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- Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Serie: Blitz Detective
- Sprache: Englisch
November 1940. As dawn begins to break, blackout regulations are rendered pointless by a car burning fiercely near the Regent's Canal in Camden Town, north London. In the burnt-out vehicle police find the charred remains of a body. The victim is Les Latham, a commercial traveller for the Baring and Sons confectionery company. He liked to be known as Lucky Les, but it seems his luck has finally run out. Detective Inspector John Jago discovers a mysterious photograph and some suspicious-looking petrol ration books among Latham's belongings. These lead him off on a murky trail of deceit, corruption and murder. It seems that the Blitz Detective will have to make his own luck to bring to light an unexpected killer.
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Seitenzahl: 471
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022
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3
THE CAMDEN MURDER
MIKE HOLLOW
For Rebekah, a sparkle of sunlight in a still troubled world
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
Frederick Bernard Long felt a faint thud on his head – or more precisely, on the top of his police-issue steel helmet. He stopped and pulled it off, then muttered a few choice words under his breath: words that he knew thirty-odd years ago would have earned him a clip round the ear from his mother, God rest her soul. A generous splattering of white was immediately recognisable in the half-light against the dark blue of the helmet. ‘Blasted pigeons,’ he added out loud to his initial more discreetly voiced imprecations. His younger colleague stopped beside him.
‘Hang on a moment, lad,’ said Long. He bent down to pull a tuft from the patch of grass at the foot of a plane tree set among the paving stones, then wiped off the offending mess. At least it was easier to remove from steel than it was from the cloth covering of a peacetime police helmet. He wondered idly why the miscreant bird had singled out him rather than Dalton. Perhaps it was his height. Even for a policeman it was conspicuous, and standing out from the crowd had caused him trouble all his life. It wasn’t just pigeons that picked on you.
He’d always been tall for his age. Well above the average man’s height at fifteen, when he finally stopped growing he stood six foot three in his stockinged feet, as skinny as a rake and with a tendency to stoop to avoid attention until his dad, an ex-army man, beat it out of him and told him to stand up straight like a man. His time serving in the ranks as a conscript in the Great War had put some muscle on him, and the monotonous diet had added a few useful pounds, so that by the time he was twenty he was a fit and presentable young soldier.
Long had taken to the military life quite easily, discovering that a regimented existence with rules and regulations for everything suited him. Being moved up to the front line was no picnic, of course, but it had to be done, so he just got on with it. He was content to be a private, with no hankering for promotion even to lance-corporal, and he’d got by quite well, steering clear of trouble whenever he could. Until, that is, some fool of a young officer looking for a man to run messages back to battalion headquarters thought it would be amusing to single him out for duties as a runner, purely because of his name. And so, overnight, he was dubbed ‘Runner Long’ and saddled with one of the most dangerous jobs in the army. The young officer was killed soon afterwards, and Long volunteered for training as a machine-gunner, but the name dogged him until the end of the war.
Nowadays running of any kind was something he tried to avoid. While his height and his boot size were the same as they’d been back then, his weight and girth had steadily increased, and his constable’s tunic was seven inches larger at the waist than it had been when he joined the Metropolitan Police fourteen years ago. Pounding the beat at the regulation speed of two-and-a-half miles per hour suited him better than chasing villains down the street, and he relied more on experience and cunning than on athletic prowess to fulfil his duties to the satisfaction of his sergeant. Besides, he had Dalton at his side, a constable twenty-one years his junior: wet behind the ears, of course, but as lean and fit as he’d once been himself. Yes, if any running should be needed, Dalton could do it.
They were on early turn, which meant they’d been out patrolling the streets of Camden Town since six o’clock this morning, and now it was not far off eight. Their regular beat took them up Royal College Street and across the bridge over the Regent’s Canal, followed by a right turn into Baynes Street, a short lane of small terraced houses, at the other end of which a wide bridge carried the trains running in and out of Camden Town railway station.
It wasn’t long since the first glimmers of light had signalled the approach of dawn, and all was quiet. There had been no bombs since before they came on duty. The blackout wasn’t due to end until eight minutes past eight, but Long at least had walked this area for so many years that he was confident he knew his way around in the darkest of nights as well as he did by day.
The delay in their progress caused by the pigeon incident probably proved more significant than he would have expected, for without it they might have missed what happened next. Just as they reached the turning into Baynes Street they heard the hurried slap of shoe leather on cobbles, then almost immediately the figure of a tall, slightly built man in a white jacket and peaked cap came hurtling towards them in the twilight and clattered into them. A milkman, judging by his uniform. It was fortunate perhaps, thought Long, that he himself had taken the full force of the collision. He imagined that the ballast he carried under his tunic would have made the other man’s experience something akin to running into a brick wall. If Dalton had been in the way instead, the milkman would probably have sent him flying.
‘Steady on, now, sir,’ he said, bracing himself as he stopped the man with a hand to each shoulder. ‘What seems to be the trouble?’
The stranger’s chest was heaving as he struggled for breath. He stared at Long for a moment, looking disoriented, as if surprised to have run straight into a policeman. ‘Thank goodness I’ve found you, Constable,’ he gasped, righting his partly dislodged hat. ‘Round there – come quickly … It’s on fire.’
Tugging at Long’s tunic sleeve, he led them back the way he’d come until they reached the entrance to a cobbled yard set back from the street. It was surrounded on all sides by two- and three-storey brick-built warehouses and stores, and both Long and Dalton knew it as a builder’s yard, disused since the builder in question had gone bankrupt at the beginning of the war.
‘This way,’ said the man. ‘Behind that wall.’
They followed him as he dashed towards one of the buildings, PC Dalton keeping up with him more easily than his colleague. A wall about seven feet high screened part of the yard from sight, but as Dalton neared it he saw the cause of the alarm.
He stopped dead in his tracks. He couldn’t bear to look at it, but neither could he look away. The horror of the scene gripped him and wouldn’t let him go. It wasn’t just the flames prancing on the blazing car in feverish mockery of the blackout, it was what he fancied he could see among them. As the breeze caught the smoke for a moment, he glimpsed what looked like the silhouette of someone seated at the wheel, as still as if taking a nap before resuming their journey.
If he’d been in a movie, he thought, he’d have sprinted to the vehicle, yanked the driver’s door open and dragged the helpless victim clear in the nick of time. But no, this was real life, and he couldn’t get within twenty feet. He might as well try walking into a furnace.
PC Long caught up with him. There wasn’t much he hadn’t seen in his time, and he felt a twinge of sympathy for Dalton, but there was no way round it: this sort of thing was just part of the job, and probably always would be.
‘It’s all right, lad,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing we can do for whoever that is – or was. Best thing you can do is run round to the phone box in St Pancras Way and dial 999 for the fire brigade. And if the phone’s out of action, run on down to the fire station. It’s only four or five minutes’ walk from here to Pratt Street, so a fit young fella like you can run there in no time at all. And phone the station too. The last air raid was hours ago, so if we’ve got a car on fire with someone dead inside, it’s suspicious – they’ll have to get the CID in. Now be off with you.’
Dalton sped off, relieved to be spared.
Long turned to the man who had brought them to the scene and who now seemed rooted to the spot, as if transfixed. ‘Come along now, sir,’ he said. ‘I expect the fire brigade’ll be here in two ticks, and we don’t want to get in their way.’
‘Yes,’ said the young man absently. ‘Is it all right if I go now?’
‘In a moment, sir. I just need to make a note of your particulars.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Because you’re a witness, sir. We may need to talk to you later.’
‘Oh, I see. All right then.’
Long took him a few steps away and stopped. ‘We should be all right here, sir.’
‘Couldn’t we do this somewhere else? I – I don’t really want to see that fire.’
‘I understand, sir, but I have to keep an eye on the scene. Perhaps you could just stand with your back to it, so I can still see.’
The man shifted his position accordingly while Long took a notebook and pencil from his pocket and turned to a new page.
‘Now, then,’ he said, ‘if you wouldn’t mind giving me your name.’
‘Of course. It’s Rickett – Joe Rickett.’
‘And you’re the milkman, I assume, dressed like that. On your round, were you?’
‘Yes, that’s right – Express Dairy.’ He gestured across the yard. ‘That’s my basket over there, with the bottles of milk in it.’
‘Right. And does your route normally take you through this yard?’
‘No, it’s just that I overslept a bit this morning, so I had to dash out. And then I … well, to be honest, I, er, felt the call of nature. You must know what that’s like in your job.’
Long gave him a blank stare and waited with pencil poised for him to continue.
‘So anyway,’ the milkman hurriedly resumed. ‘I slipped in here and nipped round the back to find a suitable place – somewhere a bit secluded, you know.’
‘And you found this car on fire?’
‘Yes. It was burning away like mad, and I could––’ He gulped. ‘I could see someone in it, and there was nothing I could do to save them – it was so hot I couldn’t get anywhere near it. So I ran off straight away to get help, and that’s when I bumped into you.’
‘The person in the car – could you see who it was?’
‘No. There was smoke as well as flames, and it was making my eyes sting. I couldn’t tell who it was or even what they looked like.’
‘Were they moving? Did you hear anything?’
‘No. Whoever it was must’ve been dead by the time I got here – no one could survive a fire like that.’
‘So what time did you see the car?’
‘I’m not sure, but it must’ve been only a few moments before I found you and your colleague. What time is it now?’
Long checked his watch. ‘Seven forty-nine.’
‘Well, I suppose it must’ve been about a quarter to eight, then.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Look, can I go now? I’ve got to get on with my round – people expect their milk to be delivered on time, even when there’s a war on.’
‘Just one more question, sir. Did you see anyone else?’
‘Near the car? No, there was no one else around.’
Long reviewed his notes. ‘Right, that’ll be all for now. Where can we get hold of you if we need to talk to you again?’
‘At the dairy, or if I’m out delivering they’ll tell you where.’
‘And your home address?’
‘Elm Road – number 28, upstairs flat.’
‘Very well. Thank you for your assistance, sir.’
‘Just doing my duty,’ said Rickett. ‘Good day to you, Constable.’
He hurried off without another word, picking up his basket of milk on the way. He didn’t look back.
CHAPTER TWO
The milkman had not long disappeared from view when a fire engine, its bell clanging, swung round the corner and shuddered to a halt. PC Dalton jumped down from the running board and ran over to Long while the crew rolled out a hose.
‘I got through on the phone all right,’ he said. ‘The fire brigade boys picked me up on their way. Seems we were lucky to get anything – this was the only pump they could spare. It can’t do foam, but they said they’ll put the fire out the old-fashioned way, with water.’
‘And the CID?’
‘Yes, they agreed with you, it’s suspicious, so they’re getting someone up here from Scotland Yard as quick as they can. I’ve told them where we are. And we’re to tell them the station’s going to fix up somewhere for them to stay.’
‘Right, lad,’ Long replied. ‘Now, these firemen don’t need two of us watching, so I’ll stay here and keep an eye on ’em. You go and check those warehouses – bang on a few doors and see if there’s a caretaker or anyone around. I doubt there will be, if this place has been empty for a year, but we need to check if there were any witnesses – those buildings are the only ones that overlook this yard.’
Dalton took a deep breath.
‘Run along, then,’ said Long. ‘No time to lose.’
Dalton departed, feeling weary, and his older colleague watched as the firemen directed a fine spray of water over the blazing car. They soon had the fire under control, and when it was extinguished an athletic-looking man of about forty in the uniform of London Fire Brigade joined him.
‘Jackson’s the name,’ he said. ‘I’m the station officer. Looks like everything’s in hand now. You’ll be needing to report this, won’t you?’
‘I shall, Mr Jackson, but we’ve got a detective coming, and I’m sure he’ll want to ask you all sorts of things.’
‘Very well, I’ll hang on here. I expect he’ll be very interested to know how a car comes to be on fire in the night in a disused builder’s yard, especially one with a dead body in it.’
‘Any idea how the fire started?’
Jackson looked back at the burnt-out remains. ‘A simple enough question,’ he said, ‘but one that’s not always easy to answer. The way things are these days, normally the first thing I’d think of would be one of those dratted incendiary bombs. Causing us no end of trouble, they are – but I probably don’t need to tell you that.’
‘No, I think we’ve all seen what they can do. But it’s not very likely in this case, I’d have thought. I was up at five this morning and the all-clear went just before that. I haven’t heard any German planes overhead since then, and you can tell by the sound they make, can’t you? It’s different to ours. So I don’t imagine there was one hanging around dropping incendiaries by the time this fire started. Could it have been a delayed-action one?’
‘I don’t think so. We’ve certainly had plenty of delayed-action high-explosive bombs these last few weeks, but as far as I know they haven’t been using delayed-action incendiaries.’ Jackson moved towards the car, with Long following him. ‘But here’s the funny thing.’ He put a gloved hand to the driver’s door handle and eased it open.
‘What’s that?’ said Long.
‘Well, I thought this door might be jammed, but it isn’t – it opens quite easily. So if the driver’s sitting there and the car catches fire, why on earth didn’t the poor blighter just get out?’
CHAPTER THREE
Detective Inspector John Jago edged the car forward a couple of feet in the early morning gloom and pressed down on the brake pedal to halt it. Again. They’d already been caught in a bottleneck in Tottenham Court Road, crawling past the wreckage of some poor soul’s haberdashery shop blasted into the road in the overnight air raid, and now they were stuck in another jam. He drummed his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel. He could see the problem: they were inching towards a junction that appeared to be the meeting point of at least five main roads. That must have been a challenge for drivers even in peacetime, he thought.
On the traffic island just ahead stood the remains of a fingerpost that would once have identified where these roads led to, but was now fingerless, pointing nowhere. In this case he knew the damage couldn’t be blamed on enemy action. The reason behind the zealous removal of road signs at the end of May had been the government’s desire to prevent invading Nazi hordes from finding their way around the country. Jago, however, had always suspected a flaw in their reasoning. Confronted by a lack of road signs, wouldn’t enemy forces just grab the nearest passing civilian and force the information out of them? As he watched a man climbing the steps from the underground public lavatory beneath the traffic island, he was tempted to jump from the car and employ the same interrogation tactic himself, but the queue moved forward.
As if a five-way road junction with no signs wasn’t already a recipe for chaos, he could now see that a furniture lorry and a brewer’s dray had collided over to the right, and a police constable was directing all traffic to continue straight ahead.
‘Where are we, Peter?’ he said.
Detective Constable Cradock was sitting in the passenger seat beside him, poring over the A to Z street map of London. ‘Nearly there now, guv’nor,’ he replied. ‘If I’m not mistaken, we’re in Camden High Street.’
‘Good.’
‘We just need to turn right at the next junction.’ Cradock looked up and noticed the road accident that lay between them and their destination. ‘Oh.’
‘Oh, indeed. So how do we get to Baynes Street if we can’t turn right? You’ll have to direct me.’
‘Yes, sir, leave it to me.’
‘And when we get there, make sure you keep that map book in your pocket. I fancy we’re going to need it here.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Cradock buried his head in the map again, and Jago took in their surroundings. Directly ahead, where two of the five roads met, was a small branch of the Midland Bank, its windows boarded up as a result, he assumed, of bomb damage. On the next corner to the left of it was a larger building bearing the name of the National Bank, and to his right stood a third bank, the Westminster. ‘Look at that, Peter,’ he said. ‘A bank on every corner.’ He glanced round the rest of the junction. ‘And a pub on every other corner – the Britannia, the Halfway House, and the Mother Red Cap. What does that tell us about Camden Town?’
‘I don’t know, sir. They’re rich but they spend all their money on drink?’
‘You could be right. Doesn’t look like a rich sort of place, though, does it? All a bit run down – but I dare say we’ll know a lot more about it before the day’s out.’
‘Yes, sir.’
The traffic ahead of them began to move, and they managed to cross the junction. They passed the Midland Bank and saw next to it the red-tiled frontage of a Tube station that must once have borne in large letters the name Camden Town Station. Now, however, the first four letters of that name had disappeared – as had about a third of the station, smashed to pieces by a bomb. Jago could only hope it hadn’t penetrated below to the tunnels: people sheltering from air raids in that way had paid with their lives. He’d heard on the grapevine that the bomb that hit Balham station a month or so ago had left a hole big enough to swallow a double-decker bus and killed dozens. The papers hadn’t named the station, of course, they’d only mentioned an underground railway station in London being hit and said there were ‘some’ casualties, but a friend who lived over that way had told him what it was really like.
Cradock’s voice interrupted his thoughts. ‘Turn right here, sir – Dewsbury Terrace.’
Jago swung the car round into a narrow street and continued following Cradock’s directions on a zigzag course that took them past a big Aerated Bread Company office block built in the modern style, then across the Regent’s Canal, past the Camden Town railway station and finally to their destination. As he turned into Baynes Street he could see the murky water of the canal down a short slope to his right. A colourfully decorated narrowboat chugged slowly into view, a woman at its stern glancing round and discreetly emptying a chamber pot over the side. Not a good place for a swim, then.
He checked his watch. Barely half an hour had elapsed since his new boss, Detective Superintendent Hardacre, head of Central Branch at Scotland Yard, had dispatched him to investigate a suspicious death in Camden Town. He did a rough calculation in his head: the distance was only three miles or so, which meant an average speed of six or seven miles an hour. Not very impressive, he thought, but it said something about the state of the roads in London these days.
A little farther along the right-hand side of the street was the entrance way he’d been told to look out for. He drove in and found a yard surrounded on all sides by a hotchpotch of dilapidated sheds, huts and unidentifiable buildings. Above it the sky was choking on the smoke belching from the forest of chimneys, both residential and commercial, that seemed to make up Camden Town.
He parked beside what looked like a small office with broken windows. There was no sign of the reported burnt-out car, but he did see a police constable and a man in a fire brigade uniform. The constable approached them as they got out of the car. ‘Good morning, sir,’ he said, with a grave salute. ‘I was told to wait here for you.’
‘Good morning, Constable,’ Jago replied. ‘I’m DI Jago and this is DC Cradock. And your name is?’
‘Long, sir. PC 182N. Kentish Town station.’
‘You’re the man who reported the incident?’
‘Strictly speaking no, sir. There were two of us actually – young PC Dalton was with me, and he was the one who phoned in with the details. After he’d done that, I sent him off to finish the beat and I thought I’d better stay here to guard the scene. Before he went, I got him to check all these buildings in case there were any other witnesses, but he didn’t find any. Not surprising, though – this place has been empty since war broke out. It used to be a builder’s yard. And before you ask, sir, I haven’t touched anything, nor has anyone else, except the fireman over there opened the driver’s door. He’s hung on here to wait for you, so I expect he’ll tell you about that himself.’
‘You say “other witnesses”. Does that mean you were acting on information from a witness?’
‘Yes, sir. The milkman was on his round, delivering down the street here. He reported seeing a car on fire, and we responded immediately.’
‘Name?’
Long pulled his notebook from his tunic pocket. ‘Said he was Joe Rickett, sir. Works for Express Dairy and lives at 28 Elm Road, upstairs flat. Got caught short, sir, that’s what he said, so he popped in here to, er, relieve himself, and found the car on fire. Was dashing off for help when he ran into us.’
‘Where did he run into you?’
‘Down the end of the street, sir, where it meets Royal College Street.’
‘And what time was this?’
Long turned the page in his notebook. ‘He found us at seven forty-six, sir, and said he’d discovered the car on fire just moments before that, about a quarter to eight. Said it was burning like mad. He could see someone in it, but what with the smoke and flames he couldn’t tell who it was or what they looked like. It was so hot he couldn’t get near enough to do anything – he reckoned whoever it was must’ve been dead already. I asked him if he’d seen anyone else at the scene, but he hadn’t.’
‘And what time did you see the fire yourself?’
‘Me and Dalton ran straight to the scene, sir. We would’ve been there by seven forty-seven. There was nothing we could do except call the fire brigade.’
‘Thank you.’ Jago glanced over his shoulder as a squeal of brakes heralded the arrival of a police car. The door opened, and Nisbet, the Scotland Yard photographer, got out.
‘Be with you in a jiffy,’ he said, pulling a camera and tripod from the back seat. ‘That’s it over there, I suppose – I’ll just get all my stuff ready, then I’ll make a start.’
Long’s face suggested a certain disapproval of the man’s informality as he turned to Jago. ‘Would you like to see the car now, sir, or would you like to speak to the gentleman from the fire brigade first?’
‘Fireman first, please,’ said Jago. He gave the photographer a polite smile. ‘Good morning, Mr Nisbet – do carry on.’
PC Long brought the waiting fireman over, and Jago extended a hand in greeting. ‘Hello,’ he said, ‘I’m DI Jago and this is DC Cradock – we’ve been sent over by Scotland Yard.’ He was still reluctant to identify himself as ‘from Scotland Yard’. It might be true, given that he and Cradock were now seconded there, but he couldn’t shift the sense that it sounded pretentious. ‘And you are?’
‘The name’s Jackson,’ said the fireman, grasping Jago’s hand and shaking it. ‘I’m the station officer at Camden Town fire station. I thought I should wait for you here in case I could be helpful.’
‘Thank you – I’m sure you will be. Perhaps we could take a look at the car now – lead on, Constable.’
Long took them across the yard to where a wall extended to one side of an anonymous grimy building, and as they passed its end a separate enclosed area came into view. The rear edge was bounded by a brick-built Victorian warehouse, three storeys high, now serving as the bleak backdrop to the remains of a burnt-out car. There was something desolate in the silence of the scene before them. Halfway up the building, the triangular frame of the warehouse hoist had swung out on its hinge and now loomed over the car like a hangman’s scaffold.
CHAPTER FOUR
‘That’s it, sir,’ said PC Long with a cursory nod in the direction of the car. His remark was superfluous, but Jago acknowledged it.
‘Yes. Nasty business.’
Cradock waited for what he thought was the appropriate moment of respectful silence, then gave a polite cough to break it. ‘Shall I get the murder bag from the car, sir, and start dusting for prints?’
Jackson broke in before Jago could reply. ‘If my experience is anything to go by, Inspector, you’re not likely to find any after a fire like this. It’ll probably have destroyed them, and even if it hasn’t, our hoses will’ve washed them away. Have a go, of course, but I wouldn’t expect much if I were you.’
‘Go ahead, Peter,’ said Jago. ‘We have to try.’
‘Very good, sir.’
As Cradock went to fetch the bag, Jago was distracted by the sound of another, quieter car. It was a sedate and solid-looking grey Rover saloon, a model that he’d heard was popular with doctors. He didn’t recognise this particular one, but the man who got out was indeed a member of that profession – Dr Gibson, the pathologist from St George’s Hospital.
‘Sorry I couldn’t get here any sooner, old chap,’ said Gibson as he slid out of the car. ‘I came as soon as your Mr Hardacre gave me my orders. He does that, doesn’t he? Give orders, I mean.’
Jago declined to make any comment on his new boss’s manner in front of PC Long, but responded with a faint smile and an almost imperceptible wink as he introduced Gibson to the station officer. ‘I was just about to ask Mr Jackson one or two questions,’ he said. ‘Would you mind waiting for a moment before you start your examination, Doctor? Just while Peter checks for fingerprints.’
‘Not at all,’ said Gibson. ‘I’ll listen in.’
Cradock returned with the bag and took out the fingerprint equipment and two pairs of rubber gloves, one of which he gave to Jago.
‘I understand you opened the driver’s door, Mr Jackson,’ said Jago as the four men walked over to the burnt-out car, leaving Long to keep unwanted intruders away from the yard. Jackson nodded. ‘But you haven’t touched anything else – correct?’
‘That’s right,’ Jackson replied. ‘And I was wearing gloves, so I don’t think I’ll have contaminated any evidence.’
‘Thank you.’ Jago turned to Cradock. ‘OK, Peter, you can get started.’
Cradock wriggled his hands into the rubber gloves and strode ahead briskly to the car. He reached out to open the door, but then hesitated and turned his head away. When Jago arrived beside him he could see why. The body in the driver’s seat was charred beyond recognition, its fists clenched and arms bent in a way he’d seen in fire victims before. And then there was the smell: indescribable, but unforgettable.
‘Sorry, sir,’ Cradock gasped, struggling not to retch. ‘I haven’t seen one like … like that before.’
Jago said nothing. What was he supposed to say? Play the older, wiser man – ‘Don’t worry, son, you get used to it’? He’d seen plenty of death in its ugliest forms, in war and in peace, and he’d never got used to it. The sight of men on fire, struggling to escape the wreck of their tank at Cambrai in 1917, was as real to him still as the shrapnel he carried in his body from that same battle. He turned away and breathed deeply to steady himself. ‘Just carry on when you’re ready, Peter.’
‘I’ll be all right, sir. I’ll get on and do it.’
Cradock began dusting the car for fingerprints, while Nisbet took his photographs. The speed with which the photographer completed his work made Cradock feel that his own task was the more difficult one, but he applied himself dutifully, secretly delighted to be responsible for this key part of the investigation. He soon became convinced, however, that the man from the fire brigade was right. Whether it was due to the effects of fire and water or not, his efforts were proving fruitless. ‘Sorry, guv’nor,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing here that we could use.’
‘We can only do what’s possible,’ said Jago. ‘In any case, even if the car had been covered in prints, we might not know which were the driver’s and which weren’t if all we’ve got is a body with half the skin burnt off. Pack your stuff away, and we’ll let Dr Gibson have his turn.’
Gibson began his initial examination of the body as soon as the photographer had left. ‘This won’t take long,’ he said. ‘Most of what you’ll want to know I’ll only find out when I examine him properly at the hospital.’
Jago glanced at the body. ‘Or her? Are we sure this was a man? The body’s so badly burnt I’m not sure I can tell.’
‘I think we’re looking at a man, but I won’t be able to confirm that until I get the remains back to the mortuary.’
Sooner you than me, thought Jago. He could imagine few more unpleasant ways of spending a morning than being cooped up in a freezing mortuary with a corpse in that state.
‘And I’m sorry I can’t offer you an estimated time of death,’ Gibson added. ‘Calculations based on normal rates of post-mortem cooling don’t apply when the body’s been burnt like this.’
‘Of course.’
‘But if Mr Jackson can tell you approximately when the fire started, you won’t need my help on that – if the driver was trapped in the car, time of death will be very soon after that.’
Jackson was doing his own examination of the car, his head under the bonnet, but looked up when he heard his name mentioned. ‘If you want to know when the fire started,’ he said, ‘judging by the intensity of it when we arrived I’d say it’d probably been burning for seven or eight minutes, maybe ten.’
‘And what time did you get here?’ said Jago.
‘Seven fifty-four.’
‘So the fire could’ve started at seven forty-four or a bit later?’
‘Yes, but it’s not a precise science, more a matter of experience, so I could be wrong. Now, I’m going to have a look in the boot, if you don’t mind.’
‘Please do,’ said Jago, as Jackson moved to the back of the car. He turned to Gibson. ‘That tallies with what our witness reported – he said he found the car at a quarter to eight, and it was burning like mad. Our officers were on the scene by seven forty-seven, and it was already too late.’
‘There you are, then, Inspector,’ Gibson replied. ‘Estimated time of death between seven forty-four and seven forty-seven, which is a jolly sight more precise than what you’d normally get from someone like me.’ He paused. ‘Forgive me – that sounds rather callous. What I should say is that in a case like this, Mr Jackson’s advice is more valuable than mine, and at this stage I’ve no reason to dispute his finding.’
‘At this stage?’
‘Yes. Clearly that assumes the deceased was killed by the fire – but if he was already dead when it started, time of death would obviously have been some time earlier, and how much earlier could be difficult to establish. We’ll have to wait and see what the post-mortem throws up.’
The pathologist’s final words caused Jago to swallow involuntarily, but he took the point. ‘Of course, thank you. I appreciate your help – and that goes for both of you. Now, Mr Jackson, what can you tell us?’
‘Well, to start with, the make of the vehicle. Judging by the little badge on the bonnet, it’s a Standard. But if you want to know which model, you’ll have to ask someone who knows more about them than I do.’
‘Did you find anything of interest in the boot?’
‘Just the usual sort of things. Take a look.’ He waved a hand towards a starting handle and the remains of a few tools lying in the boot, their wooden handles mostly burnt away. ‘Just basic stuff for emergencies, I should think.’
‘Thank you. And could you give me your opinion on how the fire started?’
‘I’ll do my best. I expect you know this, but if a vehicle catches fire it’s usually going to be because of a fuel leak – some petrol leaks out, say from the fuel pipe to the carburettor, and a spark sets it alight. You can get a spark from one of the plugs or from a cable, or, for example, if the owner’s done some home-made wiring like rigging up an electric lamp in the engine compartment and the insulation’s chafed on a sharp surface. But let me show you something. Would you excuse us, Doctor?’
Gibson moved away from the body, and Jackson took his place. He pointed at the middle of the car’s dashboard. ‘See that, Inspector?’
‘The ignition lock?’
‘That’s right. The key’s still in it, and it’s in the off position. I was having a bit of a poke around under the bonnet just now, and I can see the fuel pump’s definitely mechanical, not electrical.’
‘I see. So the pump only works when the engine’s running.’
‘Exactly, which means if there was a leak somewhere and a fire started, once the engine stopped there’d be nothing pumping petrol out through the leak and the supply of fuel to the fire would be cut off. Once it reaches the upholstery, of course, the fire’ll spread, but this lot seems to have gone up faster than I’d normally expect to see in an electrical fire. Also, the fact that the key’s in the off position suggests that if the fire started while the car was moving, or even if it was stationary with the engine running, the driver turned the engine off. So then, why didn’t he jump out instead of sitting there and burning to death? There’s no sign of a collision, so it doesn’t look like he was trapped.’
‘Could he’ve been taken ill or had a heart attack or something while he was driving, when the fire started?’ asked Cradock. ‘Suppose he just managed to stop but then died before he could get out.’
‘It’s possible,’ said Gibson. ‘But it would certainly be an unfortunate coincidence if he passed away in the very moment between bringing the car safely to a halt and getting out.’
‘And it’d be a bit odd too,’ said Jackson, ‘for someone taken ill like that to drive into this yard and park in a corner where no one could see him rather than just stop in the street, wouldn’t it? I imagine you detectives would have a question or two about that.’
‘I think we would,’ said Jago.
‘But one thing’s for certain – it’ll be a hell of a job confirming his identity, whoever he is, burnt like that.’
‘Well, that may depend on whether the car’s his or not. Look at the number plate there – it’s just a piece of pressed metal, so you can still read it after a fire, and we should be able to trace it.’ He turned to Cradock. ‘Peter, go and ask Long where that phone is that they used, then get down there as fast as you can and call the county council. Find out who it’s registered to – it’s LL 3826. And call Kentish Town nick too, while you’re at it, and get someone to bring this car to the station yard, so we can keep an eye on it.’
‘Yes, guv’nor,’ Cradock replied. He ran off in the direction of the yard entrance, where Long was still on guard.
‘You may need to rely on dental records too, John,’ said Gibson. ‘Teeth and bones generally resist the fire longer than other parts of the body, so when I get him on the slab I’ll check whether he’s had any work done. If he has, you’ll just have to hope he’s a local man with a local dentist, otherwise it could take you a while to find them.’
‘Yes, thanks,’ said Jago.
‘And there’s one other thing that might help you – or rather three things, actually.’ Gibson bent over the body again. ‘Here – three metal items that survived the flames. A key ring with what looks like a front-door key and another smaller key that I can’t identify, a little medallion that he had on a chain round his neck, and thirdly what I think must be a wristwatch, although it doesn’t seem to have any hands or glass.’
He handed the items to Jago, who weighed them in his hand.
‘Thanks,’ he said grimly. ‘Whoever he is, he won’t be needing a watch any more.’
CHAPTER FIVE
Jago was still chatting with Gibson when Cradock returned, looking a little flushed and out of breath from the run.
‘I’ve got it, guv’nor,’ he announced, taking his coat off and leaning against the wall.
‘Well done, Peter. What did the council say?’
‘They put me through to a clerk who checked that number plate while I waited. He said the car’s registered as a Flying Standard Eight saloon.’
‘And who does it belong to?’
‘Not to a named individual, unfortunately. It belongs to a company – Baring and Sons Confectionery, of Albert Street, Camden Town. They’re the ones who make those nice chocolates.’
‘On which I dare say you’re an expert.’
‘Well, I’ve tried them, and––’
‘Yes, but have you contacted the company?’
‘Yes, of course, sir. I got the number from the operator and spoke to someone at Barings. They confirmed it’s one of their company cars, and it’s assigned to someone called Les Latham, who’s an employee of theirs.’
‘Address?’
‘Yes, I got that too. They said he lives at 71 Belmont Street.’
‘Good work – let’s go.’
The houses in Belmont Street looked old and tired. Jago parked the car outside number 71 and mounted a few steps to the front door, followed by Cradock. The house had three storeys, and the three bell-pushes beside the door suggested that it had been divided into flats to create rental income for the owner. He pressed the one marked ‘Latham’ and waited.
The woman who eventually opened the door was of medium height and slim and, by Jago’s estimation, in her early forties, her make-up and tightly permed hair giving the impression that she took more care of her appearance than the landlord did of the building. The breeze from the street wafted a spidery trail of smoke from the cigarette in her hand back into the house.
‘Good morning. Is Mr Latham at home?’ said Jago.
‘No, he’s out,’ she replied. ‘I’m Mrs Latham – who are you?’
‘We’re police officers – I’m Detective Inspector Jago and this is my colleague, Detective Constable Cradock.’ He showed her his warrant card and National Registration identity card.
She glanced briefly at them. ‘Do you mind me asking what you’re here for? I’m not accustomed to having visits from the police.’
‘It might be better if we could come in first, if you don’t mind.’
She hesitated. ‘All right, then. We live up on the top floor – follow me.’
They climbed the stairs to her flat, where she showed them into the living room. It was small but tidy, and some of the furniture looked new. Another woman, older and wearing a flowery pinafore and frayed slippers, was wiping the top of a glass-fronted cabinet with her back to them, holding a duster in her right hand and a cigarette in her left.
‘Sorry, Mum,’ said Mrs Latham, ‘I’ve got visitors. Police. Can you leave us alone for a bit?’
‘Course, dear. Whatever you say, Rose my love,’ said the woman. There was affection in her voice, but also, it seemed to Jago, more than a trace of weariness. She turned round, revealing a lined face and lank, thinning hair. ‘Nice to meet you, officers – always a pleasure to see a policeman. Hilda Crow’s my name – Mrs Hilda Crow. If you need me for anything, I live just round the corner – Ferdinand Place, behind the bus garage, number 33.’
She moved towards the door, walking unevenly as though suffering in her hip, and departed, leaving a faint cloud of cigarette smoke trailing in her wake. Rose Latham offered Jago and Cradock chairs but remained standing herself.
‘So, what do you want my husband for?’ she asked. ‘He’s gone to work.’
‘I see. What does he do?’
‘He’s a commercial traveller, although he prefers to call himself a sales representative. He works for Baring and Sons, the confectionery people – visits shops and persuades them to buy their chocolates and sweets and things.’
‘Does he have a car for that?’
‘Yes, he does. It’s not actually his, though – it belongs to the company. Why do you want to know?’
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Latham, but I’m afraid there’s been an incident involving a car, and we think it may be your husband’s. Do you know the registration number of the car he’d be using today?’
‘The number plate, you mean?’
‘That’s right.’
‘No, I don’t. He’s had so many cars with his jobs, and to be honest I’m not that interested. I don’t suppose Barings would let me use it even if I wanted to. Come to that, I doubt whether Les would either – he’s a bit old-fashioned like that. I do know the letters, though – they’re LL. I remember them because he always says they stand for Les Latham or “Lucky Les”. But I can’t remember what comes after it – the number’s too long.’
‘Could it be LL 3826?’
‘Could be, I suppose, but I can’t say for certain.’ She halted for a moment, as though her mind had wandered, then snapped back, a new note of urgency in her voice. ‘But you said something about an incident. What do you mean?’
‘I’m very sorry to have to tell you this, but I’m afraid there’s been an accident.’
‘What kind of accident?’
‘A very serious one.’
‘You mean – Les?’
‘We don’t know for sure, but a car matching the description of your husband’s was found in Camden Town this morning. There was a body in it.’
She sat down with a gasp, her eyes fixed in shock. ‘Not Les – please tell me it’s not him.’
‘There’s no easy way to say this, Mrs Latham, but I’m afraid we don’t know – we’ve found no identification on the body, you see.’
There was a pause before she spoke. ‘Are you saying you want me to identify the body?’
‘Normally I’d say yes, Mrs Latham, but in this case … well, the fact is there’s been a fire. The car’s burnt out. I’m sure you’ll understand that means it can be difficult to identify anyone in the vehicle. I won’t be asking you to look at the body.’
She was silent, as if unable to take in what he was saying. When at length she spoke, her voice was quiet but firm. ‘I appreciate your kindness, Inspector, but in the last war I was a driver-mechanic with the WAAC – you know, the Women’s Army Auxiliary Corps – I drove an ambulance and I saw a lot of poor soldiers with terrible burns. Most of them died, and it was a mercy they did. I don’t think you can show me anything I haven’t seen before.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Latham. It’s very courageous of you to offer, but I’m afraid I have to say the condition of the remains is such that no one, not even you, would be able to recognise who the person is, and in cases like that we don’t allow close relatives to see them.’
‘All right. I understand, Inspector – I just wanted to be helpful.’
‘You can still help us. Tell me, please, does your husband wear a medallion?’
‘A medallion? Yes, he’s got a little St Christopher that he always wears on a chain round his neck – the patron saint of travellers, you see. He reckons it brings him good luck.’ She paused and bit her lip. ‘I gave it to him years ago, and I got it engraved on the back. To L from R, it says – well, that’s all there was room for.’
‘Thank you – that does match the description of a medallion found on the body. I’m very sorry.’
Rose Latham buried her face in her handkerchief, crying gently. Jago waited in silence, pained by the number of times he’d had to break harsh news to anxious wives, husbands, parents. At length she stopped, wiped her eyes and nose, and looked up.
‘There’s a watch, too,’ she said. ‘He always has that on. It’s a Bravingtons – a rectangular one. It’s a funny-looking thing, because it’s got no hands or dial – just a shiny metal case with two little holes where you can see the numbers jumping round to tell you what time it is. He thought it was very modern – probably made him think he’d got the latest thing and it would impress his customers.’
‘I see. That matches the watch we found.’
She nodded slowly. ‘It must be him, then. I’ve never seen anyone else wearing one like that, and if you’ve got the medallion too, it’s got to be Les.’
She looked as though she were about to cry again but controlled herself. ‘Please excuse me. This is all a terrible shock.’
‘I’m very sorry to be the bearer of such news, Mrs Latham.’
‘No, that’s all right. I know you’re only doing your job. But what happened?’
‘I can’t say until the pathologist’s done his post-mortem examination and reported his findings, but I’ll come back as soon as we know. For now, I’m wondering whether you saw him when he set off this morning.’
‘No, I can’t say I did, really. He must’ve got up without waking me, because when I stirred he was gone.’
‘And can you remember what time it was when you stirred?’
‘Yes, it was twenty past seven. I hadn’t heard him at all, but that’s not unusual for me. Les was going up to Cambridge for a few days – that’s the area he covers, Cambridgeshire – and when he’s doing that he’s always up early, so he can beat the traffic jams. I’ve got used to it, I suppose – I sleep through it unless he’s really noisy.’
‘How early would that be?’
‘It depends, but he’s usually up by about half past six, I think. He has to walk round to the garage to get the car – I don’t mean a garage of our own, I mean a proper one with petrol pumps and everything. The company’s very fussy about that – he’s not allowed to keep it at home because they don’t let him use it for private motoring. They say it’s got to be locked up overnight in a garage that they’ve approved, so he has to pay five bob a week to keep it there.’ She stopped abruptly, as if suddenly struck by the triviality of her words. ‘I’m sorry – you don’t need to know all that, do you? It’s the shock – it’s got me all at sixes and sevens.’
‘Don’t worry, Mrs Latham. It’d be helpful if you could tell us where this garage is, though.’
‘Oh, right, well it’s in Crogsland Road. You go down to Chalk Farm Road and turn right, then right again, and it’s on your left after Kirkwood Place. You can’t miss it – there’s a blue sign on the front, “Bowen’s Garage”, and a pair of petrol pumps outside. I think Mr Bowen lives over the shop – well, in the house next door actually, but pretty much on the premises.’
‘Thank you. And forgive me for what might sound a rather odd request, but I wonder whether you could possibly tell us who your husband’s dentist was.’
‘Dentist?’
‘Yes. We might need to use dental records to help us complete the identification.’
‘Oh, I see, yes. Les and I both use the same dentist – Mr Lonsdale, in Camden High Street.’
‘Do you have a telephone in the flat?’
‘Yes – Les needs it for his work. It’s just through the door there.’
‘Could my colleague make a call? I’d like him to contact Mr Lonsdale.’
‘Of course. His number’s in the little address book beside the phone.’
‘Thank you. Peter, call Mr Lonsdale, please, and ask him to get in touch with Dr Gibson. I’d like him to get Mr Latham’s records over to the hospital as soon as possible.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Cradock left the room.
‘Is that all you need, Inspector?’ said Mrs Latham. ‘Only, if you don’t mind, I think I’d like to be on my own for a bit now.’
‘Of course,’ said Jago. ‘But there is just one other thing you might be able to help us with before we go. Do you have a photo of your husband that we could borrow?’
‘Yes, of course.’
She crossed the room to the sideboard and returned with a framed photograph. ‘This is us at our wedding,’ she said, handing it to him.
Jago took the photo and examined it. The quality suggested it was an amateur shot taken on a cheap camera, and it had faded with age, but he could still see that Rose Latham looked young, fresh and natural in a traditional white wedding dress. The man beside her was tall and good-looking, with a confident bearing.
‘How long ago was that?’ he said.
‘Twenty years. We met just after the war. Les wasn’t long back from it – he’d been in the army, and we got married in 1920. Such plans he had then – getting a good job, having a family.’ She paused. ‘It didn’t all work out, though. He wanted children, but somehow it never happened. But at least he did very well in his job – six pounds a week he gets. Yes, he’s done very well for himself.’
She leant against the wall and stared out of the window, as if she could see her past life played out on the other side of the glass.
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Latham. Do you have anything more recent?’
She drew herself up with a sigh. ‘I’ll see what I can find.’ She went back to the sideboard, opened a drawer and rummaged in it. ‘Here you are,’ she said, producing a couple of photographs and handing them to Jago. The quality of both was much better. The first showed a man in shirtsleeves and flannels standing proudly with arms akimbo on the front steps of a house, framed by the columns of a porch.
‘Was that taken here?’ said Jago.
‘Yes, when we moved in, a couple of years ago. We only had this one floor of the house, of course, and rented, just like now, but he was very pleased with himself. I think he liked the idea of being the king of the castle and all that, and I suppose a picture of himself standing outside the front door made him feel like he owned the whole house. His mate Jack took it, I think.’
‘Jack?’
‘Yes, Jack Henderson, a pal of his at work.’
The door creaked open as Cradock returned to the room and reported that he’d contacted the dentist successfully.
‘Thank you,’ said Jago. ‘I was just asking Mrs Latham if she had a photograph of her husband that we could borrow. This was taken a couple of years ago.’ He handed the doorstep photo to Cradock and studied the second one. This was a good studio portrait. ‘Do you know when this one was taken, Mrs Latham?’ he asked.
‘That one was early last year,’ she replied. ‘I think he said he needed it for work or something.’
Jago studied the portrait. It was strange, he thought, how much a person’s face told you about them. Seeing Latham’s for the first time made him feel he was beginning to get to know him. It was likeable, with an engaging smile and friendly crinkles at the eyes, a face that looked straight into the camera, signalling openness and sincerity. The face of a man, he thought, from whom you probably would buy a second-hand car. And a face that no longer existed. ‘May I take it with me?’ he said. ‘I’ll make sure I return it.’
‘Oh, yes – I’ve got a couple of spares as well as that one, so no need to worry. He didn’t just have the one copy.’
