The Graveyard Shift

by Jack Higgins

  ‘You’re getting careless in your old age, Fred.’ He shook his head. ‘Remember the eleventh commandment? Never do a copper for it shall be returned unto you an hundredfold.’

  He brushed past them and went down the stairs. Brady was lying on his back at the bottom, legs sprawled in an unnatural position on the stairs, head and shoulders jammed against the wall. Blood matted his hair, trickling down into his eyes and his head moved slightly.

  Garvald turned and looked up at Manton who had paused six or seven steps from the bottom. ‘He doesn’t look too good, Fred. I wish you joy.’

  He opened the door and went out in one quick motion. As it closed, Manton pulled Jango down beside him. ‘Get after him. Lose him and I’ll have your ears.’

  The door opened and closed behind the Cypriot and Manton dropped to one knee beside Brady. The policeman opened his eyes and glared up at him. There was a strange, choking sound in his throat, blood trickled from his nostrils and his head lolled to one side.

  ‘My God, he’s croaked,’ Donner said in a whisper.

  Manton got to his feet. ‘What a bloody mess.’

  ‘It was an accident,’ Donner said desperately. ‘He swung at me first. You saw.’

  ‘I can just see a judge and jury taking my word for that,’ Manton said bitterly. ‘Be your age, Donner. You’ve killed a copper and that’s a topping job.’

  Donner pointed a shaking finger at him. ‘If I go, you go. We’re in this together, make no mistake about that.’

  ‘You don’t need to rub it in,’ Manton said. ‘Even if those swine up at the Town Hall couldn’t find any evidence to implicate me, they’d invent some.’

  ‘Then we’ve got to get rid of him,’ Donner said. ‘That stands to reason. What about dumping him in the canal off Grainger’s Wharf? That’s not far away.’

  ‘That would make it look more like murder than ever,’ Manton said. ‘It’s got to be cleverer than that. An accident, that’s what we want. A convenient accident. Hit and run, perhaps.’

  Donner nodded eagerly. ‘That’s not bad. That’s not bad at all.’

  ‘Especially if we used someone else’s car and dumped it later. There’s one thing, though. Who else saw him come in?’

  ‘Only Jango,’ Donner said. ‘Luckily it was the staff break before the main floor show. They were all in the kitchen. He kept Brady talking at the bottom of the stairs and buzzed for me.’ He hesitated. ‘There’s always Garvald.’

  ‘We’ll see to him later. First, we’ve got to get rid of our friend here. We’ll take him up the alley between us to Stank’s Yard, then you go and pick up a car and don’t waste any time.’

  The alley was deserted and they moved through the darkness, Brady’s limp body a dead weight between them. Stank’s Yard was at the far end near the main road and the door to it from the alley was never kept locked.

  It was a dark well of a place between tall warehouses due for demolition. Much used by scrap merchants, it was choked with the accumulated junk of the years. Wide gates giving access to a narrow lane leading into the main road stood permanently open.

  Manton leaned against the wall, trying to shelter from the driving rain, a cigarette cupped in one hand. Strangely enough, he wasn’t afraid. Excited, if anything. In a strange way it was as if he were living again for the first time in years and he grinned ruefully. Now that would have given Ben Garvald a laugh if you like.

  Someone entered the alley behind him from the main road and moved quickly along the uneven flag-stones, footsteps echoing between the high brick walls. Manton stood back and waited. A moment later, Jango passed the doorway, his face clear in the dim light of the gas lamp which hung at the entrance to the alley.

  Manton called softly to him and Jango turned and came hurrying back. He peered cautiously through the darkness. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Brady died on us. We’ve got to get rid of him. I’m waiting for Donner to show up with a car.’

  The Cypriot’s breath whistled between his teeth. ‘That isn’t so good, Mr Manton. I’m not so sure I like to be mixed up in a killing.’

  ‘You’re in it up to your neck whether you like it or not,’ Manton told him brutally. ‘Unless you’d like me to remind someone about all that killing you did for EOKA. Now cut out the double talk and tell me about Garvald.’

  ‘He’s staying at a place called the Regent Hotel in Gloyne Street. It’s no more than five minutes’ walk from here. A fleapit. They don’t even have a night porter on duty, just a chambermaid.’

  ‘Did you speak to her?’

  ‘Sure.’ Jango chuckled and his eyes gleamed through the darkness. ‘She’s a whore, Mr Manton. I know that place. They only keep her on to oblige the customers. A pound in the top of her stocking and she’ll give you fifty-seven varieties.’

  ‘How interesting,’ Manton said softly. ‘And just how far would she be willing to go for twenty quid?’

  ‘I shudder all over to think of it,’ Jango said simply.

  The sudden roar of an engine echoed within the narrow walls and twin headlamps picked them out of the darkness as a vehicle moved in through the main gates.

  It was a blue Thames van and as they went forward Donner got out of the driving seat. ‘Best I could do. Get him in the back and let’s get out of here.’

  There was still light traffic about, but the lateness of the hour and the heavy, constant rain had by now almost cleared the streets as Donner drove out of the yard and turned into the main road.

  ‘Don’t waste time on anything fancy,’ Manton told him. ‘Any of these side streets will do.’

  ‘Maybe it’s not so good to make it so near the club,’ Jango said.

  ‘Use your brains,’ Manton told him. ‘He works Central Division, doesn’t he, and he was seen to call at the club earlier on. It’s got to be round here.’

  Donner swung the wheel, crossing the dual carriageway, and turned into a narrow street that swung in a curve between tall warehouses towards the river. By now, it was raining even harder and the unheated cab was bitterly cold.

  ‘This should do it,’ Donner said and he braked in the middle of the deserted street so that the Thames skidded on the wet asphalt.

  Manton opened the door and jumped out. The street had started to curve and at this point they were out of sight of the main road and the warehouses, lifting into the night on either side, were dark and still.

  ‘Keep the engine running,’ he told Donner. ‘Jango and I can handle this.’

  He moved to the rear of the van, opened the doors and pulled Brady out by the ankles. The Cypriot took him by the shoulders and together they carried him round to the front of the van, and propped the body upright against the bonnet.

  They stood back and allowed Brady to slide to the ground, the blood that had soaked his face and shirt leaving its traces on the bonnet of the van. Manton raised his foot and smashed the nearside headlamp, glass splintering in a shower that cascaded over Brady’s crumpled body.

  ‘That should do it,’ he said and clambered into the van, pushing Jango in ahead of him.

  ‘Maybe I should run over him or something,’ Donner said. ‘Just to make it look good.’

  As Manton hesitated, for the suggestion had its merits, the light from a car’s headlamps splayed against the curved wall of a warehouse in front of them.

  ‘Get moving,’ he said hoarsely.

  Donner slammed the van into reverse and the rear wheels bounced over the kerb as he swung the wheel. They shot forward, one wheel bumping over Brady’s right foot, and drove away quickly as a small saloon car came round the curve behind them.

  ‘I don’t want it any closer than that,’ Donner said as they crossed the dual carriageway into another side street.

  ‘What do we do now?’

  ‘You can drop Jango and me on the next corner,’ Manton said. ‘Then turn into Canal Street and run this thing off Grainger’s Wharf. We don’t want to make it too easy for them. We’ll see you back at the club and make
it fast. There’s Garvald to take care of, remember.’

  ‘Now that I look forward to,’ Donner said. ‘I really do.’

  The man at the wheel of the saloon car was past his prime and the girl in the passenger seat was certainly not his wife, an added complication. He looked across in fascinated horror at the body which sprawled in the middle of the road and glanced nervously at the shadows crowding from the warehouse walls.

  ‘The rotten swine,’ the girl said. ‘Didn’t even stop.’

  Her companion nodded, opened the door and walked across to Brady. When he came back he looked sick.

  ‘Blood all over his face, I think he’s dead.’

  ‘Then we’d better get out of here,’ the girl said briskly.

  He turned, horror in his eyes. ‘We can’t just leave him here.’

  ‘Why not?’ she said brutally. ‘We certainly can’t do him any good. If it makes you feel any better, we can stop at the first call box. Dial 999, but don’t give your name.’ He sat there staring at her and she shrugged. ‘Of course, if you want to see your name in the paper . . .

  It was all he needed. He switched on the motor and drove away quickly, leaving the horror behind him under the dim light of the old-fashioned gas lamp.

  After a while, the body stirred and a strange, inhuman sob lifted in the throat. Jack Brady rolled on to his face and tried to push himself up, but the arm was broken and he slumped forward, his blood washing across the asphalt, waiting for them to come as he knew they would, hanging on to that final hidden reserve that is in all men and which refused to allow him to die.

  The bell of the approaching patrol car, a cry in the night, was warm and comforting and it was only when he heard it that he let go and slid into darkness again.

  Ben Garvald lay on the bed smoking a cigarette and stared up at the ceiling. He’d had a lot of practice over the years, but this was different. Here, he could walk out any time he felt like it.

  He wondered what Manton was doing about the copper and a grin touched the corners of his mouth. Now there was a problem, but on the other hand, no skin off his nose. He checked his watch. It was 1 a.m. and he frowned, trying to plan ahead.

  If it was the sort of party he imagined it would be, it could run till morning. Certainly there was no point in trying to contact Bella before four or five by which time most of her guests would probably either be flat on their backs or in no fit state to know what was going on. He smiled, trying to imagine the look on her face when she first saw him.

  There was a light knock on the door, it opened and the Irish girl came in with a cup and saucer in one hand. ‘I made some tea.’

  ‘I’ll remember you in my prayers.’

  She gave him the tea and laughed as she looked down at him. ‘That’ll be the day.’

  She went to the window and stood looking into the street. When he had finished his tea, she came back and sat on the edge of the bed.

  ‘Mind if I have a cigarette?’

  ‘Help yourself.’

  She took one and he produced his lighter. When she leaned forward, the nylon overall opened to the waist. She was wearing a slip, no brassière and her breasts were white and firm. She held his wrist tightly as she lit her cigarette, looking straight into his eyes. Garvald slid his left hand inside the neck of the overall and cupped it over a breast, the nipple hardening immediately against his palm.

  ‘Aren’t you the one?’ she said softly.

  He dropped the lighter, took the cigarette from her mouth and crushed it into the ashtray on the bedside table. ‘It’s been a long time,’ he said. ‘A hell of a long time. I’m warning you.’

  Her arms went around his neck and he slid the overall down over her shoulders as their mouths came together. He was trembling, just like a kid having it for the first time, which was strange, and the light in the room seemed to grow dimmer.

  She tumbled on to her back, her limbs asprawl, pulling him down into her softness, but his body seemed to have turned to water. For some reason he was on the floor and she was sitting on the edge of the bed staring down at him, the overall rucked up around her thighs, and her legs were the longest and most beautiful things he had ever seen.

  Across the bed, the door opened and Donner came in. He was laughing but there was also something else in his face and when his mouth opened no sound seemed to come out. He moved round the end of the bed and Garvald tried to haul himself up, but it was too late. A boot swung into his side and the girl’s cry was the last thing he heard as he plunged into the dark.

  Chapter 13

  Nick lit a cigarette and sat on the edge of the table and watched her. After a while, Wilma emptied her glass with a shudder. She looked up at him, eyes wide and staring, the mascara smudged by her tears.

  ‘I must look like hell. Could I have another?’

  ‘It’s your gin.’

  He reached for the bottle and half filled her glass. ‘Things must be pretty bad when you try to go out like that.’

  She took the gin down in one quick swallow, made a face and reached for the bottle again. ‘I thought you were my husband.’

  ‘You must think the world of him.’

  ‘I wouldn’t cut him down if he was hanging.’ She laughed harshly. ‘I’ll tell you about my husband, mister. I’ll tell you all there is to know about Sammy Rosco. He’s from under a stone. When he picked me off a Hamburg street in 1945 and married me, I thought it was a miracle. In those days I still prayed. I was only fifteen, but I lied about my age.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘We came home when he got demobbed. Home to this place.’ She looked around her, an expression of loathing on her face.

  ‘The honeymoon lasted for as long as it took him to run through his gratuity, then he brought the first man home.’

  ‘And he’s lived off you ever since?’

  ‘Something like that. Come one, come all, drunk or sober, black or white, I was never known to refuse. Sammy saw to that. The first time I tried, he knocked me senseless. Roses all the way.’

  ‘Ever tried moving out?’

  ‘You could say that.’ She emptied her glass and ran a hand over her eyes. ‘Look, I’ve got a train to catch. I don’t know who gave you my address, but I’m not playing those kind of games any more.’

  ‘I didn’t come for that.’

  She hadn’t eaten since lunch and the gin had gone straight to her head so that when she looked up at him, she had to concentrate hard, a frown on her face.

  ‘Who are you?’ And then in alarm, ‘You aren’t a friend of Sammy’s, are you?’

  ‘Not from the sound of him,’ Nick said and took a chance. ‘Nick Miller’s the name. I’m a pal of Ben Garvald’s.’

  ‘You’re a friend of Ben’s?’ She peered up at him in bewilderment. ‘Come to think of it, I have seen you somewhere before,’ and for some unaccountable reason she shivered.

  ‘You couldn’t have,’ Nick told her. ‘I’m new in town. Ben and I did some bird together at Parkhurst. I was released last October.’

  ‘You’ve just missed him,’ she said. ‘He was here a little while ago.’

  ‘I was supposed to meet him outside Wandsworth yesterday, but something came up. I hear there was trouble.’

  ‘They were waiting for him in the fog,’ she said, staring into her empty glass.

  Nick filled it again quickly. ‘Who was, Wilma?’

  ‘Oh, some rat or other that Sammy knew on the inside.’ She started to laugh and drank some more of the gin. ‘My God, he couldn’t have told them much about Ben.’

  ‘He’s a hard man all right.’

  ‘He can take ’em all.’ She stared dreamily into space. ‘But when it comes to women.’ She shook her head drunkenly, slow tears oozing down her cheeks and reached for her handbag. ‘See this?’ She waved the fifty pounds in Nick’s face. ‘That’s Ben for you. I’m going home, do you understand? I’m going home.’

  ‘What about Sammy?’

  She laughed contemptuously.
‘Ben gave him the hiding of his life, then tossed him out on his ear.’

  ‘Good for Ben.’ Nick walked to the fireplace and kept his back to her.

  ‘One thing I don’t understand. Why would Sammy want to have Ben worked over when he came out of Wandsworth yesterday? It doesn’t make any kind of sense.’

  ‘You don’t think he was working for himself, do you?’ She stopped abruptly, as she caught sight of his face in the mirror over the fireplace.

  ‘Go on, Wilma,’ Nick said turning. ‘Who was he working for?’

  A sudden realization came to her that something was wrong and she shook her head vigorously and got to her feet.

  ‘I don’t know, I don’t remember. I’ve got to get out of here. I’ve a train to catch.’

  She reached for her case, but Nick beat her to it. ‘Was it Fred Manton?’

  She stared up at him, sobering rapidly, a dawning comprehension in her eyes. ‘You aren’t any friend of Ben’s.’

  She came closer, peering up into his face and Nick nodded slowly. ‘Right every time, Wilma. I’m the law.’

  There was real horror in her eyes now and she sobered completely, grabbing for the case and trying to push past him. ‘I’ve done nothing wrong. You can’t hold me here. I’ve got a train to catch.’

  Nick shoved her back with all his force. ‘Where did Ben go, Wilma? Tell me that and I’ll run you to the station myself.’

  For a moment she seemed to have lost the power of speech and then she pointed a shaking finger at him and the words came tumbling out.

  ‘I know now why I was afraid of you, where I’ve seen you before. When I was a kid in Hamburg during the war, I had a cousin just like you, same white face, same eyes that looked through you like glass. He was in the Gestapo. When the end came, a mob hung him from a lamp post at the end of our street.’

  ‘Ben,’ Nick said. ‘Where is he, Wilma? I only want a chat with him. He’s done nothing wrong, yet.’

  ‘You could put a white-hot poker on my feet and I wouldn’t tell you. He’s the only man ever treated me like a human being in my life.’

  Nick shrugged. ‘That’s too bad. That means I’ll have to take you in for questioning. You’ll miss your train.’