The Silent Forest Read online

  It was because of times like this that he wished he’d said more to that woman with the withered ear when he’d had the chance, in Gloucester Cathedral.

  TWENTY-ONE

  No one could like a stray cat quite so filthy and repellent, Thibaut had to admit. He watched its lithe, black body descend the pyramid of drums that stood rusting in the fenced yard and dodge into the factory for warmth and shelter. The tomcat always entered the same way, he observed. Its nose was crisscrossed with very old scratches and one ear was split in two. Its large, strong head had protruding from it a bump more worrying than its missing tail – it had to be a big abscess about to burst.

  But for some reason the moggy had allowed him and no one else in the workshop to feed it scraps.

  ‘Don’t let that thing in here,’ warned Devaney, ‘or I’ll wring its bloody neck.’

  ‘Good luck with that.’

  ‘Cats and chemicals are bad news.’

  ‘Since when do you care about either?’

  ‘I’ve told you before, Frenchman, don’t try to get clever with me.’

  There was something about the stray that fascinated him. Perhaps it was the wild defiance in its blazing eyes. Or it was simply the animal’s ability to survive that was so inspirational?

  Certainly the cat had nine lives. There was, in an annex to the main machine shop, a room where hot tanks simmered all day over powerful gas burners. It was the warmest part of the factory, unbearable in summer but not so bad in winter. So hot, steamy and rank was this place that no one much cared to visit it too often. The women workers said it smelt like cow dung. Only the ever reliable Raoul toiled there all day for little reward, blacking guns.

  All burners were turned off each night, which meant that, by morning, a white crusty coating formed on top of the vats’ cold, viscous liquid. This could look deceptively solid. No one ever thought to cover the tanks when not in use, of course. So it was that he saw the cat venture on to the surface of the nearest solution; it walked on its claws across the snow-white layer, like an ice-skater, on its way to its warm lair on some stairs nearby.

  He held his breath. One crack and the cat would plunge into the sludgy caustic soda below and be dissolved alive.

  There was something diabolical in its devilry. It lived for reckless mischief and daring.

  Not for the first time the stray made it safely across. He uttered a small prayer of thanks. For did not everyone in this awful place perform similar feats every day? They gambled with their health – they were like that cat but without its nine lives.

  He’d somehow plucked up the courage to mention his escape plan to Raoul.

  Better still, he should have appealed for help to that one-eared woman with the sad eyes, whom Mr Devaney had shown round the factory earlier. There had been a moment when he thought he might have seized the opportunity, but he hadn’t dared.

  No one had.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Her hand was shaking like a leaf as she mounted the shallow steps that led to the cathedral’s north ambulatory. She needed this quiet corner to reread the telegram that had just arrived from her father: “Primrose seriously ill. STOP. Doctor says TB. STOP. Come home at once. STOP.”

  Why on earth would she do that, thought Jo? She and her mother had hardly spoken since she’d threatened to blow her head off with her father’s shotgun a year ago. They’d spent all day screaming at each other. Since then Primrose had told her to pack her bags and not come back.

  Ever.

  Perhaps, having been reminded of her own mortality, the rich, well-connected and God-loving matriarch had suffered a change of heart? Fat chance of that. More probably this was simply her latest ploy to lure her home so that she could harangue her some more about getting ‘rid of that brat’ she was carrying. Bit late now. And all because she was supposed to play the part of the respectable widow.

  Well, her husband Jack wasn’t ever coming home, was he? She had last seen him disappear in the smoking ruins of their shop in Castle Street during the bombing of Bristol. With one arm broken, he had rushed back into the fire to try to rescue their baby daughter but had succumbed, like her, to the inferno. Hundreds of people died that night. Their blood mixed with the molten lead from nearby St. Peter’s Church that flowed past her feet like red lava.

  Jack had died the real hero, not her. Now she was expected to live like a nun for the rest of the war to do him justice. At best she was meant to know her place, stay at home and look after her wounded brother day and night as if she were Florence Nightingale.

  As if that had anything to do with it.

  Put simply, she and Primrose had always clashed. She should have blown her head off her while she’d had the chance. But there was disobedience and disrespect – they weren’t quite the same. Really, her mother had always been jealous of her. She couldn’t stand the fact that, unlike her, she had somehow ‘got away’.

  Well, she wasn’t the only one, was she! Since this war had begun, many a young woman had discovered there was more to life than they’d ever thought.

  Suddenly she stopped dead. Someone was leaning heavily against the slender stone pillars that formed the back of the presbytery. The devotee’s eyes appeared to be devouring the sanctified effigy of King Edward II.

  Then again, a genuine pilgrim wouldn’t look so unhappy, would they?

  ‘With me, Bella. No barking.’

  Bella knew this role. She was to be her non-judgemental provider of security.

  But she was not meant to interfere.

  The would-be worshipper gave a groan and stared at the effigy’s open eyes, curly hair, beard and crown. He pushed his face forwards as though he would kiss the graffiti scratched in the murdered king’s polished marble chest or simply stroke the two winged angels at his head – he seemed beside himself with worry.

  Jo cleared her throat, rather loudly.

  That didn’t mean she was sympathetic.

  ‘So Noah, you’ve decided to show your ugly face, after all?’

  Light from the choir lit the penitent’s siren suit. A mass of black, unwashed hair fell forward on his brow to hide half his ashen face. He was panting.

  ‘Sorry, Jo. You startled me.’

  ‘You surprised me, too. You look terrible.’

  ‘As do you. Is it bad news?’

  She hurriedly slipped the telegram back into her pocket.

  ‘I’ll let you know.’

  At that moment Bella bared her teeth. She did it, she thought, pleasantly enough. Not for the first time Noah looked ready to take to his heels.

  ‘It’s okay, she won’t bite you,’ said Jo. ‘Why are you lurking here? Why not go somewhere else for a nice cup of tea?’

  ‘Screw you.’

  ‘Have I not helped you out in the past? Are we not old friends?’

  ‘I should hope so.’

  ‘So you do trust me?’

  ‘Otherwise I wouldn’t be taking such a risk.’

  ‘Put the knife down and follow me.’

  The better they all behaved, the better this would go.

  Bella flattened her ears and narrowed her eyes while she watched Noah very carefully. It was all well and good to expect a dog to be forever brave, loyal and self-sacrificing in the face of human folly, but not even a reassuring pat on the head entirely restored her faith in her owner’s dubious judgement of character today.

  Framed in white light from three large, plain glass windows, Jo sat down on one stone bench and directed Noah to another, in the south ambulatory chapel.

  ‘Okay, let’s hear it. What do you have to say for yourself? How did you come to be outside that factory in the Forest of Dean when Bella cornered you?’

  ‘Oh, man.’

  Bella stood guard in the chapel’s entrance.

  This could take a while.

  Noah cast nervous glances. Scratched his chin.

  ‘Please, I can’t do this without a cigarette.’

/>   Jo cast her eyes to heaven.

  ‘Okay, but if Dean Drew catches us we’re both for the high jump.’

  Noah hastily pulled a Wills’ Wild Woodbine from the dog-eared packet in his pocket and lit it between his filthy fingernails.

  ‘I never should have agreed to tell you anything.’

  ‘But you’re here now.’

  ‘Sadly yes.’

  ‘You know something I don’t?’

  Noah sucked smoke deep into his lungs and let it steady his nerves for a moment.

  ‘If you want me to go on breathing, which I do frankly, then you’ll never mention my name to anyone ever again.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  ‘As you know, until recently I was sleeping rough in shop doorways. One night shortly before you and I last met, this toff in a smart business suit offers to buy me a coffee and a bun. It was freezing cold so I was very grateful.’

  ‘This ‘toff’ have a name?’

  ‘I found out later that he was James Boreman.’

  ‘The James Boreman? Gloucester’s best known businessman?’

  ‘The very same.’

  Jo curled her lip. She hadn’t expected to hear that name again quite so soon. That’s because she couldn’t connect it with someone so deserving as Noah.

  No one could?

  Yeah, maybe she could. Had not Mr James Boreman helped pay for the dismantling of the Great East Window for the duration of the war? Thanks to him, all its fourteenth century saints and martyrs, kings and abbots had been safely stowed in wooden crates – likewise, the Apostles who stood on the same tier with the Saviour and the Virgin Mary had been hidden from the bombs that had rained down several times on the city already. He was one to espouse a good cause.

  ‘So what did he want with you, Noah?’

  ‘He pointed at my grubby clothes and said, “It doesn’t have to be like this, you know.”’

  ‘And you. What did you do?’

  ‘I got up to go.’

  ‘Him?’

  ‘He said, “What’s the hurry?”’

  ‘You?’

  ‘Trust me, I was beginning to think he was one of those awful blokes who wanted something for nothing. Once you live on the streets you get all sorts of weirdoes trying to proposition you. They think that because you’ve been bombed out, or are otherwise down on your luck, that they have the right to add to your misery. It’s even worse for the women – they get attacked.’

  ‘So what happened, exactly?’

  Fresh anxiety creased Noah’s face as he almost bit the end off his cigarette.

  ‘He came across as quite the philanthropist and suggested we might be able to help each other out, because I could reach all sorts of people he couldn’t. You know, wounded ex-airmen like me or destitute soldiers who lived on the street. The way he told it, he was making lots and lots of money and felt it was time to give some of it back to the community.’

  Jo looked round the chapel. Shadows crept up the walls like dark water growing deeper and deeper. If the cathedral wasn’t sinking, why did she feel that it was about to take her with it?

  ‘James Boreman wants your help to help others?’

  ‘You can say that again. He’s paying me to persuade rough sleepers to go and work in his various businesses. Most say no. Some are too off their heads to bother. Others want the money for booze or food. Either way, we’re all vulnerable.’

  ‘Does he pay well?’

  Noah raised his eyebrows.

  So did she.

  ‘Does he pay at all?’

  ‘We receive ten bob per week.’

  ‘Did I hear you right? Ten shillings?’

  ‘If anyone protests they get beaten with a shovel or broom. Boreman’s second-in-command, Kevin Devaney, has free reign to treat everyone like dogs. I was given new clothes, but others are lucky if they get second-hand boots and overalls. He confiscates their Identity and Ration Cards and plies them with beer and free cigarettes to keep them sweet.’

  ‘Kevin Devaney works for James Boreman?’

  ‘Who do you think owns that engineering and metal finishing factory in the Forest? It sure as hell isn’t Devaney.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear it. I saw inside. Conditions there looked downright hazardous.’

  ‘I can almost guarantee it.’

  ‘So, Noah, are they doing much legitimate war work, or what?’

  ‘Yes and no. Boreman siphons off metal supplied to him by the government to make buttons for army uniforms and uses it to make trashy trinkets. It’s a nice little sideline. Sounds harmless enough, as black marketeering goes, but talk on the street is that in Birmingham and Bristol he has links with gangs who loot bombed-out houses. When they get caught and sent down for eight years’ hard labour he denies all knowledge. What judge is going to believe a petty criminal against a respectable businessman who is apparently working hard for the war effort? He’s not alone. You read about people who earn £7 or £8 pounds per week in well-paid jobs who leave them to go looting. Can you believe it?’

  ‘Better question, why?’

  ‘Because he can get away with it in all the chaos. Word is, gangs raid the ruins and take anything from stair carpets to mangles and whole suites of furniture, not to mention any jewellery or other undamaged valuables to sell on before they can be traced back to the real owner. Trusted workers like Devaney get the perks, or so I’m told. Don’t ask me to prove it.’

  ‘You mean Boreman’s robbing the dead to pay the living?’

  ‘You said it, not me.’

  ‘How can this be possible?’ asked Jo, growing ever more resentful.

  Noah had smoked half his cigarette already.

  ‘That’s not all. He gets people to pose as home owners who have lost their houses during an air raid. That way they can claim an allowance from the government of £500 with another £50 for furniture and £20 for clothes. One man claimed he had been bombed out nineteen times in five months before he was caught by the National Assistance Office. He and his gangs split the money between them.’

  ‘Tell me more about the people you get paid to hire.’

  ‘They’re no better than slaves.’

  ‘So why not complain?’

  ‘I already told you. Most rough sleepers are sick or have shattered nerves. They’ve either run away or been dismissed from the armed forces, only to lose their way completely. None of them wants to make a fuss, not officially, they just want food and a roof over their heads until the war ends.’

  ‘For ten bob a week?’

  ‘They don’t always view themselves as victims, as such.’

  ‘How do they live? Where do they live?’ asked Jo.

  ‘I don’t know. Somewhere in the Forest. I know for a fact that if anyone poses serious trouble they get to disappear without explanation.’

  Jo raised her eyebrows.

  ‘Disappear?’

  ‘You don’t see them back on the street. You don’t hear of them again at work. They simply vanish into thin air amid a lot of secrecy and silence.’

  ‘You listen to me, Noah. I’m sorry I got you into this but have faith, I will get you out again. Meanwhile, keep your eyes and ears open for me. Take care, okay?’

  ‘Why do you think I’ve been praying to royalty?’

  ‘One last thing. In your opinion, is Boreman dealing in blackmarket timber from the Forest of Dean?’

  ‘You bet.’

  *

  ‘You’ve obviously been shopping,’ said John, pulling up a chair at a corner table in the Cadena Café.

  Jo took care not to break her newly painted butterscotch nails as she examined a large grey, galvanized cage and solved how to work its wire door.

  ‘Now we’re in business!’

  ‘Whatever is it?’

  ‘It’s the answer to all my prayers.’

  Bella lay down on the floor and placed her nose on her paws. She shut her eyes and flattened h
er ears. Not only did she have to tolerate idle chitchat this lunchtime, she was also about to be put out of a job, apparently.

  John rattled the cage’s bars.

  ‘What makes you so sure?’

  Jo looked triumphant.

  ‘This is a humane rat trap.’

  Bella gave a sniff. Resented the implication. No dog could guarantee to give its owner their daily tally of dead rodents when she felt so humiliated. Besides, were those not orange drop cookies she could smell on a nearby trolley?

  John stroked his pencil-thin moustache, savoured his ground coffee.

  ‘I don’t know what to say.’

  Jo explained.

  ‘The rat enters the funnel at this end of the cage. When it steps on a metal pad, the trap door drops shut behind it like a seesaw.’

  ‘A rat that big will never take the bait unless it’s very stupid.’

  ‘Talking of rats, you and I need to crosscheck a few things about James Boreman. His business interests appear to be very unusual to say the least. We need to verify what Noah says. You can start with the black market.’

  ‘What does ANY of this have to do with the death of our friend Sarah Smith?’

  ‘As we’ve seen, she used her PRONTOR II camera to photograph two men stealing timber in the Forest of Dean and now we know who they are.’

  John leaned sideways to slip Bella a piece of his toasted sandwich under the table. She refused. She only ate food if Jo gave her leave to. It was her choice, not his.

  ‘We know who they work for, at least.’

  Jo looked thoughtful.

  ‘If Boreman isn’t Mr Nice Guy, what is he?’

  John finished his coffee.

  ‘Okay, I’ll look into it. But only because it’s you.’

  Jo consulted her platinum and diamond wristwatch, a twenty-first birthday present from her grandmother before she had stopped being ‘a good girl’. Let’s face it, she would soon have to pawn it to buy baby clothes.

  ‘Tread carefully, John. I get the impression that someone likes to stay ahead of the game.’

  ‘Meaning what exactly?’

  ‘Whoever burgled my house the other night took only my notebook. In it was everything we know about Sarah Smith so far.’