Without Conscience Read online

  Without Conscience

  Also by David Stuart Davies

  Forests of the Night

  Without Conscience

  A JOHNNY HAWKE NOVEL

  David Stuart Davies

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  THOMAS DUNNE BOOKS.

  An imprint of St. Martin’s Press.

  WITHOUT CONSCIENCE. Copyright © 2008 by David Stuart Davies. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

  www.thomasdunnebooks.com

  www.minotaurbooks.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Davies, David Stuart, 1946–

  Without conscience : a Johnny Hawke novel / David Stuart Davies. — 1st U.S. ed.

  p. cm.

  “First published in Great Britain as: Without conscience: A Johnny One Eye novel by Robert Hale Limited, 2008”—T.p. verso.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-312-38210-0

  ISBN-10: 0-312-38210-3

  1. Hawke, Johnny (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Private investigators—England—London—Fiction. 3. London (England)—History—Bombardment, 1940-1945—Fiction. 4. World War, 1939-1945—England—London—Fiction. I. Title.

  PR6104.A857W58 2008

  823′.92—dc22

  2008029372

  First published in Great Britain as

  Without Conscience: A Johnny One Eye Novel

  by Robert Hale Limited

  First U.S. Edition: December 2008

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  To old chums Howard Higton &

  Matthew Booth & Laurie Stead

  Thank you for the years of friendship

  PROLOGUE

  Dusk was falling as Harryboy Jenkins swaggered towards the barrack gates, clutching a brown paper parcel to his chest. His eyes shone brightly and a cocky smile played about his thick lips. With an assertive toss of the head, he presented his evening pass to the sergeant on duty.

  ‘Off into the village, are you, Jenkins?’ the sergeant remarked with ill-concealed contempt, returning the pass. He disliked Jenkins intensely. He was a born troublemaker who lacked both the self-discipline and application to make a good soldier. No amount of training and square bashing would turn this creep into one of the team. There was something about Jenkins’ smarmy, pugnacious mug that made the sergeant want to punch it and punch it hard. The lad exuded a kind of mad, bomb-proof insolence as though he was challenging the world to wipe the grin off his face. One day, the sergeant thought, someone would and he hoped that he’d be there to witness the event. He would delight in seeing the shock and incredulity in those arrogant blue eyes as some clever bastard yanked the rug from under Harryboy Jenkins’ feet.

  ‘That’s my business, ain’t it, Sergeant?’ Jenkins touched his snub nose with his forefinger and smirked defiantly.

  ‘Maybe, but it’ll be my business if you’re not back here by eleven, or that we hear you’ve been causing trouble again.’

  ‘Can I go now … Sergeant?’ he asked with a thinly disguised sneer.

  The sergeant did not rise to the bait. He could wait. He’d get his revenge sooner or later. With a dismissive nod of the head, he let Harryboy through the barrier.

  ‘Cockney scum,’ the sergeant muttered to himself, as he watched the soldier disappear into the growing October gloom.

  *

  The village of Smarden was nearly two miles from the barracks and the only way for a soldier to get there was to walk or, if he was lucky, hitch a lift. Jenkins was determined to get lucky. It was a cold night and already the moisture on the foliage was beginning to stiffen and whiten with the first signs of October frost. Jenkins pulled his army greatcoat tighter around him as he approached the crossroads. Here was his best place for thumbing a lift. Who would refuse a soldier on such a night as this, eh? He grinned to himself.

  By the time he had made his way down to the road leading to Smarden, it was dark and a cunning moon drifted behind the clouds allowing only scant illumination. While Harryboy waited in anticipation of a passing motor car, he lit a cigarette and contemplated his future. His grin broadened. Life was about to get so much better.

  He didn’t have to wait long for a potential lift. He had just skittered the stub of the cigarette into the bushes when he heard the sound of a car engine in the distance. Stepping smartly into the road, he awaited its arrival. Around the far bend appeared a black Wolseley, its faint dipped headlights like two ghostly eyes penetrating the darkness.

  Jenkins shone a pocket torch on to his face with one hand while he waved the vehicle down with the other.

  The car glided to a halt some six feet from him. The driver, a grey-haired middle-aged man, wound the window down and stuck his head out.

  ‘What’s the trouble, soldier?’

  ‘I just need a lift into the village, sir,’ said Jenkins, in his most oleaginous fashion.

  ‘Into Smarden? Is that all? Of course, hop in.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you, sir,’ said Jenkins, his eyes twinkling as he pulled open the passenger door.

  ‘You stationed at the barracks, young fellow?’ the man said as he set the car in motion once more.

  ‘That’s right, sir,’ replied Jenkins, glancing over at the driver, whose face was dimly illuminated by the lights on the dashboard. He saw that he was wearing a dog collar.

  ‘You a vicar?’ Jenkins asked automatically.

  The man nodded and smiled. ‘Yes, yes I am. The Reverend Simon Mellor. I’ve just been to a conference of local clergy in Canterbury. We’ve been trying to work out more practical ways of how we can help the war effort. We want to feel we’re doing our bit as well as you lads in uniform. I’m the vicar in Tenterden, that’s about five miles beyond Smarden.’

  ‘Yeah, I know it.’

  The vicar smiled indulgently. ‘I can tell from your accent that this isn’t your neck of the woods. A London lad I should guess.’

  ‘That’s right, sir. I was born and bred in Pimlico.’

  The vicar smiled to himself. ‘I thought so.’

  Harryboy Jenkins also smiled. But for a different reason. The poor sod of a vicar had no idea what he had let himself in for giving this particular soldier a lift. Harryboy snuggled back in the leather seat, enjoying the comfort and warmth of the car. He was going to be the master of ceremonies in this show and it was almost time for him to take control. It would only take the car a few more minutes to reach the village and things needed to be sorted out before then. Surreptitiously, he slipped his hand into the inside pocket of his greatcoat and retrieved the revolver. It felt good to hold the gun in his hand once more. It gave him a sense of power and he liked that. Turning in his seat, he pressed the barrel into the neck of his companion.

  ‘What the …!’ exclaimed the vicar with shock, the car suddenly veering wildly across the road.

  ‘Keep steady, Vic. There’s no need to get alarmed … yet.’

  While his heart pounded violently within his chest, The Reverend Simon Mellor quickly brought the car under control and then tried desperately to do the same with his own shaken emotions.

  Jenkins leaned in closer to him, so close that the clergyman Mellor could smell the cheap cologne he was wearing. ‘Now, this is a gun that’s sticking in your neck, Vic, and it’s loaded, so I suggest you do everythin’ I say. OK?’

  ‘What on earth do you want? I have no money.’

  ‘I’m not in the mood for answering questions, so shut your trap and be a good little reverend and just obey orders. OK?’

&n
bsp; The vicar turned briefly to look at the face of his passenger for the first time. The expression of contempt he saw there made him shudder. There was something manic in the eyes, and the tight, arrogant smirk suggested that the man felt no fear and was devoid of a conscience.

  ‘Now then, Rev, I want you to pull over by this bank of trees just ahead.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  Jenkins prodded the gun harder against his neck. ‘Questions, Rev. What did I tell you about questions? Just do as you’re told and fucking shut up.’

  Simon Mellor did as he was told. The car shuddered to a halt.

  ‘There’s a good boy. Now get out.’

  For a moment the vicar hesitated, but on seeing the fierce cold hatred in the soldier’s face he knew that it was futile to resist or ask why.

  ‘Step over by the trees, Rev, old chap. That’s the way. Don’t look so worried. A good boy like you with lots of praying behind yer has nothing to worry about.’

  The vicar had moved across the damp, overgrown verge and was now standing in the shelter of two large oak trees, their branches still laden with autumn leaves.

  What now? he wondered.

  The answer came swiftly.

  Still grinning, Harryboy Jenkins stretched out his arm and fired two shots into the chest of the Reverend Simon Mellor.

  The vicar opened his mouth in shock but made no sound as he fell like a stringless marionette to the ground.

  Jenkins gave a whoop of joy. That had been good.

  Really good.

  After checking that his victim was indeed dead, he rifled his pockets for cash – not much of it – a ration book and some petrol coupons. He also stripped him of his blue overcoat. There was a little blood on the collar but that would come off with some water. Then he covered the body with dead leaves.

  ‘Rest in peace, Rev, old chap,’ he cried with a chuckle, as he scattered a last handful of leaves over the white vacant face.

  Five minutes later Harryboy Jenkins was driving the car into the village of Smarden. He had dispensed with his army uniform and changed into his nice two piece, double breasted pin-striped number which he had brought with him in the brown paper parcel. He didn’t stop in Smarden but took the London road out of the village. That’s where he was headed: the city. Now that he had severed his army shackles, he intended to enjoy the war in London and no one was going to stop him.

  ONE

  She didn’t even knock. She just strolled into my office as though it were her own living-room. Mrs Sandra Riley. Her features were bleached white with powder and a fierce red gash of lipstick gave the impression that someone had cut her face open. Along with her intimidating manner, she was in possession of a glance like an acetylene lamp. The fur of some dead creature loitered around her shoulders. She fancied herself did Mrs Sandra Riley all right. Her whole demeanour announced to the world that she believed that she was irresistible. She was mistaken. I could resist her. Women like that terrify me. But that’s my problem. Her problem was of a different kind.

  ‘I believe my husband is being unfaithful to me.’

  He wouldn’t dare.

  Over several cigarettes she told me her sad story. It was delivered in a dramatic Joan Crawford fashion, peppered with sighs and emotional pauses but the eyes remained dry and the make-up firmly in place. It was quite a performance. Apparently hubby Walter was playing away from home with some trashy femme fatale in the city. Or that’s what Mrs Riley suspected. She wanted me to obtain proof of Walter’s lapse so that she could instigate divorce proceedings. During her recital she demonstrated no real feelings of being hurt or distressed at the thought of her husband’s infidelity; she just wanted ‘to nail the bastard’. I got the impression that she saw a rosy future for herself as an attractive divorcee, wrapped in furs and dripping in diamonds, enjoying a very pleasant lifestyle financed by most of Walter’s money.

  Being a private detective in London during the war is like riding a dysfunctional big dipper with more lows than highs. Sometimes I do have challenging and financially rewarding cases which take me up to the heights, but more often than not I am zooming downwards to the deepest depths where the mundane and generally grubby investigations just about keep me above the breadline. This was going to be one of those cases.

  The war seemed to have relaxed and loosened many people’s morals. It was a case of snatch some happiness, warmth, love, today, however illicit, for God knows if there’ll be a tomorrow. As a result, I spend a fair bit of my time checking up on errant husbands or wives, exposing their desperate attempts to bring a little love and joy into their insecure lives. It certainly wasn’t what I expected or desired when I set up Hawke Investigations at the end of 1939. I had been invalided out of the army because a rifle exploded in my face during army training, causing me to lose an eye. As a young but fragile Cyclops I was offered only a safe desk job by my old employers, the police, so I decided to set up as a private detective and enjoy the adventure and high drama of the profession as portrayed in the thousand films featuring the breed that I’d been watching since I was in short trousers.

  If I couldn’t fight the Hun in some foreign field, I could at least make some meaningful contribution on the home front. Well, that had been the plan.

  And so here I was about to peek through another bedroom keyhole.

  Sure enough, some days later after my encounter with Sandra Riley I found myself sitting in the foyer of a cheap hotel off the Strand waiting for the arrival of her husband Walter’s illicit lady friend.

  According to his wife, Walter was employed at the War Office. He regularly worked late on Tuesdays and Thursdays, not getting home until past midnight. It was on these evenings that Mrs R thought that he was seeing his new paramour. He came home ‘smelling of alcohol and perfume’ and on one occasion she had found an ear-ring in his jacket pocket.

  The following Thursday I tailed Walter. Contrary to his story, he left the office building early, just after four, carrying with him a suitcase and a rather guilty look. It seemed as though my lady client’s suspicions were correct. He ate a meal in a small café in Piccadilly on his own and then repaired to the aforementioned seedy hotel. Apparently he had already had a room booked there in the name of W. Riley.

  With the aid of a shilling, I obtained the room number from the desk clerk, an ancient fellow whom I guessed from his weary expression and mechanical manner was used to such enquiries. It was that kind of hotel: it smelt of damp and casual sin. The guests drifted surreptitiously through the foyer like guilty shadows.

  After a decent interval – the only thing decent in the whole establishment – I made my way up the narrow ill-lit staircase to the room and listened at the door. It was most probable that the girl had already been waiting for Walter. However, there was no sound at all from within. Crouching down, I applied my ear to the keyhole. Still nothing. Not a squeak of a bed spring, not a rattle of a bed head, not a suppressed moan – nothing. Don’t tell me that I’d missed all the action and they’d fallen asleep.

  I waited a while longer but I still heard nothing through the door. There was only one course of action to me. I sighed and knocked discreetly. There was no response. I was beginning to think I had the wrong room. I knocked again, much less discreetly this time. More like a hammer blow. Loud enough at least to prompt a head to poke out into the corridor two doors down. It flashed me a guilty look and then vanished as quickly as it had appeared.

  At last I got a response from Walter’s room. I heard a muffled female voice say, ‘Just a minute.’

  Eventually the door opened, and, boy, was I in for a surprise.

  Standing before me was a heavily made up blonde, rather plump in proportion, ineffectually squeezed into a black evening gown. She fluttered her sooty eyelashes inexpertly at me.

  ‘Yes, what is it?’ she said, in a rather throaty manner, not quite achieving the more desirable higher register.

  For a moment I was lost for words and then I couldn’t help i
t: I had to smile. ‘Oh, Walter,’ I said, ‘what have you been up to?’

  Half an hour later I was sitting opposite Wilma Riley – as Walter preferred to be called when wearing his feminine attire – in a drinks club known as The Loophole. The place was full of gentlemen of a similar persuasion to Walter/Wilma, some decidedly and convincingly glamorous, some comically less so. Somehow stubble and face powder don’t mix. And there is a way of crossing your legs that ladies have that doesn’t involve creating a draught. As one of the few men wearing trousers in the place, I felt strangely uncomfortable.

  ‘I’ve always had a liking for women’s clothes,’ Wilma was saying, fingering her glass of gin and tonic nervously. ‘When I was a kid, I’d go upstairs when my mother was out and try on her things. At first it was just for the novelty … and then it became a sort of compulsion. I can’t really explain it: it just makes me feel … good, makes me feel safe. And when my marriage to Sandra started to hit the rocks, I sought solace in dressing up properly. Make-up, high-heeled shoes – the lot. And so Wilma was born. I actually went out and bought clothes for her. It was the best fun I’d had in years.’ He gave me a wan smile. ‘Then I found out about this place and realized that I wasn’t alone. There were others like me. Others who get a thrill out of slipping on a pair of silk stockings and a brassiere.’

  I held up my hand. ‘Whoa. More information than I need,’ I said, as gently as I could, pushing the unbidden image of paunchy Walter in his female undies from my mind. I didn’t pretend to understand this strange obsession, but I certainly didn’t want to be presented with graphic details to further my education. I’m a little queasy that way. However, I did sympathize with Riley’s plight. We all have innate drives which we are helpless to subdue.

  ‘I’m not a homosexual, you know,’ my companion announced suddenly. ‘I still feel normal passions towards women. This’ – he indicated his wig and evening dress – ‘is simply a kind of escape – a screen for me to hide behind. I’m in a rotten marriage with a bully for a wife and so twice a week I come here and mingle with my own kind for a few hours. Is that wrong?’