Hell Is Always Today by Jack Higgins Page B

week, usually with a different bloke and she wasn’t too particular about their ages either.”
    “Was she a Tom?”
    “That’s the way it looked to me.”
    “And what about this boy friend of hers?”
    “You mean Harold?” Meadows shrugged. “He’s met her in here maybe half a dozen times. I don’t even know his second name.”
    “Was he picking up her earnings?”
    “Could be, I suppose. He didn’t look so tough to me, but you can never tell these days.”
    Miller nodded. “All right, what happened between Faulkner and the girl?”
    “She sat on a stool at one end of the bar and he told me to give her a drink. It seems he and Morgan were going on to some posh do and Faulkner got the idea it might be fun to take the girl. She must have liked the idea because they all left together.”
    “And then Harold arrived.”
    “That’s right and he didn’t like what he found. Ended up taking a punch at Faulkner who got very nasty with him. I had to intervene. In fact I told Morgan to tell him he needn’t come back. I’ve had about as much as I can take.”
    “He’s been mixed up in this sort of trouble before then?”
    “Too damned much for my liking. When he loses his temper he’s a raving madman, that one. Doesn’t know what he’s doing. He was in here one Saturday night a couple of months back and a couple of market porters came in. You know what they’re like—rough lads—they started taking the mickey out of his posh voice and so on. He took them both out in the alley, gave them a hell of a beating.”
    “Did you report it?”
    “Come off it, Mr. Miller. I’ve got the reputation of the house to think of. I only put up with him because most of the time he’s a real gent and why should I cry over a couple of tearaways like that? They asked for it, they got it.”
    “A point of view.” Miller started to button his coat. “Strange in a man of his background, all this violence.”
    Meadows hesitated perceptibly. “Look, I don’t know if this is any use to you, but he was in here on his own one night, not exactly drunk, but well on the way. We were talking about some court case in the evening paper. Three blokes who’d smashed up an old-age pensioner for the three or four quid that was in her purse. I said blokes like that were the lowest form of animal life. He leaned across the bar and took me by the tie. ‘No, they’re not, Harry,’ he said. ‘The lowest form of animal life is a screw.’”
    In other days the man who turned the key in the lock had been called a warder. In more enlightened times he was known as a prison officer, but to anyone who had ever served time he was a screw, hated and despised.
    “You think he’s been inside?” Miller said.
    Meadows shrugged. “Sounds crazy, I know, but I’ve reached the stage where I could believe anything about that one.” He opened the door. “You don’t think he killed Grace Packard, do you?”
    “I haven’t the slightest idea. What happened to Harold after the others left, by the way? You didn’t tell me that.”
    “I offered him a drink and he told me where to go and went out after them. Funny thing was he turned up again about five minutes afterwards full of apologies. Said he was sorry he’d lost his temper and so on. Then he tried to get Faulkner’s address out of me.”
    “He knew his name then?”
    “Apparently he’d heard me use it during the fuss when I called out to Faulkner to lay off.”
    “Did you give him the address?”
    “Do I look as if I came over on a banana boat?” Meadows shrugged. “Mind you, there’s always the telephone book.”
    “As you say.” Miller punched him lightly in the shoulder. “See you soon, Harry.”
    He went. Crossed the yard through the heavy rain. Meadows watched him climb into the Cooper, then closed the door.
     
    Miller went up the steps of the Central Railway Station and paused to light a cigarette in the porch. The match flared in his cupped hands briefly illuminating the