Gordon Ferris - The Unquiet heart

The boys were waiting next morning to check that Wilson emerged from the same place. They did it once more for luck in the evening. During the wait I visited Eve’s building three times, pressing the bell until my thumb hurt. Nothing, and no sign of the watchers. I also inspected the area around Moscow Road. It was quiet and lined with trees. When I met Midge, Stan and Big Cyril in the George that night, I gave them the word. Tomorrow, on his way home.

We prayed he followed a regular pattern, and hoped he wasn’t working late. We knew he took the tube to Notting Hill Gate and walked along Bayswater, left into Palace Court and then into his street. We decided to take him in Palace Court where the pavements were shaded by trees.

Midge sat in the driver’s seat of the borrowed van. I sat in the back. Stan and Cyril patrolled the street; when Stan signalled from the Bayswater Road, Midge could see it in his mirror. Last evening Wilson had come back around six o’clock. It was half past already and no sign. I was getting cramp in my legs and dearly wanted to get out and stretch.

“Got him!” said Midge. I looked through the crack in the van door and saw Stan walking towards us from the road end. He would walk past us, then do an about turn to block off Wilson’s escape. Cyril would be tailing our man. Midge and I pulled on the dark balaclavas and tugged them down over our faces.

“Remember, say nothing. Not a word,” I ordered. Midge raised his thumb.

I peered out the crack. Stan was nearly level but no sign of Wilson. Then suddenly a bulky figure appeared round the corner. Stan passed our van and kept walking. At the far end of the street another big figure appeared. Cyril. It was all in the timing. The two men paced down the leafy street, Cyril a careful twenty yards behind Wilson.

Now I could hear them, almost as if they were trying to keep in step. Wilson was within five yards of our van when Midge shoved his door open so that it suddenly blocked half the pavement.

“Oi! You nearly hit me, you idiot,” shouted Wilson. His flushed face peered in to the cabin to remonstrate with Midge just as I heard running feet from both ends of the street. There was shuffling, and the footsteps stopped.

“Don’t move, copper. This is a gun and I’ll use it. Now stand up slowly,” said a panting Cyril. Wilson’s face vanished backwards. I hoped Stan and Cyril had remembered to pull their balaclavas over their faces. The rear door was tugged open and Wilson stood there, his face a mask of shock and anger. He had the sense to put his hands in the air.

“In!” commanded Cyril. I eased back in the van to let Wilson kneel and crawl forward. He pulled his legs in and sat with his back against the wall. I noticed him adjust his jacket; didn’t want his nice new suit crushed. I sensed Stan get in the front alongside Midge.

“Do you know who I am?” Wilson managed with some of his old bluster. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

“Shut it,” ordered Cyril, who by this stage had hauled himself opposite Wilson.

Cyril pulled the door shut but kept the gun trained on Wilson. I said nothing from my corner, just handed Wilson a thick strip of blackout material. Cyril cracked his knee with his gun.

“Put it on. Nice and tight, now.”

Wilson needed a further nudge with the gun barrel till he wrapped the blindfold round his eyes and tied it. Cyril checked for daylight then nodded at me. The doors at the front banged. Stan and Midge were in place. The engine started and we were off. I touched Stan on the shoulder and pointed at his mask. He and Midge got the message and took them off. Didn’t want to draw attention to a van driven by two masked men.

Wilson made another plea. “Look, this is madness. You’ve got the wrong man. I’m a senior policeman. This will go badly for you. Just stop and let me out and we’ll say no more about it. I’ll forget this ever happened.” It sounded very reasonable. But I knew none of the lads was seduced.

“Shut it!” said Cyril, pressing the barrel against his knee. Wilson slumped and was silent the rest of the journey across London.

The yard gate was chained. I got out and used the big key on the padlock.

Gambatti had kept his word. I pulled the gates wide and the van drew in. Midge and Stan pulled their black woollen masks down again. While I closed the gates and relocked them, Cyril and Midge hauled Wilson into the building.

By the time I got inside they had him stripped to his vest and pants. He was strapped to a chair with a rope round his body and his legs. He still wore the blindfold and I could see by the rapid rise and fall of his chest that his sense of outrage had been properly replaced by fear. I walked round him. Tufts of thick dark hair grew across his shoulders and back as well as his chest. He looked suddenly smaller, but I felt no mercy. Not after what he’d put Eve and me through. Cyril stepped forward at my nod, and ripped off the blindfold. Wilson looked like a startled deer. He could see the four of us standing, fully dressed, wearing our masks.

“Who are you?” came his strangled words. “What do you want? Just ask me.

Anything. I’ll tell you. I promise.”

This was too easy, if it was true. I nodded to Cyril.

“You took a friend of ours two days ago. Where is she?”

“Who? Who is it?”

“Ava Kaplan,” said Cyril.

Wilson’s body tensed. “Who? Who are you?”

Cyril reached over and gave him a smack. Wilson’s face flared.

“You bastard! You don’t know who I am! You’ll be sorry!”

“Where is she?”

“Never heard of her. You’ve got the wrong man.”

Stan stepped away and I wondered what he was up to. He was back in a trice with a painter’s blowlamp. Wilson’s face was a picture. I almost stopped Stan but thought I’d see what came of it. Stan pumped at the handle to get the paraffin up the spout. He took out his match and lit the wick. He pumped it again and adjusted the flame. A jet of blue heat shot out and roared nicely in the quiet warehouse. I could feel the heat from four feet away. Stan stepped forward and Wilson’s head jerked back.

Cyril asked him again. “Where is she?”

“I don’t know!” he gasped, his head as far back as he could get it. Stan did a quick pass with the flame. A mound of black hair on Wilson’s shoulder frizzled and burnt. Wilson shrieked. The smell of singed hair hung on the air. Stan moved the blowlamp down towards his groin. Wilson yelped and flung himself back. His chair tipped and he crashed to the ground. Midge and Cyril got him back on an even keel. Wilson was weeping and snivelling now. His vest had tucked up. A livid scar scrawled across his stomach and up to his chest; a reminder of his self-impalement on a chair leg the night he attacked me.

“So you remember who she is, then?” asked Cyril.

“Yes, yes. But I don’t know where she is. We didn’t take her.”

“Who did?”

“I don’t know.”

Stan did a neat sweep with the torch across his bare hairy legs. Wilson shrieked and the smell of burnt hair filled my nostrils again. It was time to put a stop to this, if only to stop the foul stink. Besides, Stan was enjoying it too much.

“It was the Americans! They wanted her out of the way.” He looked over at me.

“McRae? Is it you?”

Stan pumped his torch again. I raised my hand and shook my head.

“McRae? It’s you, isn’t it? I didn’t touch her. I swear. Let me go and I’ll say nothing about this. I promise.”

I had had enough of this masked ball. I ripped my hood off. “Keep yours on, lads.” I walked round his trembling body.

“You didn’t touch her, eh? What did you do to her in prison? I remember how gentle you were with me in a cell. Still up to your old tricks?”