Without Conscience Page 12

  Soon he was swallowed up by the conflicting currents of pedestrians.

  SEVENTEEN

  After leaving The Loophole Club, I’d taken myself off to the quiet waters of Enfield where Mrs Sandra Riley resided. I wanted to chat further with her about Walter in the hope that I would pick up something which might bring a spark of illumination to the mystery of his death. Sometimes clients are more relaxed, more careless on their home ground. I was sure that the delightful Sandra hadn’t told me all. If necessary I had to go in there and prise the information from her.

  I found the house down a quiet tree-lined street about a mile from the underground station: the epitome of hushed suburbia. The house was actually a bungalow; detached and bijou in appearance, fronted by a neat lawn and well-tended flowerbeds. However, what really caught my attention was the black Wolseley car parked outside. I was fairly certain the car did not belong to Sandra and therefore she had a visitor – a very interesting visitor.

  I took a note of the car’s registration number and then made my way up the path and peered in at both bay windows. There were net curtains to restrict my view but I could see that the rooms at the front were used as bedrooms. I made my way down the side of the house and round to the back. There were lights on in one of the rooms there and I could hear voices. They were raised and discordant. Again net curtains hindered my view and I could just make out two figures, but not their faces. However it was clear that one was Sandra and the other was a man. He seemed to be doing most of the talking. Although I could not hear what he was saying, he spoke forcefully and with a tone of menace in his voice. Sandra was upset. When she responded, she was in full Joan Crawford mode with the occasional dramatic sob and gasp.

  The conversation lasted a few minutes and then the man made for the door as though his business was over and he were about to leave. I felt like a theatregoer who had arrived very late for a performance, only able to see the closing moments of the play before the curtain came down. What made it doubly frustrating was that I had no idea what the two leading characters had been talking about.

  As the man reached the door, he stopped suddenly and picked something up from a little table. It shone in the artificial light. It looked like a glass dish. He held it out and then casually let it fall onto the dark wooden floor. I heard the sound of smashing glass followed by the cry of anguish from Sandra Riley.

  With that the man left the room and Sandra sank down into an armchair. I made my way to the front of the house in time to see the visitor leaving. He was a short, thick-set fellow enveloped in a dark double-breasted overcoat; he wore thick horn-rimmed glasses and a large Homburg was perched precariously on his head. He looked quite a comic figure as he strode purposefully and rather pompously down the path towards his car and he might well have raised a smile from me if I had just encountered him in the street, but after witnessing his performance with Mrs Sandra Riley I didn’t smile.

  After he had driven off, I waited a few minutes before approaching the front door and ringing the bell. It took some time before there was a response. Perhaps Sandra thought that her unpleasant visitor had returned and she was not about to allow him back in to smash another glass ornament. Eventually the door opened and Sandra stood before me. She had repaired her make-up and, although she still looked a little strained and tearful, the casual observer would not have noticed. However, she could not hide her surprise and unease when she saw who her visitor was.

  ‘Mr Hawke.’

  I raised my hat. ‘Just thought I’d call round for a little chat,’ I said smiling.

  For a moment I thought she was about to close the door on me, but she rallied to the occasion and invited me in. She led me into the sitting-room which was furnished in the same smart, immaculate and chic style that Sandra herself affected. The cushions on the cream three-piece suite were beautifully plumped up and looked as though no one had ever had the nerve to sit on them and spoil their pert appearance. As I say, everything about the room was perfect, straight out of a magazine, apart from one thing: there was a shower of glass on the parquet floor by the door, vicious shards of crystal glistening in the subtle light created by a rank of table lamps.

  ‘A little accident,’ she said responding to my raised eyebrows as I stepped over the glass detritus. ‘I was just about to sweep it up when you rang the bell.’

  I said nothing but headed for the plumpest cushion on the sofa and sat on it heavily. Despite her other preoccupations, I noticed that Sandra winced slightly at such desecration.

  I sat back and lit a cigarette. ‘Who was he?’ I asked, blowing smoke in the air.

  She shook her head as though puzzled by my query. She wasn’t puzzled by my query. She knew exactly what I meant.

  ‘Who was who?’ she said as casually as she could, passing me an ashtray. I mustn’t be allowed to drop ash on the floor. Glass bowls were a different matter.

  ‘The gentleman I saw leaving as I arrived. Darkish, shortish, thick glasses. Driver of a black Wolseley.’

  Sandra Riley knew the game was up. There was no point in denying the fellow’s existence.

  ‘Oh, him. An old friend of Walter’s. He just popped in to offer his condolences.’

  She was lying of course, but I decided to play along for a while. ‘An old friend, eh? Who is he?’

  ‘Does it matter? What has this got to do with his murder?’ She sat in the chair opposite me.

  ‘If he is an old friend of Walter’s, he may well harbour some notion about who might want to kill him or at least have an opinion concerning the motive.’

  She shook her head, too vigorously for my liking, and then added an indulgent smile. ‘I can assure you he’d have no idea. He hasn’t seen Walter in years. As I said, he was an old friend.’

  ‘He …? This person has a name, I trust.’

  ‘I’m not going to tell you his name. I don’t want him to be involved. I can assure you that he had nothing to do with Walter’s death.’

  It was time to end the charade. It was bad enough having a mystery at one end of the case without the complication of a duplicitous client.

  ‘You’re lying, Mrs Riley. I’m fairly certain that your visitor was not an old friend. Certainly his behaviour was not friendly. You see I happened to have witnessed the scene with the glass bowl. I was watching through the window.’ I indicated with my arm. ‘His actions looked more like a threat than an expression of condolence.’

  For a moment Sandra Riley was stunned into silence. Then she turned her gorgon eyes on me. ‘You bastard,’ she said with vehemence. ‘How dare you spy on me?’

  ‘I do many things in search of the truth. Now are you going to tell me who your visitor really was and what he wanted?’

  ‘It was personal and private business and no, I am not going to tell you. What is more, I am dispensing with your services as of now, Mr Hawke. I want you to stop your investigations immediately.’

  ‘My, he did frighten you, didn’t he?’

  She didn’t rise to the bait. ‘You may keep your fee, but I want you to drop the case. Leave my house now. I never want to see you again.’

  I was sure that her anger was a smokescreen hiding the fear she felt as a result of the visit from the friend with the horn-rimmed glasses, but I was equally certain that whatever I said now would not affect her resolve to cut me adrift. I had been sacked from jobs before but never because the client was worried that I was getting near to the truth, that they were frightened of some threat. It seemed to me, as my rusty clockwork brain whirred furiously, that it would be best if I seemed to concur with Sandra Riley’s wishes and leave, agreeing to drop the case. I had no intention of relinquishing the case, of course. I was a terrier and I had my bone and no one was going to make me give it up.

  I smiled my little patronizing smile and rose from the chair. ‘If you are sure that’s what you want …?’

  She nodded curtly. ‘Just go,’ she said and I detected a slight tremor in her voice.

  And so, ‘Just
go’ I did, but I couldn’t help feeling strangely pleased with this sudden development. I just had to discover what that little white rabbit of a man, Bernard France, secretary to Sir Robert Gervais, was doing visiting the widowed Mrs Riley, giving her a tough old time and breaking a glass bowl.

  It was growing dusk when I arrived back in the centre of London. I made my way to Benny’s, my feet taking me automatically there while my mind did a cerebral juggling act with the facts and ideas I harboured regarding the Riley case. Before I knew it I was standing outside the café. The blinds were drawn and it was closed. I knocked hard on the door and after a while I heard a noise within and then, with a click of the latch, Benny was standing before me. He did not have to say a word for me to sense that something was wrong. His pale face registered sadness and dismay.

  ‘What is it?’ I said as Benny ushered me inside.

  ‘Come up to the flat,’ he said quietly.

  This subdued Benny was not the fellow I knew.

  ‘What is it?’ I asked again. And then a thought struck me. ‘Where’s Peter?’

  Benny did not respond directly. He just sighed heavily.

  On entering the small-sitting room of his flat, I saw Susan McAndrew sitting there, her hands toying nervously with a handkerchief. She looked as though she had been crying.

  ‘What the hell’s going on?’ I demanded, my anger stemming from frustration.

  ‘Peter’s gone,’ said Susan.

  I sank into a chair. What was it old Shakespeare said about troubles not coming in single spies?

  Between them, Susan and Benny told me what had happened, how Susan had arrived to challenge Benny about Peter and the boy no doubt misjudging the situation, thinking he was going to be hauled back to Devon or worse, had done a bunk. Done a bunk, God knows where.

  They had contacted the police but while they had been sympathetic they didn’t hold out much hope. There were too many runaways in London as it was. Peter was just another poor little sod added to the list.

  I was too tired and too dispirited to get angry. But fatigue did not prevent me from getting more depressed. The fact that there was nothing practical we could do to bring Peter back cut deep into my soul.

  EIGHTEEN

  Harryboy was getting bored with Rachel now. She had been quiet, sullen almost, all day. He assumed that this martyred performance was just because he had knocked her about a bit for being too cocky. He couldn’t be doing with her petulance. It was about time that he dumped her. There were plenty more eager little tarts in the pie shop. Apart from her attitude, she didn’t look so good now anyway and, besides that, he wasn’t sure he believed her ‘time of the month’ story either. The more he thought about it, the more he was convinced she was putting him off. Either she was making him pay for having the nerve to slap her about a bit or she had gone off the bouncing bedsprings routine. Either way she was no use to him as she was. Yes, he was convinced that he had his shilling’s worth with Rachel from the valleys. The time was rapidly approaching when he would get rid of her.

  However, his main concern at the moment was his dwindling supply of cash. He needed to organize a significant injection of funds and for that he’d probably need Rachel. He mulled the situation over as he sat in the pub that evening sipping a pint of beer without much enthusiasm. Rachel was in the Ladies powdering her nose, yet again. He had lost count of the times she had felt the need to adjust her make-up during the day. So she had a black eye? So what? She wasn’t marked for life. Stupid bitch.

  He dragged his mind back to his money problem. He certainly wanted greater pickings than he’d got from the off-licence a couple of nights ago. And it had to be cash. He didn’t want to have to go round some of his old haunts seeking out a fence to bargain with for a measly payout. He wanted real crinkly notes and clinking coins. As if to underline his thoughts, there was a sudden lull in the bar and he heard the cash register clang shut.

  He glanced at his watch and cursed. It was just after eight. He’d left it late for tonight. He’d just have to try his luck with a few pedestrians with the aid of his lady friend. At least she’d come in useful there.

  Rachel returned, looking as miserable as she had when she left. A little spark of anger ignited within Harryboy, but he quelled it. That could wait. At the moment he needed her. He’d deal with the sad cow later. A couple of days or so. That’s all she’d got. And then she’d be dead meat.

  Literally.

  She sat beside him hardly acknowledging his presence.

  ‘You want another?’ he asked, pointing at her empty glass.

  She shrugged.

  He grabbed hold of her wrist so hard that she winced. ‘Stop playing this game, lady. I asked you if you wanted a fucking drink. Now answer me. Answer me properly.’ He spat the words out in a low vicious monotone.

  Rachel’s body stiffened, her eyes trying to avoid Harryboy’s face. ‘Yes, yes, I’ll have another drink,’ she said, desperately trying to control the hysteria in her voice.

  He dropped her arm and pushed his way to the bar. She was aware that an elderly couple in the corner had observed the little scene, but as she glanced over at them, they averted their gaze. Apart from the entertainment value it was none of their business. They certainly didn’t want to get involved. Well, who would? No one could help her, but herself. She had got into this mess by herself and that was the only way she would get out of it. She glanced over at the bar. Harryboy was still waiting to be served. She looked with hatred at the bullish little figure with the arrogant tilting of the head, the back of his neck pressing against the collar of his shirt, causing a thick fold of flesh to bulge out.

  On impulse, she got up and moved in the opposite direction, squeezing her way through the smoking haze and the crowd of customers towards the door. No one seemed interested in her desire to pass. Caught in conversations, the customers needed asking more than once to let her by and then they did so reluctantly, indolently, barely pausing in what they were saying as they moved slightly to ease her passage. She had to push and squeeze past intransigent bodies to make any progress. Somehow the closer she got the further the door seemed to be as though it was deliberately shifting away from her, like an optical illusion, preventing her escape. She felt her heart thudding against her ribs and her legs began to give way as she pressed harder against the sea of bodies. ‘Mind those bleedin’ elbows, darling,’ squawked one indignant punter as she scraped by him. The harder she pushed, the tighter they seemed to pack themselves. She began to whimper with frustration and now heads began to turn as she continued to force her way through.

  Rachel knew that any moment Harryboy’s thick hand could land on her shoulder and drag her back. Her own hand reached out in desperation for the brass handle of the door. It was like a mirage before her. Her arm was fully extended and yet it was still beyond her reach. One extra shove and … at last her fingers gripped the cold metal. She held it tightly and with a small thrill of excitement she pushed the door open. Suddenly, she felt the fresh cool night air on her face. With one last effort she passed through the door. At last she was outside in the welcoming dark.

  Rachel gave a sigh of relief and found herself leaning against the wall, sobbing involuntarily. She allowed herself the luxury of the tears for a few seconds before she remonstrated with herself. Enough of this, she told herself brusquely. You have to get yourself well away from here and as quickly as possible.

  Pulling her coat about her, she began to walk briskly, her heels making sharp click-clacking sounds on the pavement. Her heartbeat was still rapid, but she managed to smile.

  Freedom beckoned.

  Rachel had reached the corner of the street a few yards up from the pub when she felt the hand on her shoulder. Involuntarily she turned round. As she did so, cold liquid splashed in her face. She could tell it was gin.

  ‘I thought you wanted a drink,’ said a voice in the blackness. ‘Here am I spending good money on you and you decide to go walkies.’

  She knew that
it was pointless to try and invent an excuse, so she said nothing. She just mopped the gin from her face with her handkerchief.

  ‘Cheers,’ Harryboy said. It was too dark to see his features clearly, but she could tell from his voice that he was grinning. He cast the glass into the gutter where it smashed into tiny glittering pieces.

  Grabbing hold of her arm so hard that it hurt, he began to walk her down the street away from the pub. ‘Now that you’ve had your little drink, it’s time I set you to work.’

  James Dolan had been putting off going home since he left the bank. Just at the moment, his domestic life was not particularly enjoyable to say the least. His wife’s sister had come to stay and the two women were making his life intolerable. They had joined forces to organize his life, upset his daily routines and belittle and ridicule him at every turn. They had turned him into a downtrodden lodger in his own home. His protests and requests went unheeded or were greeted by bouts of sarcastic laughter. The situation was exacerbated by his position at the bank. As the manager, he was respected, even feared by his workforce. They deferred to him for all decisions and sought his advice on the most trivial of matters. In the bank he was king, but at home he was derided and abused. That was why he had taken to staying in the city on the pretence of attending a series of meetings – ‘secret meetings concerning the war effort’ – to avoid going home so early. In reality, he grabbed a bite to eat in a café and then sat in a pub nursing a pint of beer while he attempted The Times crossword, passing the evening away in quiet contentment until it was time to catch the tube train home. He was aware that the harridans waiting for him to return had probably guessed he was lying. They would have smelt the alcohol on his breath and put two and two together. However, it didn’t seem to bother them. It gave them more time to plot and plan to make his life more miserable. Sometimes when he heard the German planes overhead, he wished they would make a direct hit on number 11 Bradley Avenue.