Gordon Ferris - The Unquiet heart

“We’ve just moved in,” I lied. “My wife said the buzzer wasn’t working this morning.”

“Happens all the time. I was telling the caretaker only the other morning. The milk is always late. And the dirt! Dear me, the dirt. Gets into the hall and everywhere. Never swept.”

She dug around in her bag and finally pulled her purse out. She found her key and let me in. We shared a lift up to her floor and I carried her bag to her front door. I left her once she’d put her light on, and walked to the fire exit and down the two floors to level three. I eased the fire door and peered into the hall. It was dark apart from a single bare bulb glowing in the ceiling. I paced my way quietly to her door and put my ear against the wood. I could hear nothing. But under the ill-fitting door was a faint bar of light.

I tapped gently on the door, then louder. “Eve? Eve, it’s me, Danny.” Nothing. I kept up the tapping for a bit then drew out the two slender wires I keep in my top pocket. I slid one into the lock and felt for movement. It didn’t take long.

My SOE instructor would have been proud of me – though he was probably back in the nick again.

I pushed the door open and stepped inside. “Eve? Are you there? Don’t worry.”

I stopped dead. It didn’t look as though she would hear me. The source of the light was the bedroom. It illuminated the chaos. Chairs tipped over, couch on its side and cup and teapot smashed on the floor. I walked into the bedroom expecting the worst. But there was no body, no blood. Thank god. Her few clothes were scattered on the floor and across the tumbled bed sheets. Eve hadn’t gone willingly. But where? And was she still alive?

I left her flat in a cold fury. Where would Wilson take her? Back to prison? But the scene in her flat wasn’t caused by an official visit. The boys in blue wouldn’t have needed to turn the place over to get her to come with them. Waving a warrant would have done the trick. In her frail state she would have gone with them like a lamb to… I didn’t finish the thought.

I stormed out the building, practically running. Bastards, bloody bastards! Why couldn’t they leave her alone? My panting lungs turned to near-sobs until I pulled up short in the middle of Battersea Bridge and forced myself to take deep breaths. The lights were coming on along the Embankment and making the trees glow in silhouette. Slowly I let the river seep into my mind. Some calmness returned. I had to think. Had to plan.

An idea came to me and I shoved it away. Crazy ideas come too readily to me. But it wouldn’t leave me alone. So I hopped on a bus heading back to Lambeth and changed to one for Camberwell Green. It was just nine o’clock. The George would be open for another hour. With luck, one or two of the lads might be around.

OK, it was a stupid idea. But it seems the lads were as far round the twist as me. They knew all about Wilson. I’d ranted about him over many a beer. How he’d used his position to get free access to Soho girls and how he’d beaten and abused them. How he’d nearly killed me. And what he’d done to Eve, the plucky girl who’d saved their skins in the warehouse robbery. If there was a way of paying her back, they were ready for it. They even offered to do it for free.

As luck would have it, Fast Larry was skulking in the bar. I grabbed him and put a message through to Pauli Gambatti. Larry lived up to his nickname. Quicker than the phone. Next morning one of Pauli’s minions dropped by my office. This time he held a key in his hand, not a gun. It seemed Mr Gambatti was delighted to help. Wilson’s reputation had preceded him. Furthermore Mr Gambatti graciously acceded to my request on the condition that I consider working for him. I said I’d give it serious thought. Why not?

I then put a call into Cassells. He gave me short shrift when I finally got through. Told me there was nothing he could do. And certainly nothing I could do. He couldn’t tell me anything, and no, he didn’t know whether she was alive or dead.

My last call was to Scotland Yard. I asked for Detective Superintendent Wilson.

I gave my name. I went through three pairs of hands before Wilson’s sneering voice came on the line.

“What do you want, McRae?”

“I want to meet. It won’t take long. I have something to tell you.”

“Let me guess. You want to give yourself up. You want to confess to being an accomplice to the murder of a certain German official? Or how about the murder of a certain man in the Angel pub in Rotherhithe. Or how about the spate of murders of prostitutes in…”

“Shut up, Wilson. Do you want to meet or not?”

“Maybe. When? Where?”

“You’re based at the Yard, right? Meet me outside at noon today.”

“Today? That might not…”

“Noon. Today.” I hung up.

I took Midge with me to Victorian Embankment and stationed him across the road, leaning nonchalantly against the river wall. The towers and turrets of New Scotland Yard shouted power and authority, just as the architect last century had planned.

By twelve-twenty Wilson hadn’t shown and I was beginning to think I’d blown it.

Maybe I should have been more conciliatory. Just when I’d given up on him, his tall dark form strode casually through the great front door. I was still surprised how much weight he’d lost, but it didn’t make him less imposing. His thin hair was slicked back and parted carefully in the middle. He wore a new double-breasted suit that made my demob outfit feel shabby. They must pay well.

He got within punching distance and stopped with a big supercilious grin on his face.

“You’ve got five minutes, McRae. Talk fast.”

“Where’s Eve Copeland?”

His grin got wider. “You mean Fraulein Ava Kaplan?”

“Where is she?”

He raised his big shoulders. “Now how should I know? Tried Berlin, have we?

Probably gone off to join her Nazi pals again.”

My fists were clenched and I’d almost forgotten why I was there, when we were suddenly interrupted.

“Scuse me, guv. You happen to know how to get to Trafalgar Square from ’ere?” asked Midge. He was talking to Wilson.

Wilson’s lined face screwed up with annoyance. “That way.” He nodded north and turned his back on Midge. I waited till Midge was well away.

“You abused her in prison, you sod. Forced a confession out of her.”

“Did I?” he asked, all innocence. “Just doing my job. But listen, McRae…” He bent his head forward so that I could smell some cheap cologne. It failed to mask his breath. “I can see why you fancied her. Very nice.” He cupped his hands beneath his chest and leered.

He must have seen my arm move. He stepped back smartly, out of reach. I unclenched my fist.

“Steady, McRae. Assaulting a senior officer on the very doorstep of Scotland Yard? Ten years for that. Minimum.”

I got my breathing nearly under control. “Where is she? You set her up in the flat in Battersea. You had her followed. Where have you taken her, Wilson?” I heard my voice rising. Ten years would be worth it, if I could get one good punch in.

Wilson stepped further back and smirked. “No idea what you’re talking about, McRae. That head of yours giving you problems again? Seeing things again are we?” He made a show of looking at his watch. “Time’s up. Disappointing, McRae.

Disappointing.” He turned and walked back to the Yard, leaving me seething. I curbed my instinct to run after him and punch him to the ground. I’d have my chance. Later.

It was simple. Midge had clocked him. By the end of day the lads had followed him and found out where he lived: in the rundown area between Bayswater and Notting Hill. He rented a basement flat in Moscow Road. Midge pretended he was a delivery man, and asked a couple of neighbours about Mr Wilson. He seemed to live alone, surprise, surprise. And got home early evening.