Forests of the Night (21 page)

Walker returned McAndrew's smile. ‘Well, Sister,' he said kindly, ‘the boy has made a splendid recovery thanks, no doubt, to your ministrations. And so he's ready to move on. Mr Stanley believes he can find a place for him at Moorfield House – that's a boys' home out Windsor way. Isn't that right, Mr Stanley?'

The grey-faced man deigned to acknowledge this with a curt nod. ‘I see no point in delaying matters,' he said, his voice strangely hollow and without character or inflection. ‘Obviously, the boy is hiding the truth about his background, but short of beating it out of him there's no way we can discover more about his origins. If he says his parents are dead then we just have to accept that. I'm not going to sanction more time and effort in a futile attempt to investigate further. We have too many orphans to deal with as it is, without causing ourselves extra trouble for a snivelling little liar.'

Sister McAndrew flinched at Stanley's description of Peter. The phrase seemed to sum up how far this man had hardened his heart to the tasks of dealing with orphans. She would have liked to have put the man right, telling him that Peter was a lovely boy but was damaged, disturbed by something in his past which haunted him and which he tried to blot out from his memory. He wasn't ‘a snivelling little liar' but a brave and frightened casualty of the terrible times they were living through. He needed kindness, attention and, above all, time to come to terms with a life without a mother or a father. He was not going to get that of course. He was to be bundled up and taken to Moorfield, an institution for parentless children where the facilities of kindness, comforts and attention were in sparse supply. Whatever frying pan poor Peter had fallen out of, he was about to land in the fire.

‘I see. When is this to take place?'

Stanley sniffed. ‘As soon as possible. I will need to speak to the matron at Moorfield this evening to verify that we have a bed for the boy. Once that is settled, I can arrange for his transfer some time tomorrow. I'm sure, Doctor, that you'll be pleased for this to happen as soon as possible. No doubt you'll have sore need of the bed.…'

‘We certainly do,' nodded Dr Walker.

‘Right, then, it's settled. I'll call first thing in the morning with details.' Without a glance at Sister McAndrew, he turned and strode off down the corridor, his brightly polished shoes squeaking, almost as in protest.

Dr Walker sighed as he looked at the miserable features of Sister McAndrew. He touched her gently on the shoulder. ‘None of this, please,' he said briskly. ‘We've done our bit. There are more casualties on the conveyor belt needing our attention.'

‘I know,' she said softly. ‘I'll just pop in to see if Peter wants anything, then I'll get back to the ward.'

*   *   *

Peter was reading a comic when Sister McAndrew came into the room. He looked up eagerly with expectation, his pale shiny features spotlighted by the bedside lamp. He tried not to show his disappointment when he saw that she was his visitor.

‘I … I thought you might be Johnny. He said he'd come today. He was going to bring me a Tiger Blake comic.'

Sister McAndrew smiled in spite of herself. ‘Well, today's not over with yet, I suppose. I'm sure he's not forgotten. If he doesn't get here today, no doubt he'll be round to see you in the morning.' She hoped so, or he'd miss the boy altogether before he was carted off to Moorfield House. She had rung John Hawke twice that afternoon when she knew that Mr Stanley was coming and all that his visit implied, but there was no reply.

‘You like Mr Hawke … Johnny … don't you?' she said, plumping up the boy's pillows.

‘He's … all right,' answered Peter, with the shy reserve of the young. And then added, more naturally, ‘He makes me laugh.'

Sister McAndrew gave a weary smile. ‘Ah, that's a rare gift these days.'

There was something about the nurse's behaviour that suddenly worried Peter. Her tone, her stance were different somehow. Something had made her unhappy and she was trying to hide it.

‘Are they sending me away?' he asked, with a sudden cold realization.

Peter's face was pale and frightened. There was desperate hope and fear evident in his expression as he sat up in bed and grasped Sister McAndrew's hand.

‘Ssh, now,' she said gently. ‘There's no need to fret. Everything's going to be all right.'

Peter gasped and shook his head. ‘I don't want to go away. I'm happy here.'

Sister McAndrew could not help but smile. ‘But you don't want to live the rest of your life in a hospital, do you?'

‘Yes,' he cried, tears welling up in his eyes.

‘Now that's silly. You're better now. They'll find a nice place for you to stay where you can be looked after with children of your own age.'

‘A prison?'

Sister McAndrew ran her cool hand over the boy's forehead. ‘No, of course not. Prison is a place for naughty people. You haven't done anything wrong, have you?'

Peter shook his head, the terrible gravity of his situation slowly sinking in. He would be taken to a children's home and his life would be over. He knew it. He had read of such places in his comics and they were prisons. He would be beaten and fed on bread and water. He bit his lip; he bit it hard to prevent further tears trickling down his cheek.

‘Are you sure Johnny … hasn't been here today?' he said eventually, when he felt he had his emotions under control.

‘Not yet, but I'm sure he wouldn't deliberately let you down.'

This platitude cut no ice with Peter. He had been roughly handled most of his life. He had heard promises and excuses galore from his mother. He could sense a lie or a desperate cover up when he heard one. So, even Johnny, whom he was really beginning to like, had turned out just like the rest. This revelation hardened his heart and with a gesture of bravado, he wiped his tears away.

‘I'm tired,' he said, softly. He wanted the nurse to go, to leave him to think things over. She was a nice lady but he knew that she could do nothing to help him.

Once again she ran her cool fingers across his brow. ‘Of course,' she said in a cooing fashion. ‘You get a good night's sleep. Everything will seem a lot better in the morning.'

He didn't reply, but just snuggled further down under the covers. Already his eyelids were fluttering. Sister McAndrew leaned forward and planted a gentle kiss on his forehead. Her heart ached for the little boy and she cursed herself for being too sensitive.

As he she reached the door, she turned and saw that already Peter was fast asleep. For some reason a fragment of poetry floated into her mind – some lines of Shakespeare she had learned at school:
sleep that knits up the ravelled sleeve of care.
And so it does, she thought, but with morn's early light the whole thing is unravelled again.

With a heavy heart, she closed the door.

Within seconds, Peter's bright eyes were wide open. Silently, he slipped from the bed and opened the cabinet beside it, the one which contained his clothes.

twenty-nine

I had just positioned myself in the doorway almost adjacent to Epstein's offices when I remembered.

Peter!

I was meant to visit Peter in the hospital and take him some comics. I muttered an oath under my breath. How could I have forgotten? I had been so wrapped up in my own concerns about Eve and the bloody Pammie Palmer case that I had let the matter of Peter slip my mind completely. I was disgusted with myself. I had betrayed his trust. I had let the lad down – like others in his past. Those who had driven him to roam the streets, sleeping in doorways and denying memories of any previous existence. I was no better than them.

I imagined Peter, sitting up in bed, his eyes trained on the door expecting a visit from his new friend clutching a whole batch of comics, including some Tiger Blake ones. Every time the door opened, his expectations would rise and then be dashed. And it was my fault. My failure. And I, above all, the miserable orphan with the one eye, should have known better – should have cared more.

I would have to get to the hospital as soon as I could tomorrow and hope that it wasn't too late to repair the damaged emotional bridges. At the thought of my failings in this matter, I felt a heavy weight settle upon my senses. If any good was to come out of this whole wretched affair it would be the emotional rehabilitation of Peter and I had already thrown a spanner into the works. I cursed myself again.

It was around five o'clock and still raining. I huddled into my damp raincoat and lit a cigarette. Across the road I observed the lights go on in the Epstein offices. I could see thin streaks of illumination visible at the edge of the blackout curtains. If the ARP warden had seen those, there'd be trouble.

It had been agreed with Epstein that after Eve and Dawn had left the premises for the evening, he would stay on for another fifteen minutes before locking up. It was then my job to tail him while he went for a meal and took a trip to the cinema before going home. All this in the expectation that the murderer would at some point have a go at him. It was my job to see that he didn't succeed.

I was well aware that this wasn't a foolproof plan but it should – I hoped – bring about a swift conclusion to the case. It should. But then again, this particular mongrel could be baying against the incorrect arboreal growth.

Just after 5.30, Eve and Dawn appeared on the street. They chatted for a while sheltering from the rain under a shop awning and then they went their separate ways. Eve, her face drawn and miserable, walked past me on the other side of the street, oblivious of my presence in the doorway. Her shoulders were hunched against the rain and her whole demeanour was one of misery as though she was withdrawing into herself. No doubt she wasn't relishing the thought of telling her husband what had happened today and how he had little choice but to give himself up and return to his regiment.

With a sharp click, clack of her heels on the wet pavement, she disappeared down the street and out of sight. I wanted to go after her, kiss her and give her all the support that I could. But it wasn't possible. It wouldn't be right. And I had a job to do.

As the clock ticked on, both the traffic and pedestrians diminished. By 6.00, all the shops had closed down and the street was almost deserted. There was no sign of Leo Epstein. The thin shafts of light at the windows of his office told me that he was still there. Or to be precise, that someone was there. Then another thought struck me: all it meant was that the lights were on.

I began to grow uneasy.

By 6.30, I knew it was time for some action. Checking carefully that there were no suspicious loiterers abroad, I left my hiding place and crossed the road. The office door of Leo Epstein was locked of course, but with my trusty strand of wire and a steady hand, I soon had it open. I let myself in and with a pocket torch in one hand and my old revolver in the other I made my way up the darkened stairway. At the top there was another locked door. I rapped on the glass panel and called out.

‘Hello,' I cried.

There was no reply.

A combination of irritation and concern prompted me to smash the glass panel in the door with the butt of my revolver. This allowed me to see into the empty illuminated office beyond, but the recalcitrant door remained locked.

I called out again. ‘Epstein?' My cry was swallowed up by the shelves of dusty legal papers.

And there was still no reply.

I was too concerned at this unexpected turn of events and too impatient to use my wire to tackle the lock so I used another less sophisticated technique to open the door: my right shoulder and brute force. With a sudden crack, the door swung wide. I stood for a moment on the threshold and waited to see if the noise had roused anyone. It didn't; the office was as silent as the grave.

I crossed to Epstein's office and opened the door. The lights were on but the room was empty. There was a cigar butt in the ashtray on his desk. I examined it. It was still warm. Clearly my friend Leo had not been gone for too long. But gone he was. But where to? And how? I had been waiting outside the premises for over an hour and a half and I'd swear that he had not left.

I tipped my hat back with the barrel of my pistol as I'd seen John Wayne do in countless westerns and pondered my problem. Then my own words came back to me … ‘he had not left.' Well, he had not left
by the door that I was watching.
But he had obviously departed the building … so logically, there must be another means of exit. Elementary, my dear Watson. I gazed around the room. At the rear, in the shadows was a curtained recess.

I pulled the curtain back and revealed a door. It was built of stout metal, not a candidate for my shoulder this time. The lock was ancient and rusty and it took me a good ten minutes of waggling and cajoling with my wire before I heard the satisfying rasp and click as the aged mechanism conspired with the wire to withdraw the bolt.

The door opened out on to a fire escape at the back of the building which led down to a small yard. So that's how my solicitor friend had made his getaway. But why on earth did he feel the need to? What prompted him to ditch our plan – well, my plan, I suppose – and hightail it to heavens knew where? Was he just frightened or did he have a different agenda?

Gingerly, I descended the decrepit metal stairway, training my torch on the steps to aid me. Eventually I reached terra firma and was no wiser. The yard was empty. A gate led to a back alley which was silent and deserted.

With my tail between my legs I returned to Epstein's office. Maybe I could find some indication as to why Leo had flown the nest and where exactly he had flown to. Once inside, after closing the fire escape door, I ran my eye around the room. The first thing it lit upon was the brandy decanter on top of the filing cabinet. Well, I reckoned, the wily old bastard owed me a drink, so I poured myself a large one. The brandy burned my throat and filled my body with a warm glow. I then set about looking around for clues, for some suggestion as to where Epstein could have had gone. I scrutinized his desk. Were there any little scraps of paper bearing an address or a telephone number? There were not. Neither were there any indentations on the blotter that I could shade in with a HB pencil to reveal some telling detail. There was nothing. But then this wasn't a film – it was real life.