Hell Is Always Today (7 page)

She sighed. “I suppose you’re right.”

“Of course I am.” With some adroitness he changed the subject. “So I was on the telly, was I?”

“Oh, they did quite a feature on the great Gunner Doyle.”

“Free publicity is something I can always use. I hope they mentioned I was the best second-storey man in the North of England.”

“Amongst other things, including the fact that you were the most promising middleweight since the war, a contender for the crown until women and booze and fast cars got in the way. They said you were the biggest high-liver the ring had seen since somebody called Jack Johnson.”

“Now there’s a compliment if you like.”

“Depends on your point of view. The commentator said that Johnson had ended up in the gutter without a penny. They seemed to be drawing some kind of comparison.”

There was a cutting edge to her voice that needled the Gunner and he said hotly, “Well just for the record, darlin’, there’s a few things they’ve missed out like the way I cut so badly that refs used to stop fights I was winning because they’d get worried about the blood pouring all over my face. In that last fight with Terry Jones I got cut so much I was two weeks in hospital. I even needed plastic surgery. They took my licence away so I couldn’t box any more. Any idea how I felt?”

“Maybe it was rough, Gunner, life often is, but it didn’t give you a licence to steal.”

“Nay, lass, I don’t need any excuses.” He grinned. “I had a few sessions with a psychiatrist at the Scrubs first time I got nicked. He tried to make out that I’d gone bent to get my own back on society.”

“What’s your version?”

“Chance, darlin’, time and chance, that’s what happened to me. When the fight game gave me up I’d about two hundred quid in the bank and I was qualified to be just one thing. A bloody labourer. Anything seemed better than that.”

“So you decided to try crime?”

“Not really. It just sort of happened. I was staying in the Hallmark Hotel in Manchester, trying to keep up appearances while I tried to con my way into a partnership with a bloke I knew who was running a gambling club. When the deal folded, I was so broke I couldn’t even pay the bill. One night I noticed a bloke in the bar with a wallet full of fivers. Big bookie in from the races.”

He stared into the fire, silent for a moment and as he started to speak again, she realised that in some strange way he was re-living that night in every detail.

“He was staying on the same floor as me five rooms along. There was a ledge outside my window, only about a foot wide mind you, but it was enough. I’ve always had a head for heights ever since I was a kid, always loved climbing. I don’t know, maybe if things had been different I might have been a real climber. North face of the Eiger and all that sort of stuff. Those are the blokes with the real guts.”

“What happened?” she said.

“I worked my way along the ledge at about two in the morning, got in through his window and lifted the wallet and him snoring the whole time.”

“And you got away with it?”

“No trouble at all. Just over six hundred nicker. I ask you, who’d have gone labouring after a touch like that? My fortune was made. As I said, I’ve always had a head for heights and that kind of thing is a good number. You don’t need to work with anyone else which lowers the chance of getting nicked.”

“They got you though, didn’t they?”

“Twice, that’s all, darlin’. Once when I fell forty feet at the back of the Queen’s Hotel in Leeds and broke a leg. The second time was when I got nicked at that new hotel in the Vandale Centre. Seems they had one of these electronic eyes switched on. The scuffers were in before I knew what hit me. Oh, I gave them quite a chase over the roofs, but it was all for laughs. I’d been recognised for one thing.”

He yawned and shook his head slightly, suddenly very, very tired. “Better get moving I suppose. You don’t want me hanging round here in the morning.”

The cigarette dropped from his hand to the carpet. She picked it up and tossed it into the fire and the Gunner sighed, leaning back in the comfortable old chair. Very softly Jenny Crowther got up and reached for the rug that was draped over the back of the settee.

As she covered the Gunner, his hand slid across her thigh and he said softly, “Best looking lass I’ve seen in years.”

She didn’t move, aware that he was already asleep, but gently disengaged his hand and tucked it under the rug. She stood there for quite a while looking down at that reckless face, almost childlike in repose. In spite of the scar tissue around the eyes and the permanently swollen cheekbones, it was handsome enough, a man’s face whatever else he was and her thigh was still warm where he had touched her.

Perhaps it was as well that sleep had overtaken him so suddenly before things had taken their inevitable course—although she would have had no particular objections to that in principle. By no means promiscuous, she was like most young people of her generation, a product of her day and the sexual morality of earlier times meant nothing to her.

But loving, even in that sense, meant some kind of involvement and she couldn’t afford that. Better that he should go after an hour or two’s sleep. She turned off the light and went and stood at the window, her face against the cold glass, rain hammering hard against it, wondering what would happen to him, wondering where he would run to.

Narcia Place lay in an area that provided the local police force with one of its biggest headaches. The streets followed each other upon a pattern that was so exact as to be almost macabre. Sooty plane trees and solid terrace houses, once the homes of the lower middle classes on their way up, but now in multiple occupation due to an influx of immigrants since the war. Most of the whites had left. Those who found it impossible stayed and hated.

It was almost 12:15 when Jack Brady arrived in a Panda car provided by the local station. The whole street was dark and still in the heavy rain and when he rapped the old-fashioned cast-iron knocker on the door of number ten there was no immediate response. The driver of the Panda car vanished into the entry that led to the back yard without a word and Brady tried again.

It was at least five minutes before a window was pushed up above his head and a voice called, “What the hell you think you’re playing at this time in the morning?”

“Police,” Brady replied. “Open up and be sharp about it. I haven’t got all night.”

The window went down and the driver of the Panda car emerged from the entry. “Any joy?”

“Just stuck his head out of the window,” Brady said. “Get round to the back yard, just in case he tries to scarper.”

But there was no need for at that moment, the bolt was drawn and the front door opened. Brady pushed it back quickly and went in. “Harold Phillips?”

“That’s me—what is this?”

His feet were bare and he wore an old raincoat. Brady looked him over in silence and Harold swallowed, his black eyes flickering restlessly. He looked hunted and was very obviously scared.

Brady smiled in an avuncular manner and put a hand on his shoulder. “I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news for you, son. I understand you’re engaged to be married to a Miss Grace Packard?”

“That’s right.” Harold went very still. “What’s happened? She been in an accident or something?”

“Worse than that, son. She was found dead earlier tonight in an alley called Dob Court on the other side of Jubilee Park.”

Harold stared at him for a long moment, then started to puke. He got a hand to his mouth, turned and fled into the kitchen. Brady found him leaning over the sink, a hand on the cold water tap.

After a while Harold turned, wiping his mouth with the back of one hand. “How did it happen?”

“We’re not certain. At the moment it looks as if her neck was broken.”

“The Rainlover?” The words were almost a whisper.

“Could be.”

“Oh, my God.” Harold clenched a fist convulsively. “I had a date with her tonight. We were supposed to be going dancing.”

“What went wrong?”

“I was late. When I turned up she’d got involved with another bloke.”

“And she went off with him.” Harold nodded. “Do you know who he was?”

Harold shook his head. “Never seen him before, but the landlord seemed to know him. That’s the landlord of The King’s Arms near Regent Square.”

“What time was this?”

“About half-eight.”

“Did you come straight home afterwards?”

“I was too upset so I walked around in the rain for a while. Then I had a coffee in the buffet at the railway station. Got home about half-nine. Me mum was in bed so I took her a cup of tea and went myself.”

“Just you and your mother live here?”

“That’s right.”

“She goes to bed early then?”

“Spends most of her time there these days. She isn’t too well.”

Brady nodded sympathetically. “I hope we haven’t disturbed her.”

Harold shook his head. “She’s sleeping like a baby. I looked in on my way down.” He seemed much more sure of himself now and a strange half-smile played around his mouth like a nervous tic that couldn’t be controlled. “What happens now?”

“I’d like you to come down to Central if you wouldn’t mind, just to have a few words with Chief Superintendent Mallory—he’s in charge of the case. The girl’s father is already there, but we need all the assistance we can get. You could help a lot. Give us details of her friends and interests, places she would be likely to visit.”

“Glad to,” Harold said. “I’ll go and get dressed. Only be five minutes.”

He went out and the Panda driver offered Brady a cigarette. “Quite a technique you have. The silly bastard thinks he’s got you eating out of his hand.”

“Glad you noticed,” Brady said, accepting the cigarette and a light. “We’ll make a copper out of you yet.”

There was a white pill box on the mantelpiece and he picked it up and examined the label. It carried the name of a chemist whose shop was no more than a couple of streets away.
The Capsules—one or two according to instructions—it is dangerous to exceed the stated dose.

Brady opened the box and spilled some of the white and green capsules into his palm. “What you got there?” the Panda man demanded.

“From the look of them I’d say it’s what the doctor gave my wife last year when she burnt her hand and couldn’t sleep for the pain. Canbutal. Half a dozen of these and you’d be facing your Maker.”

He replaced the box on the mantelpiece, a slight frown on his face. “Tell you what,” he said to the Panda driver. “You go and wait for us in the car and bang the door as hard as you like on the way out.”

The young constable, old before his years and hardened to the vagaries of C.I.D. men, left without a word, slamming the door so hard that the house shook. Brady went and stood at the bottom of the stairs, but heard no sound until a door opened and Harold appeared buttoning his jacket on the way down.

“What was all that then?” he demanded. “Thought the house was falling down.”

“Just my driver on his way out to the car. I think the wind caught the door. Ready to go?”

“Whenever you are.” Harold took down his raincoat and struggled into it as he made for the door. “Fame and fortune here I come. Who knows, I might be selling my story to the
Sunday News
before I’m finished.”

With an effort of will, Brady managed to stop himself from assisting him down the steps with a boot in the backside. Instead he took a deep breath and closed the door behind him with infinite gentleness. He was beginning to feel sorry for Harold’s mother.

It was chance more than anything else that led Miller to The King’s Arms after leaving Joanna Hartmann’s flat. His quickest route back to Central C.I.D. took him along Lazer Street and the pub stood on the corner. It was the light in the rear window which caused him to brake suddenly. The landlord would have to be interviewed sooner or later to confirm the circumstances of Grace Packard’s meeting with Faulkner and Morgan, but there was no reason why that couldn’t wait till morning.

The real truth was that Miller was more interested in the disturbance that had taken place, the trouble with the girl’s boy friend which Faulkner had hinted at. “Nothing I couldn’t handle,” he had said. The sort of phrase Miller would have expected from some back street tearaway, indicating a pattern of violence unusual and disturbing in a man of Faulkner’s education and background.

He knocked on the back door and after a while it was opened on a chain and Harry Meadows peered out. He grinned his recognition for they were old friends.

“What’s this then, a raid?”

Miller went in as Meadows unchained the door. “A few words of wisdom, Harry, that’s all.”

“Nothing stronger?”

“Only if you’ve got a cup of tea to put it in.”

“Coming up.”

Miller unbuttoned his coat and went across to the fire. The kitchen was large, but cluttered with crates of bottled beer and cases of whisky. It was warm and homely with the remains of the supper still on the table and the old sofa on the other side of the fireplace looked very inviting.

“See you’ve got another killing on your hands,” Meadows said as he came back into the room with a mug of tea.

“Where did you hear that?”

“Late night news on the radio. Not that they were giving much away. Just said the body of a woman had been found near Jubilee Park.”

“Dob Court to be precise.” Miller swallowed some of his tea, coughing as the whisky in it caught at the back of his throat.

“Dob Court? That’s just round the corner from here.” Meadows looked grim. “Was it anyone I knew?”

“A girl called Grace Packard.”

Meadows stared at him, the skin tightening visibly across his face. Quite suddenly he went to the sideboard, opened a bottle of brandy and poured a large dose into the nearest glass. He swallowed it down and turned, shuddering.

“She was in here earlier tonight.”

“I know, Harry, that’s why I’m here. I understand there was some trouble.”

Meadows helped himself to another brandy. “This is official then?”

“Every word counts so take your time.”

Meadows was looking a lot better as the brandy took effect. He sat down at the table. “There’s a bloke called Faulkner comes in here a lot. Only lives a couple of streets away. He was in here earlier tonight with a friend of his, a solicitor called Morgan. Nice bloke. He handled the lease of this place for me when I decided to buy last year.”

“What time did they come in?”

“Somewhere around half-eight.”

“Who else was here?”

“Nobody. Trade’s been so bad in the evenings since this Rainlover business started that I’ve had to lay off the bar staff.”

“I see. When did the girl arrive?”

“About five minutes after the other two.”

“You knew her name, so presumably she’d been in before?”

“Two or three times a week, usually with a different bloke and she wasn’t too particular about their ages either.”

“Was she a Tom?”

“That’s the way it looked to me.”

“And what about this boy friend of hers?”

“You mean Harold?” Meadows shrugged. “He’s met her in here maybe half a dozen times. I don’t even know his second name.”

“Was he picking up her earnings?”

“Could be, I suppose. He didn’t look so tough to me, but you can never tell these days.”

Miller nodded. “All right, what happened between Faulkner and the girl?”

“She sat on a stool at one end of the bar and he told me to give her a drink. It seems he and Morgan were going on to some posh do and Faulkner got the idea it might be fun to take the girl. She must have liked the idea because they all left together.”

“And then Harold arrived.”

“That’s right and he didn’t like what he found. Ended up taking a punch at Faulkner who got very nasty with him. I had to intervene. In fact I told Morgan to tell him he needn’t come back. I’ve had about as much as I can take.”

“He’s been mixed up in this sort of trouble before then?”

“Too damned much for my liking. When he loses his temper he’s a raving madman, that one. Doesn’t know what he’s doing. He was in here one Saturday night a couple of months back and a couple of market porters came in. You know what they’re like—rough lads—they started taking the mickey out of his posh voice and so on. He took them both out in the alley, gave them a hell of a beating.”

“Did you report it?”

“Come off it, Mr. Miller. I’ve got the reputation of the house to think of. I only put up with him because most of the time he’s a real gent and why should I cry over a couple of tearaways like that? They asked for it, they got it.”

“A point of view.” Miller started to button his coat. “Strange in a man of his background, all this violence.”

Meadows hesitated perceptibly. “Look, I don’t know if this is any use to you, but he was in here on his own one night, not exactly drunk, but well on the way. We were talking about some court case in the evening paper. Three blokes who’d smashed up an old-age pensioner for the three or four quid that was in her purse. I said blokes like that were the lowest form of animal life. He leaned across the bar and took me by the tie. ‘No, they’re not, Harry,’ he said. ‘The lowest form of animal life is a screw.’”

In other days the man who turned the key in the lock had been called a warder. In more enlightened times he was known as a prison officer, but to anyone who had ever served time he was a screw, hated and despised.

“You think he’s been inside?” Miller said.

Meadows shrugged. “Sounds crazy, I know, but I’ve reached the stage where I could believe anything about that one.” He opened the door. “You don’t think he killed Grace Packard, do you?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea. What happened to Harold after the others left, by the way? You didn’t tell me that.”

“I offered him a drink and he told me where to go and went out after them. Funny thing was he turned up again about five minutes afterwards full of apologies. Said he was sorry he’d lost his temper and so on. Then he tried to get Faulkner’s address out of me.”

“He knew his name then?”

“Apparently he’d heard me use it during the fuss when I called out to Faulkner to lay off.”

“Did you give him the address?”

“Do I look as if I came over on a banana boat?” Meadows shrugged. “Mind you, there’s always the telephone book.”

“As you say.” Miller punched him lightly in the shoulder. “See you soon, Harry.”

He went. Crossed the yard through the heavy rain. Meadows watched him climb into the Cooper, then closed the door.

Miller went up the steps of the Central Railway Station and paused to light a cigarette in the porch. The match flared in his cupped hands briefly illuminating the white face and dark eyes. Here and there in the vast concourse a lounger stiffened, turned and faded briskly into the night which was no more than Miller had intended for the railway station of any great city is the same the world over, a happy hunting ground for wrongdoers of every description.

He moved across to the buffet by the ticket barrier and looked in through the window. The young woman he was searching for was sitting on a stool at one end of the tea bar. She saw him at once, for there were few things in life that she missed, and came out.

She was about twenty-five years of age with a pleasant, open face and her neat tweed suit was in excellent taste. She might have been a schoolteacher or someone’s private secretary. In fact she had appeared before the local bench on no fewer than five occasions for offences involving prostitution and had recently served three months in a detention centre.