Dance of Death E-Book

Edward Marston

• Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: Home Front Detective
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 472

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015

Beschreibung

London, Autumn 1916. When he slips out of a house in the early hours of the morning, Simon Wilder is too preoccupied to realise that he is being stalked. As he walks along the street, lights begin to dim as a warning that there's another Zeppelin attack. Guns begin to pound away as British aeroplanes attack the Zeppelin. Suddenly, it bursts into flame and lights up the whole sky. The crowds cheer as the great fireball drops slowly down and crashes in a field but the one person unable to watch is Simon Wilder. While he is staring up at the sky, he is stabbed to death and left in an alleyway. It will prove to be a very puzzling case for Inspector Marmion and Sergeant Keedy...

Leseprobe

Dance of Death

EDWARD MARSTON

To Elaine’s Dance School in Gloucester with love and thanks for countless happy hours of Ballroom, Latin and Sequence Dancing

Contents

Title PageDedicationCHAPTER ONECHAPTER TWOCHAPTER THREECHAPTER FOURCHAPTER FIVECHAPTER SIXCHAPTER SEVENCHAPTER EIGHTCHAPTER NINECHAPTER TENCHAPTER ELEVENCHAPTER TWELVECHAPTER THIRTEENCHAPTER FOURTEENCHAPTER FIFTEENCHAPTER SIXTEENCHAPTER SEVENTEENCHAPTER EIGHTEENCHAPTER NINETEENCHAPTER TWENTYCHAPTER TWENTY-ONEAbout the AuthorBy Edward MarstonCopyright

CHAPTER ONE

It was perfect Zeppelin weather – a dry, moonlit night without a breath of wind. When the fleet had crossed the British coastline, it was guided towards London by winding rivers and glistening railway lines. There was a blackout in the capital but the enemy could see the beckoning searchlights illuminating the sky. A Zeppelin raid created a terror that was completely out of proportion with the actual damage it could cause. Trains and buses stopped in their tracks, lights were dimmed, fires were drawn and some people huddled throughout the whole night in underground stations. Bolder and more curious inhabitants, however, came out into the street and tried to catch a glimpse of the monsters of death some 20,000 feet above their heads. They could hear the distinctive throb of the engines, punctuated by a series of small explosions from incendiary bombs dropped with indiscriminate malice by the German crews.

Simon Wilder was not at first aware of the raid. When he slipped out of the house and began the walk home, his mind was on other things. He’d gone a hundred yards before he heard the whirr of the engines and the successive blasts of the bombs. Farther down the road, a small crowd had gathered on a corner to gaze up with a mixture of fear and wonder. Many of them had watched raids before but nothing like this one. The Zeppelins were not given the freedom of the sky. Fighter pilots of the Royal Flying Corps were already in action, soaring up to confront the enemy. Anti-aircraft guns were booming gamely from below but their shells were falling well short of the target. The Zeppelins cruised on with menacing indestructibility, dropping their bombs over a constantly widening area and spreading panic.

Something extraordinary then happened. One of the fighter planes, which had taken the best part of half an hour to climb to the requisite altitude, launched an attack with its guns blazing. The pilot’s aim was lethally accurate. A Zeppelin suddenly burst into flame and lit up the night sky with spectacular effect. All over London, people were able to watch an unexpected firework display as an enemy aircraft was destroyed over British soil for the very first time. It was a turning point. The capital no longer simply had to endure a raid and pray for survival. Evidently, it was possible to fight back at last. A huge but unwieldy Zeppelin could, after all, be reduced to a gigantic fireball. Those watching from below were so elated that they cheered and embraced each other. Seized by patriotic fervour, some even broke into the national anthem. It had been a night to remember.

Simon Wilder did not take part in the celebrations.

Stabbed to death, he lay in a blood-soaked heap on the ground.

CHAPTER TWO

The telephone was a mixed blessing. When it was first installed in his house, Harvey Marmion had been delighted. It meant that he had direct contact with Scotland Yard and – when he was at work – he and his wife, Ellen, had a means of getting in touch with each other in the event of an emergency. On the debit side was the fact that Superintendent Claude Chatfield could wake him at will at any ungodly hour and the last voice that Marmion wanted to hear when hauled out of bed was Chatfield’s. It was like the yapping of an angry dog. Having padded downstairs in his pyjamas, Marmion held the instrument inches away from his ear to deaden the superintendent’s stridency.

‘Is that you, Inspector?’

Marmion yawned. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘I know you’re tired but I make no apology. Thanks to that Zeppelin raid, I was trapped in a train outside Paddington for three hours. It was maddening. I didn’t get to bed until well after midnight.’

‘Did you want something, Superintendent?’

‘Of course I do,’ snapped Chatfield. ‘I didn’t ring you up to talk about the weather. We have another murder on our hands. A car is on the way to pick you up.’

‘Very good, sir.’ Marmion yawned again.

‘Wake up, man. You’re on duty now.’

Marmion shook his head to clear it then took a deep breath before speaking.

‘Where did the incident occur?’

‘Chingford.’

‘Is the victim still there?’

‘No,’ said Chatfield. ‘I gave orders for him to be moved.’

‘I’ve told you before, sir. I prefer to see a body at the scene of a crime. You can learn so much from it.’

‘I saw the victim. I can tell you all you need to know.’

‘I’d rather have seen everything for myself.’

‘You can look at police photographs.’

‘Do we know anything about the man?’

‘Very little, I fear – he was in his late thirties, at a guess, and smartly dressed. There were no documents on him to indicate his identity. That’s really all I can say at this stage. Make a note of the address and get over there at once.’

‘I’ll have to collect Sergeant Keedy first.’

‘Oh, he’s probably still up, carousing. He’s a bachelor – at the moment, anyway. Young, single men have more energy than weary old husbands like you and me. Talking of which, have the sergeant and your daughter set a date yet?’

‘No, sir, they haven’t,’ said Marmion uneasily.

‘Marriage will slow him down. Wait until he becomes a father. Although,’ he added with a hollow laugh, ‘he might already have achieved that feat. Rumour has it that Sergeant Keedy did not live the life of a monk.’

‘You were about to give me an address. I have a pencil in my hand.’

As the superintendent gave him the details, Marmion wrote them down but his mind was elsewhere. The reference to his future son-in-law was deliberately intended to needle him. On the subject of his daughter’s engagement, Marmion was still sensitive, not least because the developing relationship between Alice Marmion and her father’s closest colleague had been kept hidden from him. It was not just the secrecy that hurt Marmion. Where young women were concerned, Joe Keedy had a reputation for loving and leaving them. Marmion did not want his daughter to be the latest casualty of a fractured romance.

‘I’ll get over there as soon as the car arrives, sir,’ he said.

‘Do that.’

‘Who raised the alarm?’

‘Someone who works as a postman,’ replied Chatfield. ‘He was leaving early for work when he found the body in an alleyway beside his house. It was probably just as well that it was still dark. He didn’t see exactly what had been done to the victim. It’s the reason I had the body moved so quickly. It was an indescribably hideous sight. That kind of thing always brings the ghouls running.’

‘You said that he was stabbed to death.’

‘He was also badly mutilated, Inspector.’

‘In what way?’

‘To begin with,’ said Chatfield, ‘someone gouged out both eyes.’

It took only one beep on the car horn to rouse Joe Keedy from his sleep. Jumping out of bed, he pulled back the curtain and waved to the car below. Then he dressed with speed. Since he was habituated to an early morning summons, he always shaved last thing at night so that he did not have to worry about a full day’s growth of beard when he awoke. Murder took precedence over grooming. When he had a free moment, he could shave later on at Scotland Yard. Four minutes after the call, Keedy was leaving his digs and straightening his tie as he hurried towards the waiting vehicle. He was a tall, wiry, handsome man in his early thirties who took pains with his appearance. Marmion, by contrast, always contrived to look slightly shabby even when he wore his best suit.

Keedy opened the door and climbed into the back seat beside him.

‘Good morning,’ he said as the car set off.

‘Good morning, Joe.’

‘Where are we going?’

‘Chat is sending us on a little visit.’

‘That sounds ominous.’

‘A phone call from our beloved superintendent is never an occasion for pleasure. When he drags me out of bed, he always makes it sound as if I was in breach of police regulations by daring to go to sleep.’

‘What has he got for us this time?’

Marmion passed on the information he’d been given. He was a solid man in his forties with the physique of a labourer. It was allied to a quick brain, an ability to work long hours without flagging and a tenacity that meant he would pursue any killer relentlessly until he was able to make an arrest. Keedy had the same sense of commitment. He’d joined the police force in search of action and found plenty of it. Having listened to his companion’s recitation, he grimaced.

‘Why would anyone gouge out the man’s eyes?’

Marmion shrugged. ‘I can’t help you there, Joe.’

‘I suppose that we have no idea when the murder occurred?’

‘We don’t have a precise time,’ said Marmion, ‘but it was obviously during the night. The blackout is a boon to criminals. They work best in darkness.’

‘It wasn’t that dark,’ recalled Keedy. ‘When I walked Alice back to her digs, there was an air raid on and we saw the most amazing thing. One of our planes shot down a Zeppelin. There was a massive explosion and night turned to day for what seemed like minutes.’

‘You and Alice should have taken shelter.’

‘I don’t think the Zeppelins had us on their targets list.’

‘I’m serious, Joe,’ scolded Marmion. ‘It’s a question of safety first. You may want to take risks but I’d rather you didn’t force my daughter to do the same. Look at the constant reports we’ve read of people being hit by fallen masonry from buildings that are bombed. You can’t be too careful.’

‘I wouldn’t have missed seeing that fireball for anything. It was marvellous.’

‘This is a war – not a sideshow.’

‘We were in no danger, honestly. We felt perfectly safe out there in the street.’

‘So did the murder victim.’

Word of the killing had spread like wildfire. When the police had first arrived at the scene of the crime, a number of people came out of their homes to see what was going on, then flinched at the sight of the corpse in the alleyway. Lights had been rigged up so that photographs could be taken. After making a preliminary examination, the pathologist said that the cause of death was all too apparent but that full details would only emerge at the post-mortem. The body had been duly removed.

By the time that Marmion and Keedy got there, it was light enough to see clearly. A uniformed policeman was guarding the spot where the victim had fallen. The paving stones were stained with blood. Passers-by tried to stand and stare but the policeman moved them on. As soon as he saw the detectives, he recognised both men because their reputations went before them. During a series of murder investigations, their photographs had appeared regularly in the newspapers and their record of success was unrivalled. The policeman was a big, chunky man in his forties with a bulbous nose and rubicund cheeks. He stepped forward to greet the newcomers.

‘Good morning, Inspector,’ he said in a gravelly voice, ‘and good morning to you, Sergeant.’

The detectives nodded in acknowledgement.

‘What’s your name?’ asked Marmion.

‘PC Alec Bench, sir.’

‘How long have you been here, PC Bench?’

‘I was the first person on the scene,’ said the other, proudly. ‘Well, not exactly the first, of course. That would be Mr Parry, the postman.’ He indicated the adjacent house. ‘He actually found the body and came looking for us at once. This is our beat, you see. Everyone round here knows us.’

‘We’ll need to speak to Mr Parry. Is he at home?’

‘No, sir, he went off to work – but not before I took a full statement from him,’ he went on, patting the notebook in his top pocket. ‘Some people would have been very upset by what they’d seen but not Denzil Parry. It’s not the first dead body he’s stumbled on. Postmen see all kinds of nasty things in the early hours. Denzil has discovered two corpses,’ he confided, ‘though both were of poor, homeless wretches who’d simply frozen to death.’ He nodded towards the house. ‘Mrs Parry is the problem. When she heard about the blood, she came out here with a bucket of water and a mop. I told her that she couldn’t tamper with a crime scene.’

‘Quite right,’ said Keedy, eyeing the dark stain on the ground. ‘What happened from the moment that you got here?’

Alec Bench knew how to deliver a report succinctly. His account was so smooth and coherent that it was almost as if he’d been rehearsing it. When he described the arrival on the scene of Claude Chatfield, his face was impassive but there was a glint in his eye that suggested he was not overly impressed by the superintendent’s officiousness. Marmion and Keedy exchanged a knowing glance.

‘So you’ve met the superintendent, have you?’ said Keedy.

‘He didn’t stay long, sir. Once the photographer and the pathologist had done their jobs, the superintendent wanted the body moved at once so that the crowd would disperse. The neighbours were a blooming nuisance but you can’t arrest someone for being curious.’

‘I suppose that there were no witnesses.’

‘None that I know of, Sergeant.’

‘Yet someone might have been out and about last night. Air raids always bring out the braver souls.’

‘They may be brave,’ said Marmion, pointedly, ‘but they’re also foolhardy.’

‘If the constable was on duty during the raid, he’ll have seen what happened up there in the sky.’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Bench with a chuckle, ‘there was a Zeppelin raid. I saw one of them shot down.’

‘It was thrilling, wasn’t it?’

‘I can’t wait to get home to tell the wife.’

‘The Zeppelin was blown to bits.’

‘I just couldn’t resist clapping my hands.’

‘Let’s concentrate on the murder victim,’ insisted Marmion, terminating their reminiscences of the event. ‘He deserves all our attention.’

He walked around the spot where the body had been found, wondering how and when the attack had been made. Patently, the killer had chosen the alleyway in order to delay the discovery of the body. Nobody walking past in the dark would have been able to spot it there. Denzil Parry, the postman, had turned into the alleyway on his way to work and almost tripped over the corpse.

‘Right,’ said Marmion after a long pause, ‘I’m satisfied that there’s nothing else to see here. I’d like to interview Mrs Parry first. I’ll speak to her husband when he returns home. In due course, we’ll deploy our men to knock on every door in the vicinity. We may be lucky – but somehow I doubt it. Any witnesses would surely have come forward before now.’

‘What about me, sir?’ asked Bench.

‘When do you come off duty?’

‘I reckon it will be in just over an hour.’

‘You can leave well before then,’ said Marmion. ‘When I’ve finished with Mrs Parry, I daresay the lady would like to clear up the mess out here. This is a nice area to live in. Residents don’t want ugly bloodstains like that. When Mrs Parry does come out and wash away the stain,’ he went on, ‘I’d like to hear the statement you took from her husband. After that, you can go.’

‘Thank you, Inspector.’

‘When you get home, remember that, first and foremost, you’re a policeman.’

Bench was nonplussed. ‘What do you mean, Inspector?’

‘I mean that a brutal murder took place here and that it’s of more importance to us than the air raid, however remarkable it may have been. Tell your wife what happened down here on the ground – not about events up there in the sky. A burning Zeppelin may have given you some entertainment but you should focus on the plight of the victim discovered by Mr Parry. He deserves our sympathy and so does his family.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Bench, accepting the reprimand.

Marmion’s voice softened. ‘There’s something else you can say to Mrs Bench,’ he added.

‘What’s that, Inspector?’

‘Tell her that you did your job well and that I said so.’

Bench rallied and straightened his shoulders.

‘Thank you, sir.’

CHAPTER THREE

War had come as a rude interruption to Alice Marmion’s career in education. Having trained as a teacher, and found a school she loved working at, she began to feel guilty that she was doing so little to help the war effort. As the conflict wore on, and as British casualties reached frightening numbers, Alice decided to abandon her pupils in order to join the Women’s Emergency Corps, one of the many organisations that had been formed in response to the national crisis. It was hard work that demanded long hours and confronted her with all manner of challenges. Instead of teaching young children in the safety and comfort of a classroom, Alice was out and about in all weathers, driving a lorry, repairing the engine when it broke down, unloading supplies or finding accommodation for the Belgian refugees who flooded into the country. Satisfying as it was, the work lacked a component that she sought and the only place she believed that she could find it was in the Women’s Police Service. Accordingly, she followed her father – and Joe Keedy – into uniform and, even though women were not involved in detective work, she at least had the illusion of carrying on the family tradition established by Harvey Marmion and his own father before him.

Keedy had often complained to her about the frustration of being at the beck and call of an overbearing superintendent and she understood his predicament only too well because she had her own version of Claude Chatfield to endure. Inspector Thelma Gale was a stout woman in her forties, with short hair brushed back from her forehead and held in a tight bun and defiantly plain features routinely distorted by a frown of disapproval. She seemed to take offence at the fact that Alice was slim, lithe, above average height and decidedly pretty. The inspector made no attempt to hide her resentment at the younger woman’s privileged position with regard to Scotland Yard. While the duties of the Women’s Police Force were strictly limited in scope, Alice had easy access to two detectives engaged in major investigations. It was a sore point with Thelma Gale.

‘What’s your father working on at the moment?’ she asked.

‘I don’t know, Inspector. I haven’t seen him for days.’

‘Sergeant Keedy will have kept you abreast of developments, surely.’

‘You’re quite wrong,’ said Alice, firmly. ‘We spend so little time together that we never waste it talking about a case he may be working on. Apart from anything else, it’s none of my business.’

‘That’s certainly true.’

‘I never ask and I’m never told.’

‘Come, come,’ teased the other, ‘you don’t expect me to believe that, do you?’

‘You can believe what you wish, Inspector,’ said Alice, anxious to get off a subject that cropped up so regularly. ‘I concentrate on my own duties. They keep me fully occupied.’

‘And so they should.’

It was strange. The inspector was seated behind the desk in her office yet Alice had the feeling that the other woman was somehow looming over her. Such was the force of her personality that Thelma Gale seemed to fill the room. Alice was eager to get well out of her reach.

‘With whom will I be working today, Inspector?’ she asked.

‘I’ve assigned a new recruit to you.’

‘Oh, I see.’

‘Though I have grave reservations about your abilities,’ said the other, getting in one of her customary digs at Alice, ‘I have no choice but to put you in charge of her. Show her the ropes and make sure that you don’t pass on any of your bad habits.’

Alice bit back a reply. It was her usual response to the inspector’s goading. There was, in any case, no time for her to defend herself against the undeserved criticism because there was a timid knock on the door and it opened to reveal a chubby young woman with a hopeful smile.

‘Good morning, Inspector,’ she said.

‘You’ll be on duty with Constable Marmion,’ Gale told her, indicating Alice. ‘If she can manage to remember it, she’ll tell you all you need to know.’

‘Thank you.’ The newcomer turned to Alice. ‘Hello, I’m Iris Goodliffe.’

‘I’m pleased to meet you,’ said Alice, pleasantly.

‘I’ve heard about you.’

‘Have you?’

‘Well, don’t just stand there,’ ordered the inspector with a flick of a hand. ‘Get out and start doing something useful.’

Grateful to be dismissed, the two women made a quick exit. Outside in the corridor, they were able to introduce themselves properly. While Alice contrived to look poised and comfortable in the unbecoming uniform, Iris Goodliffe had been given an ill-fitting jacket that only accentuated her bulging anatomy. She kept tugging at it self-consciously. When she saw the slight angle at which Alice wore her hat, Iris adjusted her own into a similar position then gave the nervous giggle that was to become her trademark. She stared at Alice through eyes brimming with admiration.

‘They say that your father is a famous detective inspector.’

‘He’d never think of himself as famous.’

‘Police work must be in your blood.’

‘Not exactly, Iris,’ said Alice. ‘What we do is very mundane but nonetheless important for that, mark you. We leave serious crime to Scotland Yard. That’s their territory. I could never follow in my father’s footsteps.’

‘You must have picked up some tips from him.’

‘I preferred to find my own feet in this job. I was a teacher before I came here. I suppose that involves asserting a certain amount of authority. That’s what we have to do when we put on these uniforms.’ She appraised the other woman. ‘Where have you come from Iris?’

‘I used to work in the family shop. It was a pharmacy. One day was much like every other one. I wanted some real excitement.’ She pulled down her jacket again. ‘And I’m hoping that exercise will help me lose weight.’

Alice warmed to her. Iris seemed keen to learn and would be agreeable company on the long trudge around the streets of London. The new recruit had an air of innocence about her that was offset by a quiet determination to succeed in her new role. In Iris Goodliffe, Alice sensed, she had acquired a new friend.

‘What’s the trick, Joe?’ asked Marmion.

‘There isn’t one.’

‘Then why is it that, as soon as we get anywhere near the morgue, my stomach starts to heave like the North Sea while you stay as cool as a cucumber?’

‘It’s a simple case of self-control.’

‘Yes, but how did you get that self-control?’

‘I got paid for looking at dead bodies,’ said Keedy with a grin. ‘When it comes down to money, you very quickly learn to be detached.’

‘Even you can’t be that cynical.’

‘I was only joking. The truth is that … well, I just got used to it.’

Keedy came from a family of undertakers and worked in the family business for some years before joining the police force. Marmion always argued that looking at a murder victim was very different from studying the corpse of someone who died a natural death, but all dead bodies were the same to Keedy. He could look at the most grotesque injuries without turning a hair whereas Marmion’s heart began to pound the moment they entered the morgue. It was doing so all over again. When they walked into the room, he began to perspire slightly even though the atmosphere was chill. The abiding aroma of disinfectant unsettled him even more.

Chatfield had warned him that the victim had been badly mutilated but that was in the nature of an understatement. When the shroud was drawn back to expose the naked man to view, Marmion had to turn away for a moment in disgust. Keedy, however, looked with professional calm at the multiple wounds, starting with the head and working his way along the body. Both eyes had been removed, leaving two ugly craters, and both cheeks had been slashed open. The whole torso bore the marks of repeated stabbing. There was a final indignity. When Marmion found the courage to look again, he saw that the victim had been castrated.

‘Dear God!’ he exclaimed. ‘It must have been a frenzied attack.’

‘Why go to all that trouble?’ wondered Keedy. ‘One thrust through the heart would have killed him.’

‘Someone wanted to do more than simply end his life.’

‘His face is unrecognisable. Nobody would be able to identify him.’

‘We can only hazard a guess at his age.’

‘Before it was attacked, his body was in good condition,’ observed Keedy. ‘The musculature is good and there’s not an ounce of superfluous weight.’

‘Yes – until today, he was fit and healthy.’

‘Who on earth is he?’

‘We’ll soon find out, I suspect.’

‘I can’t, for the life of me, see how.’

‘I can.’

Keedy had shown great interest in the injuries but Marmion’s queasiness wouldn’t allow him to do that. He had instead been looking at the man’s left hand. On the third finger was the telltale mark of a missing ring.

‘I think he was married. His wife will probably be searching for him.’

The woman was tall and slender with a fading beauty. Even though concern was etched into her face, she looked a decade younger than her forty-five years. The duty sergeant noticed how elegant she was. Pen in hand, he was ready to take down all the details of her missing husband.

‘Let’s start with his name, shall we?’ he suggested.

‘Simon Wilder,’ she replied.

He wrote it down with care, then looked up as a memory stirred.

‘I’ve seen that name somewhere before, Mrs Wilder.’

‘It’s on the poster outside our dance studio.’

‘Yes, of course, I remember now. There’s a photograph of him, isn’t there?’

‘It’s a photograph of both of us, actually, holding the cup we won at a national competition. It was one of many triumphs we shared. I was my husband’s dancing partner until …’

Her voice died away. The sergeant waited for an explanation that never came. At length, he broke the silence.

‘What’s your address?’

‘We live around the corner from the hall.’

She gave him the address, then explained why she was so worried. Her husband had been away all evening the previous day but had assured her that he would return home. Catherine Wilder didn’t know exactly where he’d been or with whom. He had commitments in the West End. He was often out late. The one thing on which she could count, however, was that – if he’d promised to do so – he always came home.

‘Where could he possibly be?’ she asked, worriedly.

‘Let’s not jump to conclusions, Mrs Wilder,’ he said in an attempt to soothe her. ‘There may be a perfectly reasonable explanation why he didn’t turn up. In fact, he may be sitting at home this very minute.’

‘He’s not there, I tell you. If he was anywhere, he’d be at the studio. He had an early appointment. I went there on the way here. The place was locked and the woman expecting an hour’s private tuition from my husband was standing outside.’

Rubbing his chin meditatively, the sergeant changed his tack.

‘What time did you go to bed last night?’

She was affronted. ‘I can’t see that that has anything to do with it.’

‘Answer my question, please, and you’ll understand.’

‘As it happened, I went to bed early – around ten o’clock.’

‘Are you a heavy sleeper, Mrs Wilder?’ Seeing the protest hovering on her lips, he carried on quickly before she could voice it. ‘If you were, you’ll have missed the air raid. London was attacked by a whole fleet of Zeppelins. It brought the city to a standstill. If your husband was on a train or a bus, he might have been held up for hours somewhere.’

‘He would have been back by now,’ she said, speaking very slowly and emphasising each word. ‘Can you hear me, Sergeant?’

‘Yes, I can, Mrs Wilder.’

‘Then please accept the fact that my husband is definitely missing.’

The sergeant manufactured a conciliatory smile that only served to irritate her. Torn between impatience and anxiety, Catherine Wilder stared at him as if demanding action. He gestured an apology.

‘Before I raise the alarm,’ he said, pen poised, ‘I need a few more details about the gentleman …’

Superintendent Claude Chatfield was a tall, thin, angular man with a centre parting separating what little remained of his hair. As Marmion delivered his report, his superior looked at him through bulging eyes. But for a change of heart on the part of the inspector, their positions could have been reversed. Both had applied for the vacant post of superintendent and Marmion had been the slight favourite. When he realised that he would spend most of his time behind a desk, however, he had second thoughts about promotion and deliberately failed the interview, allowing Chatfield to believe that he had become superintendent purely on merit. There was an underlying tension between the two men that would never be resolved.

‘You seem to have done everything needful,’ said Chatfield, grudgingly.

‘The victim’s injuries were horrendous.’

‘Now you see the wisdom of my decision to move the body from the scene of the crime. One woman fainted when she saw what had been done to his face.’

‘You are – as always – right, sir,’ said Marmion, feigning deference.

‘What is your immediate reaction?’

‘I think that the victim was known to the killer. This was no random attack. There was something very specific about the mutilation. The killer was making a statement of sorts. When we’ve identified the victim, we should start looking within his social circle.’

‘That could prove difficult, Inspector.’

‘Why is that, sir?’

‘He may turn out to have an extremely large social circle,’ said Chatfield, reaching for a sheet of paper and glancing at it. ‘We’ve had three reports of missing persons but this is far and away the most likely. A lady walked into the police station in Chingford – a quarter of a mile from the scene of the crime, please note – and reported the disappearance of her husband. He was due back home in the early hours but never arrived.’

‘What’s the gentleman’s name, sir?’

‘Mr Simon Wilder.’

‘Is there a description of him?’

‘We’ve got something better than that.’ Chatfield picked up a photograph. ‘It could well be the man on a slab in our morgue. In fact, I’d go so far as to say that it certainly is. Mr Wilder was a handsome devil, no question about that.’ He handed the photograph to the inspector. ‘What puzzles me is the name on the back.’

Marmion turned the photograph over and read out the inscription.

‘The new Vernon Castle.’

‘That means nothing to me.’

‘Then you obviously have no interest in ballroom dancing, sir,’ said Marmion. ‘Vernon and Irene Castle are American dancers – the best in the world, in fact, or so it is claimed. They’ve created all kinds of new dances, including the Castle Walk. Their book on modern dance is a bible for anyone interested in the subject.’

Chatfield sniffed. ‘That excludes me, I can assure you. Mrs Chatfield and I have no predilection for dancing of any kind. I’m surprised to find that you do.’

‘My wife and I are very fond of dancing,’ said Marmion, wistfully. ‘The problem is that I chose a job that leaves us very little time to enjoy it. There’s an irony in that, isn’t there?’ He studied the photograph then turned it over again. ‘But you’re right about the extent of his social circle. This was taken at the Wilder Dance Studio. If he’s good enough to be compared to Vernon Castle, he’s going to have a vast number of pupils. But that shouldn’t deter us, Superintendent.’

‘Why not?’

‘The overwhelming majority of them will be female.’ He gave the photograph back to Chatfield. ‘And we’re looking for a man.’

CHAPTER FOUR

Ellen Marmion never knew what time her son would get out of bed in the morning. Sometimes he didn’t come downstairs until well into the afternoon, yet, on other occasions, she’d heard him get up in the middle of the night and raid the kitchen in search of food. Paul’s unpredictability was only one of the problems she faced. Chief among the many others was his sudden change of moods. He would shuttle freely between hope and despair, making ambitious plans for his future before deciding that he might not actually have one. It was dispiriting. Glad to have him home again, with no serious wounds to his body, Ellen struggled to cope with his capriciousness. When he’d joined the army with the rest of his football team, Paul had been a bright, lively, determined, extrovert character with unassailable buoyancy. That was the young man his mother had sent off to France. What she got back from the battle of the Somme was a blinded soldier obsessed with war and tortured by guilt that he’d survived when so many of his friends had perished. His liveliness had given way to inertia and his optimism had, more often than not, been replaced by a sense of desolation.

As he chewed his way through breakfast that morning, he was in a world of his own. Ellen knew better than to interrupt him. She waited until he was ready to initiate conversation.

‘Oh, hello,’ he said, looking up as if aware of her for the first time. ‘I heard the phone go off in the night.’

‘It was for your father.’

‘That means only one thing.’

‘Yes,’ said Ellen resignedly, ‘there’s been another murder.’

Paul was bitter. ‘One person gets killed over here,’ he argued, ‘and the whole of the Metropolitan Police are after the person responsible. Thousands of British soldiers are murdered every day in France yet all we can do is to send thousands more to their deaths. It’s not fair.’

‘No, Paul, it isn’t.’

‘Somebody ought to do something about it.’

Ellen nodded in agreement because it was the safest thing to do. On the previous day, convinced that he would regain his sight completely, Paul had talked about going back to the front to join his regiment. He was pursuing a different theme now. As he ranted on about the folly of war, his mother gave him free rein, trying to humour him, afraid to contradict. It was only when he finally came to the end of his tirade that she dared to speak again.

‘How are you feeling today?’ she asked.

‘I feel fine in myself, Mummy.’

‘What about your eyes?’

‘If anything,’ he replied, producing a semblance of a smile, ‘there’s been a slight improvement. I can shave without cutting myself now. The doctors did say that I might recover full sight one day. I’m sure they’re right. I’m counting on it. I’ll be able to go back, after all.’

‘No, Paul,’ she said in alarm, ‘you mustn’t do that.’

‘It’s my duty.’

‘You’ve already done that by volunteering.’

‘I can’t let my friends down, Mummy. They’d expect it of me.’

‘Remember what they told you at the hospital. Shell shock can stay almost indefinitely. You’re in no state even to think about going back to France.’

‘I’m not a coward,’ he declared, stiffening.

‘Nobody says that you are, Paul. You’re a wounded hero and you must accept that. You’ve done more than your bit. You’re entitled to stay out of the war.’

‘I could never do that. I think of nothing else.’

‘You mustn’t let it prey on your mind.’

‘I can’t just forget it,’ he said with mounting anger. ‘You saw what the Germans did to me. I was lucky to survive. I feel that I was kept alive for a purpose and I know what that purpose is. When I can see perfectly well, I’m going back to get my revenge on those bastards.’

Ellen flinched. ‘Mind your language, please!’

‘Well, that’s what they are.’

‘I’m sure it’s what you call them when you’re with your friends,’ she said, raising her voice, ‘but you’re not in the trenches now, so we don’t want words like that in the house, thank you very much.’

Paul looked bemused. ‘What did I say?’

‘You know full well what you said. Your father is dealing with criminals all the time so he probably hears foul language every day but he never brings that language home. If you must swear, do it somewhere else.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he mumbled.

‘We’ve had to make a lot of allowances since you came back but there are some things we just won’t put up with. Do you understand?’

While Paul was surprised at the admonition in her voice, Ellen was even more so. She hadn’t realised how much anger had been bottled up inside her. Before she could stop herself, it had come gushing out. She was a motherly woman of middle years with a spreading midriff and greying hair. Ellen was not sure if she should apologise for her outburst or wait to see its effect on her son. As it was, Paul seemed too stunned to speak. His mother had been so amazingly tolerant since his return that he’d been taken unawares by her sharpness.

Each of them was still wondering what to do or say when they heard the letter box click open and shut. Ellen was glad of the excuse to leave the kitchen.

‘There’s the post,’ she said.

She rushed to the front door, picked up the mail and brought it back into the room. There were only two letters. One was addressed to her husband and the other one was for Paul.

‘It’s for you,’ she said, holding it out.

He snatched it from her. ‘It must be from my regiment.’

‘I don’t think so, Paul. That looks like a woman’s handwriting.’

He tore the letter open and peered at it through narrowed lids. After struggling to make out the words, he eventually gave up and slapped it down on the table. Ellen was sympathetic. She sat down beside him and picked up the letter.

‘Shall I read it to you?’

Paul was frustrated. ‘My eyesight should be better by now!’

‘It will be – in due course.’

‘I ought to be able to read properly.’ He took a deep breath to compose himself, then gave a nod. ‘Yes, please – if you would.’

‘It’s from someone called Mavis Tandy.’

‘Why is she writing to me?’

‘I daresay that she’ll tell you in the letter.’

‘How did Mavis know that I’d be here?’

‘Perhaps she’ll explain. You know who she is, then?’

‘Oh, yes,’ he said, ‘I heard about Mavis.’

‘You’ve never mentioned her before, Paul.’

‘Why should I? I haven’t even met her. Mavis was his friend.’

It was Marmion’s turn to take the lead. Whenever they viewed a body at the morgue, he drew strength from the sergeant’s experience of dealing with death. The breaking of bad news was a different matter. The inspector was infinitely better at dealing with bereaved families, more sensitive, more soothing and less likely to say anything out of place. As they stood outside the house in Chingford, Keedy was glad to hand over the task of passing on the sad tidings to the victim’s wife. After ringing the bell, they were kept waiting for a full minute and wondered if nobody was at home. The door was then opened by a short, skinny woman in her fifties with spectacles perched on her nose. After the detectives had introduced themselves, she explained that she was Grace Chambers, next-door neighbour of the Wilders.

‘It’s bad news, isn’t it?’ she whispered.

Marmion’s expression was blank. ‘Is Mrs Wilder at home?’

‘Yes, I’ve been sitting with her since she got back from the police station.’ She stood aside to admit them. ‘You’d better come in.’

They entered the house and were conducted to the living room, a large, well-furnished and well-proportioned space. They had no chance to notice the plethora of framed photographs and the collection of silver cups in the glass-fronted cabinet because Catherine Wilder leapt up from the sofa in alarm. After performing introductions, Marmion spoke softly.

‘Perhaps you’d like to sit down again, Mrs Wilder.’

‘Yes,’ said Grace, taking her cue and easing the other woman back down on the sofa. ‘I’ll sit with you, Catherine.’

Holding their hats in their hands, the detectives sat in the armchairs opposite. Marmion made a swift assessment of the victim’s widow. She had the frightened eyes of someone expecting to hear something terrible. For his part, Keedy was looking at Grace Chambers, clearly nervous but exuding sympathy. He was grateful that the neighbour was there.

‘When you reported that your husband was missing,’ said Marmion, ‘the information was passed on to Scotland Yard. As it happens, we had an unidentified body …’ He paused as Catherine tensed and Grace put a consoling arm around her. ‘It’s my sad duty to tell you that the photograph you sent has convinced us that the deceased is almost certainly Mr Wilder.’

‘Simon is dead?’ gasped Catherine.

‘I’m afraid so, Mrs Wilder.’

‘But how did he die – and where did it happen? Was he knocked over by a car or a bus? It couldn’t have been a heart attack or anything like that. Simon was in the best of health. How was he killed?’

Marmion traded a glance with Keedy then lowered his voice even more.

‘I regret to say that your husband was … murdered.’

‘Murdered!’ exclaimed Catherine, one hand to her throat. ‘There must be some mistake, Inspector. Who could possibly want to murder Simon?’

‘It will be our job to find out, Mrs Wilder.’

‘Are you absolutely sure that it was my husband?’

‘All the evidence points that way, I’m afraid.’

‘Did you find the business cards he carried in his wallet or see his name on the watch I had engraved for him?’ He shook his head. ‘Then it can’t have been him,’ she decided. ‘Simon had documents with him. Each one of them bore his name.’

‘They were deliberately stolen by the killer, Mrs Wilder. There was no form of identification on him. Even his wedding ring had been removed.’

The spark of hope that had momentarily ignited her face was cruelly snuffed out. As she sagged back on the sofa, Catherine didn’t even feel her neighbour’s arm tighten around her. She was still reeling from the impact of the news. The detectives waited in silence. It gave them the opportunity to look around the room and see how many of the photographs featured Simon Wilder and his wife on a dance floor. After a couple of minutes, Catherine gathered up enough strength to speak.

‘I want to see him,’ she said. ‘I want to be certain that it’s Simon.’

‘I wouldn’t advise that, Mrs Wilder,’ said Marmion.

‘Why not? He’s my husband. I have a right.’

‘Indeed, you do, and a positive identification from a family member would be very helpful to us. But there are distressing circumstances here. I would hate you to see your husband in that condition.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘He suffered appalling injuries, Mrs Wilder.’

Grace was curious. ‘What sort of injuries, Inspector?’

‘He was not simply stabbed to death …’

There was a long and very awkward pause. Keedy broke the silence.

‘He was not simply stabbed to death,’ he said, quietly. ‘Mr Wilder was badly mutilated.’

Catherine heard no more. Mouth agape, she fainted.

‘Why do they call her Gale Force?’ asked Iris Goodliffe.

‘You’ll soon find that out.’

‘She was very nice to me when I first met her.’

‘Wait until you step out of line,’ warned Alice Marmion. ‘Then you’ll find yourself in the middle of a howling gale. When the inspector loses her temper, we all run for cover.’

‘Oh dear, is she that much of a tyrant?’

‘Not really, Iris. She’s a good-hearted woman who does a difficult job very well but she doesn’t suffer fools gladly. Watch your step. That’s my advice.’

‘Thank you, Alice.’

Out on patrol, they were walking side by side down a long street. It was Alice who collected the few curious glances from passing men. A window cleaner even winked at her and lifted his cap. To her dismay, Iris didn’t attract any attention. She was there to learn from her companion and found her a mine of information. After being plied with dozens of questions, Alice asked one of her own.

‘Why did you choose the police?’ she asked. ‘With your background in pharmacy, the obvious place for you to go was into nursing.’

‘I was tempted.’

‘What changed your mind?’

‘It was what happened to my father,’ explained the other. ‘We lived above the shop, you see. Someone broke in one night and tried to steal drugs of some kind. My father went down to confront him. Instead of just running away, the thief gave my father a terrible beating. He was off work for a month. I had this terrible sense of helplessness, Alice,’ she went on. ‘I should have been able to go to my father’s aid but I was just cowering upstairs. That’s the real reason I joined the police. I want to learn how to cope with situations like that. To put it more bluntly, I suppose I want to be toughened up.’ She turned to Alice. ‘Does that make sense to you?’

‘It makes a lot of sense – and it reminds me of my own father.’

‘Oh – why is that?’

‘Daddy never intended to become a policeman,’ said Alice. ‘He was happy working in the civil service. He and Mummy had a very different life in those days. But my grandfather was in the Metropolitan Police. Then he was murdered on duty one night and it changed Daddy’s life. He wouldn’t rest until the man was caught. When the police were unable to find the killer, my father pursued him across the Channel and caught up with him in France. He dragged him back here to face justice and he’s been a copper ever since.’

‘You must be very proud of him, Alice.’

‘I am.’

‘What did your mother think when he joined the force?’

‘I think she preferred living with a civil servant.’

‘But that would be so dull and uneventful.’

‘Mummy always says that it would be better than having a husband who’s on call twenty-four hours of the day and who has to court danger every time he goes in pursuit of a killer. Daddy makes light of the dangers. It’s all part of the job to him and he accepts that without complaint.’

‘Are you an only child?’

‘No, I have a brother. Paul is at home at the moment.’

‘Hasn’t he been conscripted?’

‘He and his friends were among the first to sign up when the war broke out. Unfortunately, my brother was injured at the Battle of the Somme and invalided out. He keeps talking about going back to the front again one day,’ said Alice with a sigh, ‘but that’s another story …’

Holding the letter to catch the best of the light, Paul tried to make out the words again. The handwriting was neat and, by screwing up his eyes, he could read most of the letter. Replying to it, however, was a more taxing assignment. Crouched over the kitchen table, he worked slowly and laboriously. His first two attempts were so bad that he scrunched up the pieces of paper and threw them hard into the bin. Paul gave up all hope of writing properly. Through his blurred vision, the words looked like childish squiggles. As a last resort, he began to use large, decisive capital letters, explaining the problem with his eyesight. The words came much more easily.

It never occurred to him that he would live to regret writing them.

CHAPTER FIVE

Because he was tetchy at the best of times, it took very little to provoke Claude Chatfield’s ire. He was always simmering. When he found something that really annoyed him, he became uncomfortably loud and extremely animated. All that Marmion could do was to stand there and listen.

‘It’s disgraceful!’ cried the superintendent, pacing his office to work up a head of steam. ‘As if the police don’t have enough to do, we’ve had to rush men over to a village near Enfield to guard the remains of that Zeppelin. Sightseers have descended on the place in thousands by bus, train and car, and they all want souvenirs from the wreck. It’s repulsive. Human beings died in that crash but people show no respect. According to one report I’ve had, they tried to lift the tarpaulin to gloat over the charred bodies. Can you imagine that?’ he howled. ‘In the end, soldiers had to remove the corpses to a tiny corrugated iron church and stand guard over them. If they hadn’t been stopped, I dare swear that some of the vultures would have hacked off parts of the bodies and carried those away as souvenirs.’

‘To some extent, sir,’ ventured Marmion, ‘it’s understandable.’

Chatfield rounded on him. ‘Don’t tell me that you approve.’

‘Far from it – but you have to look at the circumstances. We’ve suffered any number of air raids in London but this is the first time we’ve been able to strike back. The Zeppelin is no longer invincible. That’s something to celebrate. No wonder people want to get their hands on a piece of the wreckage.’

‘Well, I think it’s deplorable.’

‘It’s an enemy aircraft, sir. They feel entitled to revel in its destruction.’

‘They shouldn’t revel in the death of the crew.’

‘That’s human nature, I’m afraid,’ said Marmion. ‘War has coarsened all of us. The public loves to hear about German casualties. Suddenly, they have a chance to see some of them. It’s dreadful, I know. Like you, I deplore what’s happening near Enfield,’ he went on, ‘but, with respect, the fate of the Zeppelin crew is not really our concern. The murder of Simon Wilder should be our priority.’

Chatfield came to a halt. ‘Don’t presume to lecture me, Inspector.’

‘I was just giving you a gentle reminder, sir.’

‘Well, it’s a totally unnecessary one.’

‘Then I take it back.’

‘It’s too late for that.’

After shooting him a look of displeasure, Chatfield walked behind his desk and lifted up the report that Marmion had brought. As he read through it, his anger slowly abated and he even managed a grunt of admiration. At length, he put the paper aside and turned his gaze on his visitor.

‘You always did know how to dress up a report,’ he said.

‘I wanted you to have enough detail for the press conference, sir.’

‘Are you absolutely certain that the victim is Simon Wilder?’

‘We are.’

‘When he was butchered in that alleyway, he was less than half a mile from his home. What was he doing there?’

‘That’s something of great interest to us, sir. Even as we speak, our men are calling on every house in a wide circle around the scene of the crime. Somebody must know why he happened to be in that part of Chingford at that late hour.’

Chatfield glanced at the report again then fired an unexpected question.

‘How would your son react?’

Marmion was taken aback. ‘Paul? What do you mean, sir?’

‘He’s a soldier. He’ll have been coarsened more than any of us. What will be his response to the shooting down of the Zeppelin?’

‘He’ll be very glad.’

‘Won’t he be rushing over to Cuffley? That’s the place where it actually came down. Doesn’t he want to be part of the grisly crowd that’s keen to wash their hands in the blood of the enemy?’

‘My son has seen enough dead bodies already, Superintendent, and he’s watched how degraded men can become by war. The hordes over at Cuffley are not the only souvenir-hunters. German soldiers have collected the most macabre trophies from fallen British soldiers.’

‘I know. I’ve heard the stories.’

‘They’re horribly true.’

‘How is Paul?’

Marmion was surprised by the considerate tone in which he spoke. Ordinarily, Chatfield only mentioned the inspector’s family in order to discomfit him. There was genuine interest in his question this time and Marmion was touched. He was reminded that the superintendent was a family man himself and had four children, though he had no son of an age that made him liable to conscription.

‘He’s … getting better, sir,’ said Marmion, guardedly.

‘One reads terrible things about shell shock.’

‘Paul is learning to cope.’

‘I wish him well.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

After a brief foray into Marmion’s private life, Chatfield reverted to being the peppery superintendent who was always respected but never liked by those of lower rank. The return to normality pleased Marmion. He always felt uneasy when Chatfield talked to him as a human being rather than as a colleague who needed to be kept firmly in his place. They discussed the report line by line and the superintendent made a few small adjustments.

‘I like to face the press well prepared,’ he said.

‘That’s to your credit, sir.’

‘Unfortunately, I don’t expect to get the publicity we need. We have sixteen newspapers in London alone and details of this murder should be on the front pages of every one of them. But it’s not going to happen, is it?’

‘No, sir, the shooting-down of that Zeppelin will be the main news.’

‘I hope they pour contempt on those ghastly souvenir-hunters.’

‘We’re dealing with one ourselves,’ said Marmion, grimly.

Chatfield was checked. ‘Are we?’

‘Yes, sir – the killer wanted keepsakes from his victim and I’m not just talking about his wallet, watch and wedding ring.’

‘Quite so,’ said the other, face darkening. ‘You were right to give no details of the mutilation in your report. There are times when information is best held back from the press. Apart from anything else, it would distress the widow beyond bearing. Thank heaven that Mrs Wilder doesn’t have to view the body.’

‘But she’s eager to do so.’

Chatfield was startled. ‘I can’t believe that.’

‘She more or less insisted, sir.’

‘When she heard what had actually happened, I thought she fainted.’

‘It’s true,’ replied Marmion, ‘but she recovered very quickly. Mrs Wilder wanted proof that it really was her husband who was murdered. She’s clinging on to a pathetic hope that it might just be someone else.’

‘And she really wants to put herself through that ordeal?’

‘I advised against it, sir, but to no avail.’

‘She’s going to have the most awful shock.’

‘A neighbour will be with her to offer support.’

‘I saw the corpse, remember. That face of his was like something out of a nightmare. I strongly urge Mrs Wilder to reconsider her decision.’

‘It’s too late, Superintendent,’ said Marmion, looking at his watch. ‘My guess is that the lady will be arriving at the morgue with Sergeant Keedy at any moment.’