Forests of the Night by David Stuart Davies

again?’ I asked.
    â€˜I don’t see why not … if the police say it’s all right.’
    â€˜No problem there, Sister,’ said David, edging towards the door. ‘I reckon at the moment old Johnny here is the only real friend he’s got.’
    *   *   *
    It was good to get out into the fresh air again and to be assailed by the hustle and bustle of the Strand. The real living world, however sad and dreary, was getting on with its own mundane business. Normality, what a precious state. I paused, lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply.
    â€˜This lad has really got to you, hasn’t he?’ observed David.
    I said nothing. I couldn’t think of anything to say. I really didn’t understand my own feelings so I couldn’t elaborate on them.
    David sensed my dilemma and quickly checking his watch bade me farewell. ‘Got that briefing. See you later.’
    â€˜Thanks,’ I said as he left.
    â€˜Any time,’ he called back, as he disappeared into the seething crowd of grey-faced pedestrians.
    Well, my old son, I said to myself after a few moments, what next? Oh, yes, time to make an appointment with a film star.
    *   *   *
    I got back to the office around three o’clock. I had taken a fairly convoluted route to walk back partly because I wanted to play around with the odd jigsaw pieces of the Pamela Palfrey case in my mind to see if I could, without too much force, slip them together, interlock them, to see if I was anywhere near creating a picture or even sections of one. I wasn’t. The little curves and sharp edges refused to bond. I needed more. The other reason for delaying my return was that I didn’t fancy going back to my empty, grey, dusty office and the shabby room beyond knowing that they would only emphasize my own empty, grey, dusty and shabby life.
    Once I’d closed the door, I poured myself a whisky and put a lively Benny Goodman record on the old wind-up gramophone hoping they would shake me out of the gloomy mood I was in. They helped a little and then I set to work.
    I told the operator to put me through to Denham Studios. Once I’d connected to the switchboard – a lady sounding like she had a peg clamped to the end of her nose – I asked to speak to the public relations department of Regal Films. There was a long wait and then a voice of epicene qualities spoke shrilly down the line to me. ‘Hello Regal, Tristan speaking.’
    Resisting the urge to ask him how Isolde was these days, I went into my spiel. ‘Hi there, this is Gus Andrews, y’know Gus Andrews of ScreenTime, the magazine of the stars. Well, we’re doing a spread about handsome British heroes of the screen in the next issue and of course Gordon Moore, your very own Tiger Blake, is at the very top of our list. The pinnacle. I’m ringing to arrange an interview with Gordon so we can get the very latest on the new Tiger Blake.’
    I hadn’t gushed as much since I had a bad attack of diarrhoea on a holiday in Wales before the war.
    Tristan seemed overwhelmed by my torrent and held back from replying for several seconds. ‘ ScreenTime …? I don’t think I know that one.’
    â€˜Oh we’re quite new but we’re catching up on the old-timers. By next year we’ll be outselling Picturegoer. ’
    â€˜Really! And that’s so-o good.’
    â€˜We aim to be better … with your help, Tristan.’
    â€˜My help?’
    â€˜The interview with Gordon…?’
    â€˜Oh, yes. Well Mr Moore has just started filming the new Tiger Blake movie this week and he is ever so busy.’
    â€˜Surely you can squeeze me in. Publicity always helps a picture doesn’t it?’
    â€˜Well, yes, that’s what I’m here for.’
    â€˜Excellent. So when I can I come?’
    â€˜Just a minute, Mr … er?’
    â€˜Gus Andrews: just call me