Graveyard to hell, p.31
Graveyard to Hell, page 31
As they started to laugh, a police whistle sounded somewhere in the distance and scores of brent geese rose in a protesting cloud and flew out to sea.
BOOK THREE
HELL IS ALWAYS TODAY
PROLOGUE
The police car turned the end of the street and pulled into the kerb beside the lamp. The driver kept the motor running, and grinned at his passenger.
‘Rather you than me on a night like this, but I was forgetting. You love your work, don’t you?’
Police Constable Henry Joseph Dwyer’s reply was unprintable and he stood at the edge of the pavement, a strangely melancholy figure in the helmet and cape, listening to the sound of the car fade into the night. Rain fell steadily, drifting down through the yellow glow of the street lamp in a silver spray and he turned morosely and walked towards the end of the street. It was just after ten and the night stretched before him, cold and damp. The city was lonely and for special reasons at that time, rather frightening even for an old hand like Joe Dwyer. Still, no point in worrying about that. Another ten months and he’d be out of it, but his hand still moved inside his cape to touch the small two-way radio in his breast pocket, the lifeline that could bring help when needed within a matter of minutes.
He paused on the corner and looked across the square towards the oasis of light that was the coffee stall on the other side. No harm in starting off with something warm inside him and he needed some cigarettes.
There was only one customer, a large, heavily built man in an old trenchcoat and rain hat who was talking to Sam Harkness, the owner.
As Dwyer approached, the man turned, calling goodnight over his shoulder and plunged into the rain head down so that he and the policeman collided.
‘Steady on there,’ Dwyer began and then recognized him.
‘Oh, it’s you, Mr Faulkner. Nasty night, sir.’
Faulkner grinned. ‘You can say that again. I only came out for some cigarettes. Hope they’re paying you double time tonight.’
‘That’ll be the day, sir.’
Faulkner walked away and Dwyer approached the stall, ‘He’s in a hurry, isn’t he?’
Harkness filled a mug with tea from the urn, spooned sugar into it and pushed it across. ‘Wouldn’t you be if you was on your way home to a warm bed on a night like this? Probably got some young bird lying there in her underwear waiting for him. They’re all the same these artists.’
Dwyer grinned. ‘You’re only jealous. Let’s have twenty of the usual. Must have something to get me through the night. How’s business?’
Harkness passed the cigarettes across and changed the ten-shilling note that Dwyer gave him. ‘Lucky if I make petrol money.’
‘I’m not surprised. You won’t get many people out on a night like this.’
Harkness nodded. ‘It wouldn’t be so bad if I still had the Toms, but they’re all working from their flats at the moment with some muscle minding the door if they’ve got any sense. All frightened off by this Rainlover geezer.’
Dwyer lit a cigarette and cupped it inside his left hand. ‘He doesn’t worry you?’
Harkness shrugged. ‘He isn’t after the likes of me, that’s for certain, though how any woman in her right mind can go out at the moment on a night when it’s raining beats me.’ He picked up the evening paper. ‘Look at this poor bitch he got in the park last night. Peggy Nolan. She’s been on the game round here for years. Nice little Irish woman. Fifty if she was a day. Never harmed anyone in her life.’ He put the paper down angrily. ‘What about you blokes, anyway? When are you going to do something?’
The voice of the public, worried, frightened and looking for a. scapegoat. Dwyer nipped his cigarette and slipped it back into the packet. ‘We’ll get him, Sam. He’ll over-reach himself. These nut-cases always do.’
Which didn’t sound very convincing even to himself and Harkness laughed harshly. ‘And how many more women are going to die before that happens, tell me that?’
His words echoed back to him flatly on the night air as Dwyer moved away into the night. Harkness watched him go, listening to the footsteps fade and there was only the silence and beyond the pool of light, the darkness seemed to move in towards him. He swallowed hard, fighting back the fear that rose inside, switched on the radio and lit a cigarette.
Joe Dwyer moved through the night at a measured pace, the only sound the echo of his own step between the tall Victorian terraces that pressed in on either side. Occasionally he paused to flash his lamp into a doorway and once he checked the side door of a house which was by day the offices of a grocery wholesaler.
These things he did efficiently because he was a good policeman, but more as a reflex action than anything else. He was cold and the rain trickled down his neck, soaking into his shirt, and he still had seven hours to go, but he was also feeling rather depressed, mainly because of Harkness. The man was frightened, of course, but who wasn’t? The trouble was that people saw too much television. They were conditioned to expect their murders to be neatly solved in fifty-two minutes plus advertising time.
He flashed his lamp into the entry called Dob Court a few yards from the end of the street hardly bothering to pause, then froze. The beam rested on a black leather boot, travelled across stockinged legs, skirt rucked up wantonly, and came to rest on the face of a young woman. The head was turned sideways at an awkward angle in a puddle of water, eyes staring into eternity.
And he wasn’t afraid, that was the strange thing. He took a quick step forward, dropping to one knee and touched her face gently with the back of his hand. It was still warm, which could only mean one thing on a night like this …
He was unable to take his reasoning any further. There was the scrape of a foot on stone. As he started to rise, his helmet was knocked off and he was struck a violent blow on the back of the head. He cried out, falling across the body of the girl, and someone ran along the entry behind him and turned into the street.
He could feel blood, warm and sticky, mingling with the rain as it ran across his face and the darkness moved in on him. He fought it off, breathing deeply, his hand going inside his cape to the two-way radio in his breast pocket.
Even after he had made contact and knew that help was on its way, he held on to consciousness with all his strength, only letting go at the precise moment that the first police car turned the corner at the end of the street.
1
It had started to rain in the late evening, lightly at first, but increasing to a heavy, drenching downpour as darkness fell. A wind that, from the feel of it, came all the way from the North Sea, drove the rain before it across the roofs of the city to rattle against the enormous glass window that stood at one end of Bruno Faulkner’s studio.
The studio was a great barn of a room which took up the entire top floor of a five storey Victorian wool merchant’s town house, now converted into flats. Inside a fire burned in a strangely mediaeval fireplace giving the only light, and on a dais against the window four great shapes, Faulkner’s latest commission, loomed menacingly.
There was a ring at the door bell and then another.
After a while, an inner door beyond the fireplace opened and Faulkner appeared in shirt and pants, a little dishevelled for he had been sleeping. He switched on the light and paused by the fire for a moment, mouth widening in a yawn. He was a large, rather fleshy man of thirty whose face carried the habitually arrogant expression of the sort of creative artist who believes that he exists by a kind of divine right. As the bell sounded again he frowned petulantly, moved to the door and opened it. ‘All right, all right, I can hear you.’ He smiled suddenly, ‘Oh, it’s you, Jack.’
The elegant young man who leaned against the wall outside, a finger held firmly against the bell push, grinned, ‘What kept you?’
Faulkner turned and Jack Morgan followed him inside and closed the door. He was about Faulkner’s age, but looked younger and wore evening dress, a light overcoat with a velvet collar draped across his shoulders.
He examined Faulkner dispassionately as the other man helped himself to a cigarette from a silver box and lit it. ‘You look bloody awful, Bruno.’
‘I love you too,’ Faulkner said and crossed to the fire.
Morgan looked down at the telephone which stood on a small coffee table. The receiver was off the hook and he replaced it casually. ‘I thought so. I’ve been trying to get through for the past couple of hours.’
Faulkner shrugged. ‘I’ve been working for two days nonstop. When I finished I took the phone off the hook and went to bed. What did you want? Something important?’
‘It’s Joanna’s birthday, or had you forgotten? She sent me to get you.’
‘Oh, my God, I had – completely. No chance that I’ve missed the party, I suppose?’
‘I’m afraid not. It’s only eight o’clock.’
‘Pity. I suppose she’s collected the usual bunch of squares.’ He frowned suddenly. ‘I haven’t even got her a present.’
Morgan produced a slim leather case from one pocket and threw it across. ‘Pearl necklace … seventy-five quid. I got it at Humbert’s and told them to put it on your account.’
‘Bless you, Jack,’ Faulkner said. ‘The best fag I ever had.’
He walked towards the bedroom door and Morgan turned to examine the figures on the dais. They were lifesize, obviously feminine, but in the manner of Henry Moore’s early work had no individual identity. They possessed a curious group menace that made him feel decidedly uneasy.
‘I see you’ve added another figure,’ he said. ‘I thought you’d decided that three was enough?’
Faulkner shrugged. ‘When I started five weeks ago I thought one would do and then it started to grow. The damned thing just won’t stop.’
Morgan moved closer. ‘It’s magnificent, Bruno. The best thing you’ve ever done.’
Faulkner shook his head. ‘I’m not sure. There’s still something missing. A group’s got to have balance … perfect balance. Maybe it needs another figure.’
‘Surely not?’
‘When it’s right, I’ll know. I’ll feel it and it’s not right yet. Still, that can wait. I’d better get dressed.’
He went into the bedroom and Morgan lit a cigarette and called to him, ‘What do you think of the latest Rainlover affair?’
‘Don’t tell me he’s chopped another one? How many is that – four?’
Morgan picked up a newspaper that was lying on a chair by the fire. ‘Should be in the paper.’ He leafed through it quickly and shook his head. ‘No, this is no good. It’s yesterday evening’s and she wasn’t found till nine o’clock.’
‘Where did it happen?’ Faulkner said as he emerged from the bedroom, pulling on a corduroy jacket over a polo neck sweater.
‘Not far from Jubilee Park.’ Morgan looked up and frowned. ‘Aren’t you dressing?’
‘What do you call this?’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘Who for, that bunch of stuffed shirts? Not on your life. When Joanna and I got engaged she agreed to take me exactly as I am and this is me, son.’ He picked up a trenchcoat and draped it over his shoulders. ‘I know one thing, I need a drink before I can face that lot.’
‘There isn’t time,’ Morgan said flatly.
‘Rubbish. We have to pass The King’s Arms, don’t we? There’s always time.’
‘All right, all right,’ Morgan said. ‘I surrender, but just one. Remember that.’
Faulkner grinned, looking suddenly young and amiable and quite different. ‘Scouts’ honour. Now let’s get moving.’
He switched off the light and they went out.
When Faulkner and Morgan entered the saloon bar of The King’s Arms it was deserted except for the landlord, Hal, Meadows, a genial bearded man in his mid-fifties, who leaned on the bar reading a newspaper. He glanced up, then folded the newspaper and put it down.
‘’Evening, Mr Faulkner … Mr Morgan.’
‘’Evening, Harry,’ Faulkner said. ‘Two double brandies’
Morgan cut in quickly. ‘Better make mine a single, Harry. I’m driving.’
Faulkner took out a cigarette and lit it as Meadows gave two glasses a wipe and filled them. ‘Quiet tonight.’
‘It’s early yet,’ Morgan said.
Meadows pushed the drinks across. ‘I won’t see many tonight, you mark my words.’ He turned the newspaper towards them so that they could read the headline Rainlover strikes again. ‘Not with this bastard still on the loose. Every time it rains he’s at it. I’d like to know what the bloody police are supposed to be doing.’
Faulkner swallowed some of his brandy and looked down at the newspaper. ‘The Rainlover – I wonder which bright boy dreamed that one up.’
‘I bet his editor gave him a fifty pound bonus on the spot.’
‘He’s probably creeping out at night every time it rains and adding to the score personally, just to keep the story going.’ Faulkner chuckled and emptied his glass.
Meadows shook his head. ‘It gives me the shakes, I can tell you. I know one thing … you won’t find many women on the streets tonight.’
Behind them the door swung open unexpectedly and a young woman came in. She was perhaps nineteen or twenty and well made with the sort of arrogant boldness about the features that many men like, but which soon turns to coarseness. She wore a black plastic mac, a red mini-skirt and knee-length leather boots. She looked them over coolly, unbuttoning her coat with one hand, then sauntered to the other end of the bar and hoisted herself on to a stool. When she crossed her legs, her skirt slid all the way up to her stocking tops. She took a cheap compact from her bag and started to repair the rain damage on her face.
‘There’s someone who doesn’t give a damn for a start,’ Faulkner observed.
Morgan grinned. ‘Perhaps she doesn’t read the papers. I wonder what the Rainlover would do to her?’
‘I know what I’d like to do to her.’
Meadows shook his head. ‘Her kind of custom I can do without.’
Faulkner was immediately interested. ‘Is she on the game then?’
Meadows shrugged. ‘What do you think?’
‘What the hell, Harry, she needs bread like the rest of us. Live and let live.’ Faulkner pushed his glass across. ‘Give her a drink on me and I’ll have a refill while you’re at it.’
‘As you say, Mr Faulkner.’
He walked to the other end of the bar and spoke to the young woman, who turned, glanced briefly at Faulkner, then nodded. Meadows poured her a large gin and tonic.
Faulkner watched her closely and Morgan tapped him on the shoulder. ‘Come on now, Bruno. Don’t start getting involved. We’re late enough as it is.’
‘You worry too much.’
The girl raised her glass and he toasted her back. She made an appealing, rather sexy picture sitting there on the high stool in her mod outfit and he laughed suddenly.
‘What’s so funny?’ Morgan demanded.
‘I was just thinking what a sensation there would be if we took her with us.’
‘To Joanna’s party? Sensation isn’t the word.’
Faulkner grinned. ‘I can see the look on Aunt Mary’s weatherbeaten old face now – the mouth tightening like a dried prune. A delightful thought.’
‘Forget it, Bruno,’ Morgan said sharply. ‘Even you couldn’t get away with that.’
Faulkner glanced at him, the lazy smile disappearing at once. ‘Oh, couldn’t I?’
Morgan grabbed at his sleeve, but Faulkner pulled away sharply and moved along the bar to the girl. He didn’t waste any time in preliminaries.
‘All on your own then?’
The girl shrugged. ‘I’m supposed to be waiting for somebody.’ She had an accent that was a combination of Liverpool and Irish and not unpleasant.
‘Anyone special?’
‘My fiancé.’
Faulkner chuckled. ‘Fiancé’s are only of secondary importance. I should know. I’m one myself.’
‘Is that a fact?’ the girl said.
Her handbag was lying on the bar, a large and ostentatious letter G in one corner bright against the shiny black plastic. Faulkner picked it up and looked at her enquiringly.
‘G for …?’
‘Grace.’
‘How delightfully apt. Well, G for Grace, my friend and I are going on to a party. It occurred to me that you might like to come with us.’
‘What kind of a party?’
Faulkner nodded towards Morgan. ‘Let’s put it this way. He’s dressed for it, I’m not.’
The girl didn’t even smile. ‘Sounds like fun. All right, Harold can do without it tonight. He should have been here at seven-thirty anyway.’
‘But you weren’t here yourself at seven-thirty, were you?’
She frowned in some surprise. ‘What’s that got to do with it?’
‘A girl after my own heart.’ Faulkner took her by the elbow and moved towards Morgan, who grinned wryly.
‘I’m Jack and he’s Bruno. He won’t have told you that.
She raised an eyebrow. ‘How did you know?’
‘Experience … mostly painful.’
‘We can talk in the car,’ Faulkner said. ‘Now let’s get moving.’
As they turned to the door, it opened and a young man entered, his hands pushed into the pockets of a hip-length tweed coat with a cheap fur collar. He had a narrow white face, long dark hair and a mouth that seemed to be twisted into an expression of perpetual sullenness.
He hesitated, frowning, then looked enquiringly at the girl. ‘What gives?’
Grace shrugged. ‘Sorry, Harold, you’re too late. I’ve made other arrangements.’
She took a single step forward and he grabbed her arm. ‘What’s the bloody game?’
Faulkner pulled him away with ease. ‘Hands off, sonny.’
Harold turned in blind rage and swung one wild punch that might have done some damage had it ever landed. Faulkner blocked the arm, then grabbed the young man’s hand in an aikido grip and forced him to the ground, his face remaining perfectly calm.
