Erhalten Sie Zugang zu diesem und mehr als 300000 Büchern ab EUR 5,99 monatlich.
- Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Serie: Blitz Detective
- Sprache: Englisch
December, 1940. The season of goodwill is overshadowed by the death and destruction of the Blitz. In London's Covent Garden, where the glamour of theatreland rubs shoulders with the capital's busiest fruit and vegetable market, the war has closed the theatres and ruined the market trade. When a daylight air raid hits the Prince Albert Theatre on Drury Lane, rescuers find a man dying in the wreckage. But it wasn't the bomb that caused his fatal injuries - he's been stabbed, and with his dying breath he whispers what sounds like a fragmented confession ... As Detective Inspector John Jago begins to investigate, there's an underlying question he must grapple with: was the murdered man a killer himself?
Sie lesen das E-Book in den Legimi-Apps auf:
Seitenzahl: 469
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023
Das E-Book (TTS) können Sie hören im Abo „Legimi Premium” in Legimi-Apps auf:
Ähnliche
3
THE COVENT GARDEN MURDER
MIKE HOLLOW
ForPhoebe,
dawntomydusk,withaworldtoinherit
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
It was the same thing. Every time. He only had to look at the Prince Albert Theatre in Drury Lane for the memory to come stealing back. It was the same now: vivid in his mind, though a quarter of a century and more had slipped by. Vesta Tilley was up on the stage, singing ‘Your King and Country Want You’ like the accomplished recruiting sergeant that she was, with the crowd roaring back the chorus through a patriotic haze of beer and cigarette smoke. And he was in there, with them. Before he knew it, he’d signed up, taken the King’s shilling, and pledged his life to fight the foe.
By rights, he reckoned, he should be dead now, like most of those who’d volunteered so early in the war. But somehow, by the grace of God he’d never had to fight. In fact, he’d never seen the enemy. As soon as the army found out he could cut hair, they had him for a barber. He’d spent the rest of his war in Catterick camp, in North Yorkshire, inflicting a lightning short back and sides on a never-ending stream of men, at first volunteers and later conscripts.
The Great War hadn’t taken his life, but did undoubtedly change it. When he was finally demobbed, sick of clipping Tommy Atkins’ hair all day and every day, he resolved to become a high-class gents’ and ladies’ hairdresser. Early in the war he’d met a wounded Belgian soldier who told him he had the same name as their king’s second son, Charles, only the Belgian pronounced it the French way – something like ‘Sharl’, as far as he could tell – which sounded much grander than his plain old Charlie. He’d taken a fancy to it, and when he started working with the ladies he got into the habit of saying his own name the same way. Somehow a French name sounded more classy for a hairdresser, and classy was what he intended to be.
He’d done well, if he said so himself, and now he owned two shops – or salons, as he preferred to call them – both trading under the name ‘Maison Charles’. And here he was, in 1940, back in uniform again. Instead of British Army khaki, however, today he was smartly turned out in the blue serge tunic and matching tin helmet of London’s Metropolitan Police Special Constabulary.
No one had ever explained to him why it was called ‘special’: all it meant was that he was a part-time volunteer, and unlike a soldier or even the War Reserve police recruited to fill the wartime ranks, he worked forty hours a month as a policeman without being paid a penny.
Not everyone’s cup of tea, perhaps, but it was what he’d chosen to do. Having staff to run the two salons meant he wasn’t obliged to work every day of the week himself, so he could make his own small contribution to the war effort by helping to keep the streets safe. Not that anywhere was safe these days – especially for hairdressers, his wife Betty had said, worried that his professional background might not command much respect on those streets. She was anxious about the risks. Not just the German bombs, but the London drunks too, some of whom weren’t past trying it on with a copper, especially if he wasn’t a regular.
It didn’t worry him, though. He’d met people with preconceived notions about hairdressers before, but he wasn’t what they took him for. Over the years a number of smart Alecs had learnt to their cost that snide remarks about his profession, not to mention impertinent comments concerning his character, could lead to sudden and humiliating retribution. Hairdresser he might be, but Charlie Stone had been raised on the streets of Bermondsey, and while he was now on the wrong side of fifty, he was still not averse to a fist fight if the need should arise.
He wondered what the theatre looked like on the inside now. Like just about every other theatre in London it was closed because of the air raids, so he imagined a sad spectacle of dust and cobwebs. There wasn’t much fun to be had in the capital these days, and it looked as though the approaching festive season would be a dull affair too. Christmas might still be coming, but the goose was certainly not getting fat, and by all accounts neither were the turkeys. The war had put paid to supplies from the Continent, and imports of turkeys from America had been banned. Home-grown birds were going to be scarce and therefore expensive, and Betty had been playing down his expectations for weeks, playing up instead the merits of getting a nice piece of mutton, but he wasn’t persuaded. It wouldn’t be the same without a decent Christmas dinner.
Warm recollections of long-gone Christmas meals began to fill his mind. He’d just begun to recapture the sweet aroma of a roast turkey ready for carving when all such thoughts were dispelled by the scream of an aircraft engine. Not the pulsating drone of Luftwaffe bombers high in the sky, but the relentless, terrifying roar of a fighter plane. He whirled round as it burst into view above the Victorian flats to his left, a flash of grey with a bright yellow nose cone, flying so low that he instinctively ducked. In a flash it was gone, heading south towards the river, but not before he’d glimpsed the cross of the German air force on its side and the swastika on its tail. A split second later he was knocked off his feet by an explosion. Down the street, the Prince Albert Theatre had disappeared behind a cloud of dust and flying debris.
He picked himself up and ran towards the scene, choking on the unbreathable air. The nearest corner of the theatre had been demolished, three storeys of stone, brick and timber collapsed into a jagged heap. He couldn’t imagine anyone surviving if they’d been caught in that, but a heavy rescue squad would no doubt be there in moments to start digging. First, he must do what he could on his own. The main entrance was still standing, its doors and windows blown out into the street, and he could see a woman running in, rushing, he assumed, to the aid of any injured survivors. He dashed after her into the foyer just in time to hear her gasp in horror. She had stopped in her tracks, her hands clapped to her face and her eyes staring.
‘It’s him,’ she said, appalled. ‘He’s dead.’
Stone looked past her to where a man lay motionless on his back against a wall, his clothes dusted white with pulverised plaster.
‘Can’t you see who it is?’ said the woman.
Stone peered more closely, and recognition dawned. First the face, a very famous face, and then the hair: he’d cut it many times. It was Roy Radley, the comedian who’d once strutted the stage here and made it his own, now lying on the floor, lifeless. And there was something else. Something that suggested he was not the victim of a random bomb: what looked like a slim dust-covered handle was sticking out of Radley’s abdomen.
‘Oh,’ the woman gasped again. ‘He moved – look!’
Stone had already seen it. An almost imperceptible movement in the handle as the man’s abdomen rose by the tiniest fraction of an inch and fell again. There was breath in the body.
He dropped to his knees in the debris beside the victim and touched his shoulder. Radley’s eyes half opened and he whispered something. Stone slipped his steel helmet off so he could get his ear closer and spoke gently. ‘What did you say?’
Radley struggled to speak. ‘God have mercy … Forgive …’ he said faintly, as his eyes closed again.
‘Do you want a priest? I’ll send for one.’
‘No – it’s too late … I’m dying … stay with me.’
Stone reached for Radley’s hand and held it. ‘All right, I’m here.’
He turned to the woman, who was standing nearby and watching. ‘Quick,’ he said, ‘try to get an ambulance. This man needs one urgently.’ She nodded and ran off, but he doubted the man beside him would live long enough for the ambulance to arrive.
Radley gave his hand a feeble squeeze. He spoke again, his whisper growing fainter. ‘I … I confess … thought, word and deed … I’m sorry … forgive …’
Stone couldn’t tell whether Radley was speaking to him, to himself, or to the priest who wasn’t there, but he kept silent lest he miss any of the dying man’s words.
‘Stolen … lied … killed …’ Radley continued, his words interspersed with the weakest of snatched breaths.
‘Who did this to you?’ said Stone. ‘Who stabbed you?’
Radley gave a feeble cough. ‘My fault …’ he said. ‘Forgive me … I can’t—’
Whatever he intended to say next remained unsaid. His grip on Stone’s hand relaxed, his eyes remained closed, and there were no more breaths. He was dead.
CHAPTER TWO
Detective Inspector John Jago brought his car to a halt outside the Prince Albert Theatre. The sky was clear, the sun was glinting on the silver-grey barrage balloons overhead, and the air on the street below had an icy December bite to it. Detective Constable Peter Cradock was beside him in the front passenger seat, and in the back they had Nisbet, the Scotland Yard photographer, with his assorted professional apparatus. Dr Gibson, the pathologist, would be making his way there separately, from St George’s Hospital at Hyde Park Corner.
The theatre was a sorry sight, and half a dozen members of a heavy rescue party clad in dust-covered blue dungarees were working as a human chain, passing baskets of debris from hand to hand and tipping it onto the back of their truck. As the three men got out of the car, a uniformed police constable picked his way across the rubble-strewn pavement towards them.
‘Good morning, sir,’ he said. ‘Special Constable Stone. I got a message saying you were on your way.’
‘Good morning,’ said Jago. ‘You’re the man who found the body, right?’
‘Yes, sir. I’ve made sure nothing’s been touched.’
‘Good. Tell me what happened.’
‘Well, I was making my way up the road here, everything quiet, a few people around on their way to work or the shops, but then suddenly I saw a plane coming straight at us, very low and very fast. I think it was one of those Messerschmitt fighter-bombers Hitler’s been sending over on daylight raids – they’ve just got the one bomb, so they drop it and scarper.’
‘Yes – the papers call them “tip and run” raiders, don’t they? Makes it all sound like a game of cricket. Carry on.’
‘The bomb hit the corner of the theatre and made a right mess of it, as you can see.’
‘Time?’
‘Two minutes past nine, sir. The blast knocked me off my feet, but that was the first thing I checked.’
‘Well done. And when did you find the body?’
‘Well, it wasn’t actually me who found it, sir. A woman who was passing by dashed in as soon as the dust cleared and spotted him. But I was there seconds later – four minutes past nine, it was. I sent her to try and get an ambulance and stayed with him, but he died.’
‘Time of death?’
‘Seven minutes past nine, sir.’
‘Very good. Take us to the body, then.’
‘Yes, sir – this way.’
He led them through the wrecked doors of the theatre’s main entrance and into the foyer. ‘Over there, sir.’ He pointed to a corner where an internal wall had been blown down, revealing what must have been the gents’ toilets, with a row of handbasins still intact but the mirrors on the wall behind them shattered. On the floor lay the body of a man in an overcoat threadbare at the cuffs. It was open, revealing a shapeless pullover from which protruded the handle of what appeared to be the instrument of his death.
Nisbet got busy with photographing the body and its surroundings, while Jago captured his own pictures of the scene in his mind. The dead man looked as though he’d been doused with flour from head to foot, like many people Jago had seen after they’d been caught in air raids. Some dead, some alive, but similarly encased in grey-white powder as a building’s interior was reduced to dust by a bomb blast.
‘Do we know who he is?’ he said.
‘Oh, yes, sir,’ Stone replied. ‘His name’s Roy Radley.’
‘Roy Radley the comedian?’
‘That’s the one, sir. The woman who got here first recognised him immediately, and so did I. He’s well known round these parts – he grew up in Covent Garden and used to live here. He’s still got family here. A brother called George, who works in the market – he’s a trader, runs his own business – and a sister too. You’ve heard of Roy, then? He was quite famous on the stage.’
‘Yes, I’ve heard of him. Never seen him close up, though.’
‘Top of the bill he was, a few years back. It’s tragic to see him come to this sort of end.’
‘Do you have any idea why someone would want to do this to him?’
‘None at all, sir. Sorry.’
‘Where can I find this brother of his? In the market?’
‘That’s right. If you go down to the Theatre Royal and turn right into Russell Street, that’ll take you straight there. Once you get inside the market building, look for a little shop with his name over the top, and if you can’t see it, anyone working there should be able to tell you where to find him.’
‘Thank you – that’s all for now. The pathologist should be here soon, so go outside and look out for him – his name’s Dr Gibson. Bring him straight here when he arrives.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Stone set off towards the wrecked entrance.
‘Now, then, Peter,’ said Jago, ‘let’s see what we can find in this man’s pockets.’ He knelt down and reached carefully into the dead man’s coat and trouser pockets. ‘Here we are,’ he said, handing the contents to Cradock. ‘An identity card in the name of Roy Radley, a few coins, a couple of Fox’s Glacier Mints and a comb. No surprises there, then. Put these things in a safe place and then see if you can find any useful fingerprints in all this mess.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Cradock replied. ‘Can’t say I’m optimistic, though. I mean, I’m supposed to put special fingerprint dust on smooth surfaces, but look at the handle on that knife – it’s covered in dirt and plaster dust. By the time I clean all that off there’ll be no fingerprints left for me.’
‘Don’t worry – just do what you can. And by the way, I’m not so sure it’s a knife. Look at the shape of that handle – it looks to me more like a chisel or a screwdriver or some sort of tool like that. We’ll see what Dr Gibson says when he takes it out and has a good look at it.’
Jago paused, feeling a little queasy and hoping he would not be present when the pathologist extracted the weapon. Cradock, meanwhile, got busy with the task of fingerprinting, with Nisbet photographing his findings. Before long the crunching of boots on broken glass heralded the return of Special Constable Stone, and following him the familiar figure of Dr Gibson with a battered leather medical bag in his right hand.
‘Good morning,’ said Gibson. ‘And what do you have for me today?’
‘The late Mr Roy Radley,’ said Jago, ‘a professional comedian, who appears to have been stabbed in the abdomen.’
‘Right, I’ll take a look. I suppose you’ll want an estimated time of death?’
‘Not this time, no. There was a police constable with him when he died, so we know exactly when that was – seven minutes past nine this morning. What I’m interested in is your estimate of when he was stabbed, if and when you can confirm that that’s what killed him.’
‘Very good. I won’t be able to do that until I get him back to the hospital, but it won’t take me long to do what I have to here.’
‘OK, I’ll leave you to it. I need to talk to the constable.’
Jago took Stone to the far corner of the foyer. ‘By the way, who’s in charge here? Responsible for the theatre, I mean.’
‘That’ll be Sir Marmaduke Harvey, I suppose – he’s the owner. But if you mean day to day, it’s the caretaker. He’s called Stan Tipton, and I believe he lives on the premises. The theatre’s been closed down since the Blitz started in September, of course, like nearly all the others in London.’
‘Where can I find Mr Tipton?’
‘Not here, I’m afraid. He was injured in the bombing this morning and he’s been taken to St Thomas’s Hospital. They say he’s not badly hurt and should be out soon, but if you want to see him, you’ll have to go there.’
‘Very well. Now, is there anything else you can add to what you’ve already told me?’
‘There is actually, sir, yes. Just before Mr Radley died, he said something. It was just a few words – disjointed, you might say, on account of him being weak, I suppose – but I thought it might be important.’
‘Did he say who’d stabbed him?’
‘No, sir, he didn’t say anything about that. To be honest, it was more like a confession.’
‘Can you remember what he said?’
‘Oh, yes, sir – I wrote it all down in my notebook, just after the poor man died.’
‘Did anyone else hear what he told you?’
‘No, sir – there was only one other person close by, and I’d sent her off to get an ambulance. Sorry, sir.’
‘Don’t worry. Tell me what he said.’
Stone took his notebook from his pocket and read out what he had written. ‘They were his very last words. Is that what they call a dying declaration?’
‘Strictly speaking no, it’s not. As far as the courts are concerned, that’s what the victim says about his injury before he dies – who did it, when and how, that sort of thing. It sounds like Radley didn’t tell you any of that, but on the other hand, if it was some kind of confession, and if he talked about lying, stealing and killing … well, it could indicate something he’d done that could’ve given someone cause to murder him. That makes it valuable to me, so I want you to get it typed up properly, as close as possible to a complete record of your conversation – your questions and his answers – and then sign and date it and get it to me. And well done.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
Cradock joined them. ‘Sorry, guv’nor, I’m getting nowhere with those prints – there’s too much dust and soot everywhere. And anyway, in a big old place like this that’s been standing empty for months on end there’s every chance whoever did it had gloves on to keep warm, wouldn’t you say?’
‘I’d say not necessarily, but it’s possible. But if you can’t get any prints off that handle it’s just hard luck. Now, while you’ve been busy our colleague here’s been telling me something very interesting, which I’d like you to hear too.’
Stone repeated his account of Radley’s last words, and Jago sent him back to keep guard over the body before continuing his conversation with Cradock.
‘So what do you make of that, Peter?’ he said.
Cradock nodded sagely. ‘Like you said, sir, very interesting. So do you reckon he was confessing to doing all those things – even killing?’
‘I’m not sure – it wasn’t a clear and complete statement, but it’s a possibility we need to keep in mind.’
Jago was interrupted by the return of Gibson.
‘I’m all finished here,’ said the doctor. ‘I’ll get the hospital to collect the body and I’ll do the post-mortem examination, then I should be able to give you a more detailed account of what happened to him.’
‘Are we looking at a case of murder?’ said Jago.
‘At this stage I’d say it’s certainly a suspicious death, but come and see me later this morning at the hospital and I’ll let you know. I’ll be off now.’
Jago watched as Gibson headed for the door. He was about to look away when he noticed the doctor sidestepping abruptly to avoid an older, shorter man who was bustling into the theatre. It was Detective Superintendent Hardacre.
‘Ah, Jago, there you are,’ he barked. ‘Thought I’d better drop by and make sure you’re coping here.’ He looked round the remains of the foyer like a general surveying his battlefield, and his eye settled on the body lying on the far side. ‘Who’s the victim?’
Jago noticed that Cradock had edged slightly to one side, behind him, as if keen to put someone between himself and the marauding superintendent. ‘He’s Roy Radley, sir, a variety performer.’
‘Not theRoy Radley, the comic?’
‘That’s him, sir. Found here with a stab wound to the abdomen – a special constable was with him when he died.’
‘Good Lord. Roy Radley’s famous – who’d want to murder a comedian?’
‘I don’t know, sir,’ Jago replied, ‘but I’ve heard that audiences in Glasgow can be unforgiving, especially to English comics.’ His regret was immediate when he saw Hardacre’s face crease into a baffled frown.
‘This is Drury Lane, man, not Glasgow,’ the superintendent continued. ‘In a theatre, for goodness’ sake. What kind of lowlife creeps into a theatre to murder a comic? As if we haven’t got enough on our plates these days – the whole country’s going to pot.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Jago was learning to concur with his superior officer’s observations.
‘I blame the blackout – every crook in London’s out at night getting up to whatever they like because no one can see them. We’re the only men standing between civilisation and anarchy. So who’s your killer? Got any leads?’
‘Not yet, sir. We’re waiting for the pathologist to confirm that it’s definitely murder, and we’re about to go and see Mr Radley’s next of kin, his brother – Special Constable Stone’s told us where we can find him.’
‘This special – local, is he?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Reliable?’
‘He seems to be, from what I’ve seen so far.’
Hardacre grunted. ‘Well, you know what the old song says about specials and old-time coppers. If I’ve learnt one thing in my time, it’s don’t trust anyone – not even a man in uniform. Did you hear about that business over in Southwark last week, on M Division?’
‘Er, not sure, sir – what happened?’
‘There was an empty warehouse – got burnt down in an air raid, and it turned out the bloke who owned it had paid an ARP warden to slip inside when the bombing started and set fire to it.’
‘That was a bit risky, wasn’t it? For the air-raid warden, I mean.’
‘I suppose he must’ve been desperate for the money – some men’ll do the stupidest things if you wave some cash under their nose. But it turns out all that warden had to do was nip in and out with some matches – the owner had got it all set up inside with wood and petrol and probably decided he’d prefer it if some other bloke actually took the risk. But an air-raid warden – you don’t expect one of them to be a crook, do you?’
The faces of one or two upright citizens that Jago had had cause to arrest over the years flitted through his mind, and he might have begged to differ had he not been reluctant to interrupt when his boss was in full flow.
‘I reckon that owner thought if he blamed the Germans he’d be able to claim on his insurance,’ Hardacre went on. ‘But a fireman died trying to put that fire out. In the end it was the owner’s wife who turned him in – she thought it was disgusting, what he’d done. But he lied till he was blue in the face – didn’t give a tinker’s cuss about that fireman’s life. Makes me wonder what we’re fighting for, trying to protect people like that. Whatever happened to conscience, eh? That’s what I’d like to know. How can a man like that not have a guilty conscience? Some of these people are as bad as the Nazis – even worse, I’d say, if they call themselves British.’ He turned on Cradock. ‘We need to get them off the streets and behind bars – understand?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Cradock replied meekly, feeling as though the detective superintendent’s comment was some kind of personal reprimand.
‘We’ll definitely keep that in mind, sir,’ said Jago. He judged that the detective superintendent’s hobby horse had run its allotted course and that reassurance was now the best response.
‘Right, well you do that. If you ask me, some of these good-for-nothings could do with a dose of Field Punishment Number 1, the way we used to do it in the army. That’d teach them a bit of respect. There’s too much mollycoddling these days, you mark my words.’
‘Yes, sir. All right if we carry on now, sir?’
Hardacre took a final look round the scene, as if checking that Jago had not missed something crucial to the investigation. ‘Yes, very well – carry on, and make sure you get the maniac who did this locked up.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Jago replied, but Detective Superintendent Hardacre was already marching back the way he’d come.
CHAPTER THREE
‘Mr Hardacre doesn’t like people who set buildings on fire, does he, sir?’ said Cradock as they watched their boss depart.
‘That appears to be the case,’ Jago replied. ‘I can’t say I do either. It sounds like we can add catching arsonists to our list of priorities for him – up there with the thieves. You should probably mark his words, as he said – and especially make sure you don’t catch me mollycoddling you. Now, where’s that special constable gone?’
He glanced around and beckoned Stone to rejoin them. ‘I want you to stay here and make sure no one touches that body, all right? The doctor’s going to send someone over to take it to the hospital, and after that you can resume your normal duties.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Stone.
‘By the way, are you a full-time special or part-time?’
‘Part-time, sir – I’ve got a business to run.’
‘What sort of business is that?’
‘I’m a hairdresser, sir.’
‘Really? Well, I just want to know where I can find you if you’re not on duty.’
‘I’ll most likely be at one of my salons – I’ve got two.’
‘And where would they be?’
‘Not far – just down the road, really. One’s in Catherine Street, round the back of the Theatre Royal, and the other one’s in Maiden Lane, just by the south side of the market. That’s the main one, and it’s where I live too, in the upstairs flat. You can’t miss them – they’re both called Maison Charles.’
‘Thank you – we may see you later. You can get back to that body now.’
‘Yes, sir – thank you, sir.’
Stone returned to his post, while Jago and Cradock left the car in Drury Lane and followed his directions for the short walk to the market. As they made their way down Russell Street, the scene before them seemed to Jago like a vision of organised chaos. Vans, lorries and the occasional horse and cart were parked in apparently random fashion, while porters in flat caps and old overcoats pulled long and noisy two-wheeled market barrows behind them or pushed smaller, upright sack barrows before them, weaving their way through a maze of heaped-up crates and sacks of produce. Added to this, like ants scurrying to and from their nest, were men conveying their load in wicker baskets stacked six or more high on their heads. It was definitely a place to watch your step, thought Jago, as he took prompt evasive action to avoid a van edging its way through the crowd.
The inside of the market’s main building, a large rectangular space under a soaring iron-vaulted roof, was a similar hive of activity. Long rows of what looked like traders’ small shops or offices were fronted with boxes and crates of fruit and vegetables ranging up in carefully constructed displays to show off their wares to best advantage. What Jago took to be buyers were scrutinising the quality of the produce and getting out their order books, their relatively smart clothes differentiating them from the porters who bustled in all directions here too.
Jago judged it would save time to ask for George Radley’s shop rather than push their way round the whole market in search of it, and the directions given by the first person they asked took them straight to it. The sign over the window said ‘James Radley & Sons’, and inside they found a cramped space where a middle-aged man sat hunched over a small office desk, conducting what sounded like a terse business conversation on a telephone. He gestured to them to sit down on a couple of wooden chairs that filled the space between the desk and the wall, and brought his phone call to an end.
‘Good morning,’ he said brusquely. ‘I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.’
‘No,’ said Jago. ‘We’re police officers. I’m Detective Inspector Jago, and this is Detective Constable Cradock.’
‘Detectives, eh? And what are you detecting today? Nothing to do with me, I hope.’
‘That depends. Are you Mr George Radley?’
‘Yes.’
‘In that case I’m afraid it is. It concerns your brother.’
‘What, Roy? Is he in another scrape?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, you know – he’s always in trouble, that one. What people call a “colourful” character. If there’s a scrape anyone can get in, he’ll be in it.’
‘He’s in more than a scrape today, I’m afraid, Mr Radley. You may’ve heard that the Prince Albert Theatre was hit by a bomb this morning.’
‘Yes, I did. You’re not saying he was—’
‘I’m sorry to have to tell you, sir, but your brother was in the theatre at the time. A police constable found his body.’
Radley slumped into his chair and swallowed hard. He closed his eyes and shook his head slowly. ‘I’m sorry, Inspector, it’s just a shock. You hear it happening all the time, don’t you, what with the air raids and all, but you never think it’ll be your own family.’
‘Yes. I should note, though, that we don’t believe it was the bomb that killed him – we’re treating it as a suspicious death.’
‘What does that mean? Someone killed him, deliberately?’
‘We’ll need to wait until the post-mortem’s been done to be sure, but it’s looking that way, yes.’ Jago gave him a little time to adjust to this news before continuing. ‘You say your brother was a colourful character – what do you mean?’
‘Well, he was theatrical, wasn’t he? You don’t get to be successful on the stage unless you’re colourful. He was larger than life, I suppose, and people like that sometimes leave other people a bit damaged along the way. Casualties of their success, you might say.’
‘Can you think of anyone who might’ve wanted to harm him?’
‘Not so much as to kill him, no. He probably annoyed a lot of people, and some of them might’ve hated him, but kill him? I don’t think so.’
‘Can you tell me where you were this morning, before nine fifteen?’
‘What, am I a suspect?’
‘No. I’d just like to know so we can eliminate you from our inquiries.’
‘If you must know, I was here at work – and for several hours before that.’
‘Right here, at your desk?’
‘Not all the time, no. I was out and about round the market too.’
‘Can anyone vouch for that?’
‘You mean where I was at every moment of that time? No, of course not. But everyone in this market knows me – they’ll tell you.’
‘Thank you. And another question for you – I was told Mr Radley had family in this area. The person who told me mentioned you and your sister, but were there any other close relations?’
‘No, just me and Joan – she’s a bit younger than me. That’s about it as far as family’s concerned, unless you include Roy’s wife. You know about her, do you?’
‘No, I’m afraid I don’t. So he was married, then?’
‘Well, yes and no, really. I mean, he certainly got married, years ago, but they haven’t been together for some time.’
‘Were they divorced?’
‘Not as far as I know, but something definitely happened. I don’t know what, exactly – Roy never talked to me about things like that. I believe he walked out on her, but I don’t know why.’
‘Can you give me her name?’
‘Yes, it’s Doreen – Doreen Radley.’
‘And do you know where we can find her?’
‘I know what his address used to be, and if he left her, I imagine she’s probably still living there. I haven’t seen her since they broke up, though, so you’d better just try. They lived in Sussex Mansions, in Maiden Lane, next to the Bedford Head pub – Flat 22, I think.’
‘So where was your brother living after he moved out?’
‘Last I heard, he was in some theatrical lodgings in Goodwin’s Court – number 16. Pretty basic sort of accommodation, I believe, thirty bob a week all found, but he never invited me there. He used to turn up here from time to time, but he never seemed to have much in the way of money – I think he’d fallen on hard times. Sometimes he’d ask if he could borrow a bit. Never paid it back, but it was never a lot, and I couldn’t say no to my own flesh and blood, could I?’
‘Do you have any idea what he might’ve been doing in that theatre?’
‘No, I don’t. I understand it’s been closed since September. Judging by the state of his clothes when I last saw him, I wouldn’t be surprised if he’d been dossing in there on the quiet. He probably knew everyone in the theatre business, so maybe someone let him sleep there. You’d have to ask the people at the theatre about that, I suppose.’
Jago nodded silently. ‘I noticed on the way in that the sign over your shop says James Radley and Sons. So is it a family business?’
‘Yes. James Radley was my father, God rest his soul, and that’s what he called it. Of course, he was expecting Roy and I would both carry it on, but Roy had other ideas. He’d set his mind on going on the stage, and nothing my dad could say would change his mind. He just wasn’t interested – always too much of a joker, he was, not cut out for business. So when Dad died, I took over running everything.’
‘And your sister?’
‘Well, as far as my dad was concerned, the business was always “and sons” – I don’t think he ever saw Joan running anything. But she was more interested in flowers than potatoes and cauliflowers, so when she was old enough I gave the flower side of the business to her. She still runs it, over the other side of the market, and she’s done well – turned out to have a flair for making money, like her dad.’
‘Will you be telling her about your brother’s death?’
‘No. I’d rather you did it if you don’t mind. I don’t like things like that. Go round the other side and just ask anyone – they’ll direct you. She’s got her name over the stall too, so you can’t miss it. She trades as Joan Radley – never married, see.’
‘Very well, I’ll do that. Thank you, Mr Radley – that’ll be all for now. We’ll be back when we know anything more about what happened to your brother.’
Radley made no response, as if lost in his thoughts, but after a moment he seemed to drift back to the present. ‘Yes, right,’ he said. ‘Sorry, but I was just thinking about Roy. I can’t believe he’s gone – it still feels like he’ll be in here any moment trying to tap me for a couple of quid for his rent. We didn’t always see eye to eye, you know, and sometimes we may’ve got a bit steamed up about things, but now somehow it feels like none of that mattered, not really. It’s just not going to be the same without him.’
Jago stood up to leave but paused when he noticed two framed portrait photographs on the desk: a young woman with a radiant smile and a man of similar age in army uniform with a more serious expression. ‘Are these family too?’ he asked.
‘Yes, they’re my two kids. They’ve not had the happiest of lives – my wife died in a road accident, you see, when they were both quite little. A drunken driver – he should never have been on the road. But they’ve grown up to be fine young people, and I’m very proud of them. That one’s my son, James – named after his grandfather. He’s a second lieutenant in the Royal Artillery now – the 5th London Field Regiment. He went out to France with the British Expeditionary Force. We heard from a pal of his who got back from Dunkirk that they’d been in some kind of last stand at a place called Cassel, up near the Belgian border. They tried to break out and get to Dunkirk, but only half the regiment made it home.’
‘And your son?’
‘He was reported missing, but now we’ve heard he’s a prisoner of war. It’s a relief to know he’s alive, but as for when we’ll ever see him again, well …’ His voice trailed off into a poignant silence.
‘And your daughter?’
‘She’s Patricia, and she’s much closer to home, fortunately. She works for the BBC – doing very well for herself. She lives near Broadcasting House now.’
‘I can see why you’re proud of them.’
‘Oh, yes, they’ve both done well. I wanted them to have opportunities, so I sent them both to private schools. You might be surprised at that, seeing me sitting here in this little office, but I don’t mind telling you there’s a bob or two to be made in fruit and veg if you’re smart and run a tight business. My brother may’ve been the one with a name everyone knew, but I reckon I did all right for myself too. I’m no gentleman – I’m still rough at the edges – but I’ve worked hard all my life, and if that means both my kids’ve had better chances in life than I ever did, I’m happy.’
‘What did your brother think of your children’s success?’
‘I’m not sure. He got on very well with them when they were little – I think they were both a bit in awe of him because he was famous – but I suppose when they grew up they had less time for him. My daughter still sees him once in a while, though – or saw him, I suppose I should say. I think she was a favourite of his.’
‘Could you give me her address, in case we need to speak to her?’
‘Yes, she’s got a little place of her own. It’s Flat 6, Dunstan House, Hanson Street.’
‘Does she have a telephone at home?’
‘Yes, it’s Museum 4293.’
‘Thank you.’
‘You’ll probably find she’s a bit posh now – you know, BBC and all that – but I don’t think it’s turned her head. She’s still my little girl – I think.’
CHAPTER FOUR
Jago and Cradock took their leave of George Radley and made their way out of the market building. ‘Now that we’ve discovered Roy Radley had a wife, I think we’d better see her before we do anything else, even if they were separated,’ said Jago as they emerged into a cobblestoned area full of traders, customers and produce. Opposite them was a stone building with a grand portico and what looked like an entrance doorway that had been blocked up with white stone to match the surrounding wall. They walked a short distance down Southampton Street and turned right into Maiden Lane, where they soon found Sussex Mansions.
Doreen Radley was at home and seemed surprised to be visited by two police officers, but welcomed them into her flat. She looked in her late forties and was neatly dressed but not, to Jago’s untutored eye, overdressed. The flat itself, at least what he could see of it, was similarly neat: tastefully decorated and furnished, but with no hint of extravagance or ostentation.
When Jago broke the news of her husband’s death to her, he was intrigued by her reaction. He’d thought she might be distressed, but equally imagined she might even betray some sense of relief, given whatever acrimony might have caused their relationship to break down. But, in fact, if her response suggested anything, it was indifference.
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘That’s that, then – I’m not married any more. So this is what “until death do us part” means. I didn’t expect it would be like this.’
‘I’m sorry to bring you bad news, Mrs Radley,’ said Jago.
‘Yes, yes – thank you. I just thought I’d feel more than this, that’s all. I suppose it’s because I’d already lost him some time ago. Roy and I drifted apart, you see, and he left me.’
‘But you remained married?’
‘Yes. Some people said I should divorce him, but I’m a Catholic, and we don’t believe in doing that. That’s what I meant by “until death do us part” – that’s the vow we take when we marry, and we’re supposed to stick to it. No one can say I didn’t stick to Roy, but people change, don’t they?’
‘And your husband changed?’
‘Yes. I think he was too much in love with his work – and with the best will in the world, the kind of life you have if you’re in variety’s not good for marriage, unless perhaps you’re both in the same act. When you’re a performer you do a week in one place, then a week in another place, moving around all the time, living out of a suitcase in theatrical digs. That didn’t appeal to me one bit – dragging myself round from pillar to post with him and staying in one miserable room after another, sitting there all alone every evening while he was out doing his show twice nightly, six nights a week? That’s no life for a woman. I tried it for a bit, when I was young and in love with him, but I couldn’t take it. At first, he was understanding, but, well, I think he lost interest in me – absence didn’t make the heart grow fonder – or maybe he got more interested in someone else. I don’t know for sure, and I suppose now I never will, but for whatever reason, he left me. Perhaps it was because he became successful. That can turn your head, can’t it?’
‘You think he left you for another woman?’
‘I don’t know. It’s not unknown in his line of work, is it, to say the least. But if he did have some floozy hidden away somewhere he kept it very quiet. Listen, the straight answer is I haven’t the faintest idea. I don’t know who he met or who he spent his time with, I just know it wasn’t with me, and in the end we were like strangers to each other. Then he left me. Since then, I’ve been living here on my own and I’ve hardly seen anything of him. We went our separate ways, and that’s that.’
‘Did he have any enemies?’
‘Enemies? Why do you say that?’
‘Because we’re treating this as a suspicious death.’
‘What, you mean someone killed him? In cold blood?’
‘We won’t be sure until we have the results of the post-mortem, but we think it’s possible. So when I say enemies, I mean are you aware of anyone who might’ve wanted to do him harm?’
She shook her head. ‘No, I’m not. But you never know, do you? Anything could’ve happened since he left me. Roy was a well-known performer, famous, really, and sometimes there are people out there who get funny ideas about you, and you don’t even know. He might’ve made enemies without realising it. He was successful, and people can resent that, can’t they?’
‘But you can’t think of anyone in particular.’
‘No. All I’m saying is it wouldn’t surprise me. Some people can’t stand seeing other people doing better than them.’
‘Although actually I’ve been told that your husband had suffered a bit of a downturn in his career of late.’
‘Yes, so I’ve heard, but I haven’t seen him or heard from him in quite a while, so I don’t suppose I know any more about that than you do. If you want to know about how all that was going, you’d better ask his agent. She’ll be able to tell you much more than me.’
‘Ah, yes. Do you know her name?’
‘Yes, she’s Adelaide Mansfield – Miss, I believe.’
‘And her address?’
‘I’ve had no contact with her since Roy went his own way, but if she hasn’t moved or been bombed out, her office is right next to the market – in Mart Street, behind the Royal Opera House. It’s number 27, I believe.’
‘Thank you. We’ll pay her a visit.’
‘Give her my regards, if she remembers me. I hope you find out what you want to know, but to be honest, I’m not really interested any more. I’ve spent years feeling as though I had second place in Roy’s life after his work, that I was just some sort of accessory. Once I stopped travelling with him, I was just sitting here at home, the faithful wife, waiting for him to pass through occasionally. Then one day he walked out and said he wasn’t coming back. Do you know what that feels like? It felt like I was nobody and nothing, just a bit of his past that he’d left behind like an old suitcase – he might as well have killed me.’
CHAPTER FIVE
They left Radley’s widow to her thoughts and took the short walk to the neighbouring flower market, another high-roofed building where they were directed down an aisle to a stall at the far end. Here they found a woman in her thirties tending a display of cut flowers.
‘Miss Radley?’ said Jago.
‘That’s me,’ said the woman, looking up at the sound of her name. ‘Can I interest you in some flowers?’
‘I’m sorry, Miss Radley, but we’re not here to buy. We’re police officers – I’m Detective Inspector Jago, and this is Detective Constable Cradock. I’m afraid we’ve come with some bad news. It’s about your brother, Roy.’
‘Ah, I see. You’ve come to tell me he’s been killed?’
Jago was surprised by her calm response. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘we have. We’ve just been with your brother, George, and he asked us if we could tell you.’
‘Yes, that would be George – he’s not one for talking about things like death. But I’m afraid you’re too late – I already know.’
‘How’s that, if you don’t mind me asking?’
‘It’s all right, Inspector, there’s nothing for you to get suspicious about. One of my customers told me – she’s a flower seller who buys a few blooms from me every morning and sells them on the street, mostly in Drury Lane and round that way. She’s often up by the Prince Albert Theatre, and it was only by chance she wasn’t caught by that bomb. She found out Roy had been killed and came straight back to tell me.’
‘She knows that you and he are brother and sister, then?’
‘Oh, yes – it’s not a secret. I’m the youngest in the family, so most people round here know me either as George’s little sister or as Roy’s little sister.’ She hesitated. ‘And now I suppose I’m only George’s sister. This war’s a horrible thing, isn’t it – never knowing whether the next bomb’s going to miss you or kill you. I hate it.’
‘We don’t think it was the bomb that killed your brother, Miss Radley.’
‘Oh – but I assumed … I thought it must’ve been. So what happened, then?’
‘We won’t know for sure until we have the results of the post-mortem, but we’re treating it as a suspicious death.’
‘You mean someone deliberately killed him? What kind of maniac would do that?’
‘We don’t know yet, but we will. For now, though, I wonder – can you tell me a bit about your brother Roy?’
‘Yes.’ She waited, breathing deeply as if to calm herself. ‘So, what can I say? He was my brother. I suppose we were never very close – he was fifteen years older than me, so by the time I was born he was already working. It wasn’t as if we grew up together – George could tell you far more about him, I’m sure. By the time I was old enough to take any notice of what Roy was doing, he’d already started his stage act, so he was off travelling all over the country to music halls and variety theatres trying to get his face known and make a name for himself.’
‘That must’ve seemed very different to the world you lived in.’
‘Oh, yes, definitely. At first, I thought it was all a bit glamorous – show business, I mean – and I used to tell my friends my big brother was a star. But when I got older, I could see it wasn’t always a bed of roses, and when I did get to see him, he wasn’t always as happy as he used to be. He never talked about it with me, though – I suppose to him I was still just a kid, even though I’m a grown-up businesswoman.’
‘Yes, I understand you took over the flower side of the family business from your brother George.’
‘That’s right. There was a time when I thought I’d get away from London and travel the world and have adventures, but before I knew it, what I actually had was responsibilities and a business to run. So here I am still, living in Covent Garden the same as ever.’
‘That reminds me, could you give me your home address, please, in case we need to speak to you again outside business hours?’
‘Yes, of course. I live in Broad Court. You must know it if you’re a policeman – it cuts through from Bow Street to Drury Lane, right next door to the magistrates’ court.’
‘I am a policeman, but I’m not local – but I’ve probably walked past it.’
‘Well, if you need to visit me, I’m at number 23. Top floor, Flat 12 – you just have to press the buzzer by the entrance.’
‘Thank you. So, you were talking about taking over the flower business. I gather you’ve made a success of it.’
‘Oh, yes? Who told you that?’
‘Your brother.’
‘Well, he should know. Kind of him to say so, though – I don’t think I’ve done too badly. But these are very difficult times for my trade – the war’s messed everything up. It used to be pretty regular – we’d get flowers from the Isles of Scilly just after Christmas, then from the Channel Islands, then Cornwall, then Lincolnshire, and so on. We used to get tons of daffodils from Guernsey, but that’s all finished now the Germans are occupying it. We’ve got plenty of late-blooming chrysanths at the moment, but generally speaking there’s just not so many cut flowers about, and when supplies are short it’s difficult keeping prices down – but if you put your prices up too much, people aren’t so keen to buy. It leaves traders like me in a bit of a pickle, and it’s the same for the florist shops and flower sellers.’
‘Yes, and by the way, the flower seller you mentioned who was near the Prince Albert Theatre – who is she?’
‘Her name’s Sal. She knows everyone and everything round these parts, and everyone knows her. What you might call part of the furniture. She’s been a flower seller ever since I can remember – round Drury Lane mostly, and I think she used to do Piccadilly Circus.’
‘What’s her surname?’
‘I don’t know. She’s just Sal, always has been. If you ask anyone round here what her full name is, they’ll tell you it’s Sympathetic Sal.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘It’s just what people call her. If you’re in some kind of trouble, she’s always full of it – sympathy, I mean. You’ve only got to look at her to know she must’ve had a hard life – you’d think she was knocking along a bit, but I don’t reckon she’s really any older than our Roy, and he was only fifty. I suppose maybe it’s life that’s made her what she is, though, for better or for worse. I mean, bad experiences can push you one way or the other, can’t they? Make your heart softer or harder. With her I think it was softer. She was straight round here to tell me how sorry she was when she heard about poor Roy – which is more than our George did. Not that I expect to get a sympathy card from Sal – she wouldn’t have the money to buy one. But she’s like a kind of walking sympathy card – she’ll always turn up and give you her condolences, be a shoulder for you to cry on. Never misses a funeral, and always puts a little flower on the grave. I sometimes wonder whether that’s something to do with her own life too, as much as theirs.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, she’s a mystery to me, but there’s a sadness about her. I’ve heard people say she had a bad experience when she was young, and it marked her for life. I don’t know for sure, mind – it’s just what people say, and I don’t like to ask. But I think maybe when she does that, she’s not just mourning for someone else who’s died, she’s mourning for herself in some way.’
‘I see.’
