’d ranted about him over many a beer. How he’d used his position to get free access to Soho girls and how he’d beaten and abused them. How he’d nearly killed me. And what he’d done to Eve, the plucky girl who’d saved their skins in the warehouse robbery. If there was a way of paying her back, they were ready for it. They even offered to do it for free.

  As luck would have it, Fast Larry was skulking in the bar. I grabbed him and put a message through to Pauli Gambatti. Larry lived up to his nickname. Quicker than the phone. Next morning one of Pauli’s minions dropped by my office. This time he held a key in his hand, not a gun. It seemed Mr Gambatti was delighted to help. Wilson’s reputation had preceded him. Furthermore Mr Gambatti graciously acceded to my request on the condition that I consider working for him. I said I’d give it serious thought. Why not?

  I then put a call into Cassells. He gave me short shrift when I finally got through. Told me there was nothing he could do. And certainly nothing I could do. He couldn’t tell me anything, and no, he didn’t know whether she was alive or dead.

  My last call was to Scotland Yard. I asked for Detective Superintendent Wilson.

  I gave my name. I went through three pairs of hands before Wilson’s sneering voice came on the line.

  “What do you want, McRae?”

  “I want to meet. It won’t take long. I have something to tell you.”

  “Let me guess. You want to give yourself up. You want to confess to being an accomplice to the murder of a certain German official? Or how about the murder of a certain man in the Angel pub in Rotherhithe. Or how about the spate of murders of prostitutes in…”

  “Shut up, Wilson. Do you want to meet or not?”

  “Maybe. When? Where?”

  “You’re based at the Yard, right? Meet me outside at noon today.”

  “Today? That might not…”

  “Noon. Today.” I hung up.

  I took Midge with me to Victorian Embankment and stationed him across the road, leaning nonchalantly against the river wall. The towers and turrets of New Scotland Yard shouted power and authority, just as the architect last century had planned.

  By twelve-twenty Wilson hadn’t shown and I was beginning to think I’d blown it.

  Maybe I should have been more conciliatory. Just when I’d given up on him, his tall dark form strode casually through the great front door. I was still surprised how much weight he’d lost, but it didn’t make him less imposing. His thin hair was slicked back and parted carefully in the middle. He wore a new double-breasted suit that made my demob outfit feel shabby. They must pay well.

  He got within punching distance and stopped with a big supercilious grin on his face.

  “You’ve got five minutes, McRae. Talk fast.”

  “Where’s Eve Copeland?”

  His grin got wider. “You mean Fraulein Ava Kaplan?”

  “Where is she?”

  He raised his big shoulders. “Now how should I know? Tried Berlin, have we?

  Probably gone off to join her Nazi pals again.”

  My fists were clenched and I’d almost forgotten why I was there, when we were suddenly interrupted.

  “Scuse me, guv. You happen to know how to get to Trafalgar Square from ’ere?” asked Midge. He was talking to Wilson.

  Wilson’s lined face screwed up with annoyance. “That way.” He nodded north and turned his back on Midge. I waited till Midge was well away.

  “You abused her in prison, you sod. Forced a confession out of her.”

  “Did I?” he asked, all innocence. “Just doing my job. But listen, McRae…” He bent hi
s head forward so that I could smell some cheap cologne. It failed to mask his breath. “I can see why you fancied her. Very nice.” He cupped his hands beneath his chest and leered.

  He must have seen my arm move. He stepped back smartly, out of reach. I unclenched my fist.

  “Steady, McRae. Assaulting a senior officer on the very doorstep of Scotland Yard? Ten years for that. Minimum.”

  I got my breathing nearly under control. “Where is she? You set her up in the flat in Battersea. You had her followed. Where have you taken her, Wilson?” I heard my voice rising. Ten years would be worth it, if I could get one good punch in.

  Wilson stepped further back and smirked. “No idea what you’re talking about, McRae. That head of yours giving you problems again? Seeing things again are we?” He made a show of looking at his watch. “Time’s up. Disappointing, McRae.

  Disappointing.” He turned and walked back to the Yard, leaving me seething. I curbed my instinct to run after him and punch him to the ground. I’d have my chance. Later.

  It was simple. Midge had clocked him. By the end of day the lads had followed him and found out where he lived: in the rundown area between Bayswater and Notting Hill. He rented a basement flat in Moscow Road. Midge pretended he was a delivery man, and asked a couple of neighbours about Mr Wilson. He seemed to live alone, surprise, surprise. And got home early evening.

  The boys were waiting next morning to check that Wilson emerged from the same place. They did it once more for luck in the evening. During the wait I visited Eve’s building three times, pressing the bell until my thumb hurt. Nothing, and no sign of the watchers. I also inspected the area around Moscow Road. It was quiet and lined with trees. When I met Midge, Stan and Big Cyril in the George that night, I gave them the word. Tomorrow, on his way home.

  We prayed he followed a regular pattern, and hoped he wasn’t working late. We knew he took the tube to Notting Hill Gate and walked along Bayswater, left into Palace Court and then into his street. We decided to take him in Palace Court where the pavements were shaded by trees.

  Midge sat in the driver’s seat of the borrowed van. I sat in the back. Stan and Cyril patrolled the street; when Stan signalled from the Bayswater Road, Midge could see it in his mirror. Last evening Wilson had come back around six o’clock. It was half past already and no sign. I was getting cramp in my legs and dearly wanted to get out and stretch.