Forests of the Night (15 page)

‘Thank you,' I said humbly and followed him inside.

‘Come back for him in ten minutes,' Moore called to Tristan as he closed the door. It was an instruction, not a request.

The room was cramped, with a make-up mirror, table and chair, a small wardrobe and a large camp-bed. By the bed, on the floor, was a tray containing a large bottle of gin and an empty glass. Moore slumped on the bed and snatched up the glass. It was clear there'd be no drinkies for me.

‘So laddo, what d'you want to know, eh? What kind of crap do you want to feed to your readers, eh? Well, I can give you an exclusive if you want.'

I nodded, not wanting to interrupt his flow with words.

‘This is my last Tiger Blake movie. I have decided to give up making these bloody films. An actor of my calibre deserves something more, something better.' He took a big slurp of his gin. ‘I was RADA trained you know. Did a season at Stratford, too. And where do I end up? Running through cardboard forests and shooting a lot of foreigners.'

He looked at me over the rim of his glass to gauge my reaction to his news. I didn't give him one, but stared steadily back at him.

He pursed his lips, the fire of his anger waning. ‘So there you have it. Tiger Blake retires and Gordon Moore shuffles off into oblivion. What else do you need to know?'

‘I'd like to know if you killed Pammie Palmer.'

At first I thought he was going to have some kind of heart attack. He gave a sharp, guttural cry as his eyes bulged from their sockets, his face darkened to a deep red and he gripped his glass so tightly his knuckles beamed white.

‘Who the fuck are you?' he asked at length.

‘That doesn't matter.'

‘Oh, but it does. Are you the bastard who's been calling me?'

I shook my head.

‘Then who the hell are you? What do you want?'

‘I want the truth. Did you kill Pammie?'

Gordon Moore stared at me for some moments. I could not tell whether he was angry or frightened. My guess was that he was both. He poured himself another drink and took a large gulp.

‘No, I did not kill her.'

‘But you visited her on the night she died. You were a client of hers. You rang her from a call box on Boynton Street, near your club and arranged to … see her at her flat.'

‘How … how do you know all this?'

‘That's not important. If you didn't kill Pammie, you'd better tell me what happened that night.'

‘Go to hell!'

‘All in good time. But if you are at all interested in saving your neck, I'd advise you to tell me the truth, otherwise you'll have the police knocking on your door and they'll want more than ten minutes of your time, I can promise you that.'

At the mention of the police, the colour began to drain from Moore's mottled face.

‘Do you want money?'

I shook my head. ‘I just want the truth. Tell me about that night.'

twenty

Gordon Moore's Story

I'd had a terrible day. I received a message to visit my agent that afternoon. I assumed that it was about those bastards at Regent Films haggling about my fee for the new Tiger Blake farrago. They always came up with excuses to try and pay me a little less than the previous picture, but Bruce Mellor, my agent, is a shrewd guy and he usually got me a decent deal. So when I visited his office I had no notion that he was about to drop a bloody great bombshell. He didn't beat about the bush, but told it to me straight. Regent weren't haggling about my fee. They were happy to pay it because I was getting the push. After this picture they didn't want me any more. I had out-lived my usefulness. They intended to bring in a younger, more attractive actor to take my part. Apparently, they were going to re-vamp the series, make it more appealing to the young or some such nonsense. In simple terms, I was washed up. You cannot imagine what that felt like. I was sick to my stomach. After fifteen years of playing the same stupid part how was anyone going to take me seriously as an actor … as a star? It was as though I was staring into a black abyss.

Bruce muttered his condolences and tried his best to convince me that this could be a real chance for me to get better, more lucrative parts. They were empty sentiments – a load of manure, in fact. I could see it in his eyes. A turning point in my career, he said. Well, it's that all right. Turning off the main road up some narrow unmade track heading for oblivion. Of course, Bruce realized that with my departure from the star's dressing-room, he was losing out as well. No more healthy percentages from old Tiger Blake.

I escaped the confines of his office and wandered the streets for a while trying to come terms with the horrible truth. But I couldn't. How could I? The Tiger Blake movies and all the perks that went with them had been part of my life for over twelve years. I was in a state of bereavement.

Eventually, I went to my club and as usual tried to drown my sorrows in drink. But on this occasion, alcohol proved ineffective. Instead of leading me into the realms of misty amnesia, it only fuelled my anger and despair. Despite downing several large gins I stayed sober. I remained conscious and painfully aware of my own tragedy. If that sounds dramatic, just put yourself in my position. I was a film star, known all over the world for playing Tiger Blake, hero and tough guy. Always caught the baddie and always got the girl. It was my life, my livelihood and my key to all sorts of privileges. And now that had all been taken away from me. What have I to look forward to now? Bit parts in lousy B pictures and weeks in provincial rep – where I bloody started thirty years ago. What happens to my nice clothes, my big car, my world? I lose it all. Tragedy it is, I assure you. The brutal truth of my situation was too great to be affected by drink. But I needed some solace, something to cushion me against the pain of that great big dagger that had been stuck in my back, stuck there by those bastards at Regent Films. I needed love and tenderness. I needed passion. Well, I knew I wouldn't get that at home. You won't have met Mrs Moore, Sandra, have you? She could give the ice maiden a few lessons in frostiness.

Yes, I needed a woman. It wasn't the first time, of course. I can't remember the last occasion I made love to my wife. Well, with Sandra it wasn't so much making love as entering enemy territory. Our marriage hasn't been a marriage of any sort for years. We live separate lives. She is content. She doesn't want anyone else: she has herself.

However, I am different. I am not ashamed to say that I have sought out women to satisfy my need over the years. Sought them out regularly, if you want to know. Some have been willing young actresses, hoping that by letting me bed them it would increase their chances of stardom. Silly cows. And then, more recently, I've paid for services rendered. As I did with Pammie. But she was special. Although there was always a financial transaction at the end of the process, the love-making was tender, exciting. It was as though she cared about you. Not like some of the ten-bob hags round Soho who start filing their nails while you're on the job, eyes as vacant as an empty coffin. And just as comforting. I really believe that Pammie cared a little about me.

Anyway, I rang her up that night. Yes, I did use the phone box on Boynton Street. I didn't want any of the nosy sods at the Corona to hear me. I didn't care a toss about them knowing I was calling a woman – I wouldn't be the only one – I just didn't want them to know about my destiny with the scrapheap. Not just yet anyway. I couldn't bear those furtive looks of sympathy – or worse still those knowing nods of the ‘not before time' variety.

I explained my problem to Pammie. She was very sympathetic and invited me round. She said she had a friend already booked in at nine – she always called her clients friends – but she'd make an exception and see me at eleven. Just to hear her voice made me feel better. I went back to the club to wait. I avoided any more alcohol. I didn't want to be incapable when I got to Pammie's. I needed to prove to myself that I could still be a man in one department even if I wasn't going to be a film star much longer. I had a light dinner and drank copious cups of coffee.

I walked round to Pammie's flat feeling strangely numb inside. The pain and sadness had subsided and I was looking forward to an hour of love-making and that was all. It was as though my mind couldn't go beyond that. I couldn't see further than midnight.

When I got to the flat I was surprised to find the door slightly ajar. I knew she would be expecting me, but she usually checked all her visitors through the spyglass in the door before letting them in. I entered and called out her name. There was no response. All the lights were on and the radiogram in the sitting-room was playing some dance band programme. I looked in all the rooms, leaving the bedroom until last. It was as though I knew that's where I would find her.

I went in and there she was – lying on the bed with a knife stuck in her chest. She was dressed in a long white negligee and it glistened where the blood had seeped through the material. At first I couldn't believe what I saw. It was as though I had stepped into one of my own films. This was a stunt double with fake blood. Anytime now someone would call, ‘Cut!' But they didn't. The girl did not get up, give me a smile and go for a fag. She just lay there. In this scene she really was dead.

I stood looking at her for some time, trying to take it all in. Eventually, I felt for her pulse, knowing there wouldn't be one. I gazed down at her. She still looked beautiful. Her mouth was open slightly and her eyes were wide with terror. In some strange way it was erotic. I don't know why – I can't even explain it now – but I put out my hand and touched the blood. It was cold and sticky and adhered to my fingers like strawberry jam. It was then that I started crying. All the personal pain and hurt that I'd felt through the day somehow seemed connected with the brutal death of this beautiful young woman and it was too much for me. I'm not ashamed that I sobbed uncontrollably.

I left the flat still in some state of distress. My mind had shut down. I didn't think about calling the police. What could they do? Couldn't bring her back to life, that's for certain. Perhaps some spark of self preservation was still working for me. Being involved with the police certainly would be heaping more coals upon my head. Not only losing my job as Tiger Blake, but found in the flat of a murdered prostitute. That certainly would put the tin hat on my career.

I remember little of what I did next until I arrived home. I know I still had some blood on my hands. I had a bath and scrubbed myself down as though I was expunging the horrors of the whole day. Of course Sandra was already asleep. We don't even share the same bedroom any more so I was safe from questions. For the first time in years I went to bed that night stone cold sober.

That's the truth.

twenty-one

When Gordon Moore had finished telling me his story, he stared at his feet for some moments collecting his thoughts. I let him. It was a convincing tale but he was an actor and used to presenting made up events as the truth. How good an actor was he? It had seemed to me that he had almost been relieved to tell someone, treating me as a father confessor, but was it real or a performance?

I pulled out a pack of cigarettes from my pocket and offered him one.

‘Thanks,' he said quietly. All the previous bombast had evaporated or at least had been put on the back burner for a while. Was this all part of the act as well? As I held out a match and lit his cigarette I noticed that his eyes were moist. If this was a performance it was better than any he had given in a dozen Tiger Blake movies.

‘So now I've told you what I know about Pammie's death, shouldn't you tell me who the hell you are?'

I passed him one of my cards.

‘A private detective.' He said it as though he had just noticed some dog dirt on his shoe.

‘I have been employed by Pammie's parents to find the murderer.'

‘I thought the police had done that already. It was that pimp, her boyfriend, Fraser.'

‘You don't want to believe all you read in the newspapers, Mr Moore. I would have thought you'd know that.'

‘Maybe.' He threw his head back and blew out a cloud of white smoke which obscured his face for a moment. The old arrogance was gradually surfacing again. ‘So what are going to do about what I've told you?'

‘Store it up here' – I tapped my forehead – ‘until I've finished my enquiries.'

‘I see. Do you believe me?'

I didn't reply, partly because I wasn't sure.

‘I didn't kill Pammie. What motive could I possibly have?'

‘I don't know. I've more to find out yet. For example, when I first mentioned Pammie's murder, you asked if I was “the bastard who's been calling me”.'

Moore nodded. ‘I've had a couple of calls from some odd ball who says things.'

‘Like what?'

‘That I killed her … stabbed her to death!'

‘Yes?'

‘… And he's going to see that justice is done.'

‘What do you think he means by that?'

‘You're the detective! What the hell do you think he means? He's just a crank.'

‘Maybe, but cranks can be dangerous and he must know you visited Pammie on the night of her death.'

Moore's eyes flickered nervously. ‘Yes,' he said slowly. Obviously this thought had not struck him before.

‘And you've no idea whatsoever who the caller is?'

‘Not a clue.'

At this point our conversation was interrupted by a tap at the door and Tristan's head popped into view. ‘You all through?'

‘You could say that,' muttered Gordon Moore, pouring himself a large gin.

*   *   *

While I travelled back to London, I re-ran Gordon Moore's story in my own personal mind cinema. While all the details rang true, it would have been easy for him just to change the details of what happened after he reached Pammie's flat. Perhaps he was drunk and they had a row. In the mood he was in he could have done anything. Anything … like sticking a knife in her chest.