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- Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Serie: Blitz Detective
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021
'Well-written excellent historical fiction' - Historical Novels ReviewArmistice Day, 1940. The nation remembers the Great War while a new and harrowing conflict rumbles on. The Blitz Detective, John Jago, must set aside his own painful memories to investigate a suspicious death in Pimlico, south-west London. The body of a young man has been discovered in an Anderson shelter, with two white poppies in his pocket.As the investigation progresses, Jago and his assistant, DC Cradock, find themselves knee-deep in Pimlico's shady underworld and connections with Mosley's fascist party. It will take all their skills to uncover the truth behind the young man's brutal death.
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THE PIMLICO MURDER
MIKE HOLLOW
For Grace, love’s precious gift
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
He was tired – it had been a busy night – but he was doing his best to concentrate. There was still noise outside, but not as much as there had been, and it sounded as though the anti-aircraft guns had at last packed in their deafening racket. What a mug’s game that must be, he thought. Out in the cold all night, firing a gun in the dark at planes ten thousand feet up in the air and hoping to hit one. Fat chance, he reckoned, even if they did have searchlights. No wonder people talked about a shot in the dark; it must be pure luck if they actually brought one down.
Whichever way you looked at it, war was a stupid business run by stupid people, and the only solution was to make the best of it you could. For a start, that meant keeping as far away from any fighting as possible, and preferably not getting dragged into the army, the navy or the RAF in the first place. As for volunteering, well, that was a form of madness he just couldn’t understand.
He worked the screwdriver carefully, lost in his thoughts. In the distance he faintly heard a vehicle roaring past: probably some other mug on their way to do their duty. The only duty he believed in was his duty to himself, and that was self-preservation. This war wasn’t going to last for ever, and he wanted to be alive when it ended, preferably with his own nice little house to live in and plenty of cash under the mattress.
The important thing was to have a plan. He’d got one, and so far it was working. He reckoned he’d fixed things all right so he wouldn’t be called up, and if he was, he’d make damn sure he landed some job that didn’t involve going anywhere near the front, or got himself posted to somewhere cushy like Singapore – nice weather and thousands of miles away from the war. He’d had enough of being told what to do and when to do it, and he wasn’t going to settle for that. No: life was like a game. You had to play hard and take your chances when they came – and not worry too much about the rules.
The only thing he wanted to do in this war was get through it in one piece, and the key to success was simple: if you want to survive, you’ve got to be strong. That was one thing he’d learnt in the camp. Look after number one, and not just physically, but mentally too: that was another thing he’d learnt. You had to train your mind. It didn’t matter whether the whole world wrote you off as a good-for-nothing: you just need to know you’re a winner and think like a winner, even when things are really bad.
All things considered, he could see it was beginning to pay off, and it looked like his situation was about to become significantly better. The icing on the cake, he thought, and smiled to himself.
He’d been listening, of course – that’s what you were supposed to do, to be polite – but only with half an ear. He had a habit of tuning everything else out when he was concentrating, especially when he was making a plan. Sometimes it annoyed people, but that was their lookout, wasn’t it? Now, though, something changed, and the space he was in was so cramped he couldn’t ignore it. What had been just a quiet background to his thoughts turned within seconds into an angry clamour battering his ears.
What was going on? He dropped the screwdriver and spun round, only to feel a sharp pain in his left arm. His body flinched, and he stumbled back, fighting to keep his balance. There was another pain, and another. He could see the way out only feet away and fought to reach it but couldn’t. This was supposed to be a safe place, but now it felt like a trap. Survive, he thought, survive.
He felt his foot strike something and heard a crash of glass breaking as the lamp fell to the floor. Its light flickered and went out: there was nothing to see by except for the pale moonlight that seeped in through the entrance. He lurched towards it but his way was blocked. An icy panic began to grip his mind.
Somewhere in the distance he heard the mournful clang of a fire engine’s bell as his boot crunched on the broken glass. He looked up, his eyes straining to adjust to the gloom. Still struggling to understand this sudden and violent interruption to his plans, he glimpsed something flashing down towards him and felt a stab of crippling pain at the side of his head. The bell rang again, but this time he heard nothing.
CHAPTER TWO
Anniversaries didn’t figure large in Detective Inspector John Jago’s life. With no wedding anniversary to forget at his peril, no children’s arrival in the world engraved on his memory, even his own birthday more often than not marked merely by a quiet whisky at home on his own, the familiar milestones of passing time were largely absent. Only one date had a firm hold in his mental calendar: the eleventh of November, the day the Great War had ended twenty-two years ago, and that was today. Armistice Day.
Most people commemorated it by wearing a poppy, and for Jago, like millions up and down the country, it was a time to remember the dead of that war – the sons, brothers and fathers who hadn’t come home. For him, today would be a normal working day, but he knew the lost friends and comrades in arms who would be on his mind.
The weekend had brought news of Neville Chamberlain’s death, and with it the memory of that Sunday morning just over a year ago when, as prime minister, he’d declared on the wireless that the country was now at war with Germany. What Jago most clearly recalled of that broadcast was the air of fateful resignation in Chamberlain’s voice, as if he was already mourning the passing of peace, his hopes cast down by the brutal reality of the Nazi threat.
So different, Jago thought, to the jingoistic crowds that had celebrated the outbreak of war in 1914. How little conception they’d had of what the next four years would bring, and how swiftly the men who marched so bravely to the front would have their illusions and their bodies torn to shreds. Perhaps that was why similar scenes had been unthinkable in September 1939: the memory of those years was still too raw in people’s minds.
There’d been precious little good news since, he reflected, with Hitler’s conquest of the Netherlands, Belgium and Norway followed by the fall of France, and now Britain subjected to the nightly terrors of the Blitz.
As Jago drove to West Ham police station, with the sun beginning to peep above the houses behind him, he could see the evidence of the previous night’s air raid. Sunday had mercifully passed without a daylight raid, but nightfall had brought the fiercest attack for weeks. He scanned the street. A parade of small shops on the left now had a gap like a missing tooth, the space filled by a heap of rubble and splintered timbers, while on the right, three firemen were dousing the last flickers of fire in a pair of wrecked houses. It was like a lottery, he thought: a business wiped out in a moment, families losing everything overnight while their neighbours were spared. Images of shell-blasted villages he’d seen in France during the Great War stirred uneasily in his mind. There was something so grievous about the sight of a home burnt down: it wasn’t just a building destroyed, it was someone’s memories, their past.
He could see no poppy sellers. Perhaps it was too early in the day for them to be out, or perhaps worse: they were no more immune to the ravages of the Blitz than anyone else. He arrived at the station, still without a poppy. He would have to get one later.
He parked his car, and as he swung his legs out and made for the entrance he caught himself yawning. Despite yesterday being the first Sunday off he’d had in weeks and a welcome respite from the job, any chance of a decent night’s sleep had gone out of the window when the enemy planes growled overhead and unleashed their bombs onto the streets below. But at least no one had hauled him out of bed to attend to a case, and that, he supposed, was one of those small mercies you were supposed to be grateful for. Perhaps he’d be granted the small mercy of a quiet day in the office too.
This happy thought lasted until the station door closed behind him.
‘Morning, sir,’ said the sergeant on the front desk. ‘Mr Soper wants to see you immediately.’
Divisional Detective Inspector Soper was the head of all CID operations on K Division of the Metropolitan Police, and that meant he was Jago’s immediate superior. In Jago’s experience, if a summons was immediate, it usually meant the DDI had some work he wished to deposit on his shoulders. He knocked on his boss’s door, wondering in which particular way his quiet day was about to be dismantled.
‘Come in,’ said the familiar voice within.
There was something about its flat tone that made Chamberlain’s broadcast flash through Jago’s mind again. He opened the door and stepped into the office.
‘Ah, good morning, John,’ said Soper from behind his desk. ‘Sit down.’ He looked troubled.
Jago sat, as instructed.
‘Look, John, this is going to be a busy day, so I’ll get straight to the point.’
‘Sir?’
‘I’ve had a phone call this morning from Detective Superintendent Ford, that pal of yours at Scotland Yard.’
Jago had tried to explain to Soper many times that just because he’d worked for Ford during his six-month secondment to Special Branch in 1936, it didn’t mean they were ‘pals’. He sensed, however, that his boss might not take even mild correction kindly today, so kept his mouth shut as Soper pressed on.
‘The thing is, he’s not Detective Superintendent Ford any more. He’s been promoted – he’s Chief Constable Ford now. Chief Constable CID, in charge of the entire detective force in the Metropolitan Police, and that makes him my guv’nor’s guv’nor, so I don’t have any choice in the matter.’
‘In what matter, sir?’
‘The matter of why you’re sitting here now. He says he’s got a manpower crisis on his hands – as if I haven’t got one of my own. He’s got a case and no one to handle it, so he says he wants to “borrow” you. Poaching, more like, if you ask me. But whatever you call it, the fact is he’s seconding you to Scotland Yard, and there’s nothing I can do about it.’
Jago said nothing as he took this in. No wonder Soper had looked troubled: the DDI had never struck him as a man who embraced challenge warmly. Questions were already tumbling into his mind, but it would be prudent not to fire too many of them at his harassed boss at once.
‘May I ask where the case is, sir?’
‘It’s over in the West End, in the borough of Westminster. Pimlico, to be precise – on B Division. Do you know the place?’
‘Pimlico? I know it’s down past parliament where the river bends round towards Chelsea, and I know it’s by Victoria station, but that’s about it, I’m afraid.’
‘Well, you’ll be getting to know it better pretty soon.’
‘So, when’s this happening, sir?’
‘With immediate effect.’
More questions added themselves to Jago’s unspoken list. ‘And what about Detective Constable Cradock, sir? What happens to him?’
‘The chief constable said you’re to bring your sergeant with you, and I explained you’ve only got a detective constable, because your sergeant’s been recalled to the army, but he said if that’s the man you work with, bring him too.’
‘I assume Cradock doesn’t know about this yet?’
‘No. I’ve just told him to wait for you in the CID office and not go wandering off. You can explain to him on the way. Any more questions?’ His tone of voice suggested that Jago should stick to the essentials.
‘Just one, sir, if you don’t mind. What’s the case about?’
‘I don’t know – all he said was it’s a suspected murder and it’s in Pimlico, so you and Cradock are to get yourselves over there in double-quick time. I’m to phone ahead when you set off.’
‘Who do I report to?’
‘Detective Superintendent Hardacre – head of Central Branch. He’s based at the Yard, of course, but he’s going over to the local Pimlico nick at Gerald Road to brief you, so that’s where you’ll find him. Have you met the detective superintendent?’
‘No, sir, but his reputation precedes him.’
Soper’s expression suggested he wasn’t sure whether he detected a trace of irony in Jago’s response. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘a man with a considerable reputation. He likes original thinkers – I expect you’ll get on like a house on fire.’
Given what Jago had seen on his drive to the station, this wasn’t the most encouraging prediction of how his imminent meeting with the detective superintendent would go, but for the time being he’d hope for the best.
‘And,’ Soper added, ‘the chief constable said I was to tell you Mr Hardacre isn’t a man who likes to be kept waiting – so get cracking.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ he said, rising from his seat. ‘Will that be all?’
‘Yes, be on your way, and I’ll start thinking about how I can plug the gaps here.’
The last thing Jago heard as he closed the door behind him was a heavy sigh. In other circumstances, thought Jago, Soper might have taken the popular view that a change was as good as a rest. But not today.
CHAPTER THREE
Jago found Cradock in the CID office, reading a newspaper. The young constable hastily folded it shut and jumped to his feet.
‘Morning, guv’nor,’ he said.
‘Morning, Peter,’ Jago replied. ‘Been educating yourself?’
‘Of course, sir.’
‘I’m glad to see it. You’ll have to finish that later, though – we’re going out for a little excursion.’
‘Really, sir? Is that what DDI Soper told me to wait here for? Where are we going?’
‘The other side of London – Pimlico. We’re going to pay a little visit to our friends and colleagues on B Division, and we may be there for a few days.’
‘B Division? Should I go back to the section house and pack a bag then, sir?’
‘No, our orders are to go immediately to Gerald Road nick and report to Detective Superintendent Hardacre, so we’d better get our skates on. We can come back and pick up whatever we may need later. Grab your coat and hat and come with me – and don’t forget your gas mask.’
Jago hurried to the car, with Cradock struggling into his overcoat as he followed. The Riley’s engine started first time, and they headed off in the direction of central London with Jago driving as fast as his vehicle and the state of the roads after a night’s bombing allowed.
‘What’s going on in Pimlico that needs us then, sir?’ said Cradock, bracing himself while trying to get comfortable in his seat.
‘A suspected murder. That’s about all I know at the moment, but no doubt Mr Hardacre will tell us more when we get there.’
‘But why us? We’re K Division – we don’t do cases over there.’
‘I know, but it seems there’s a manpower shortage on B Division and they’ve got no one available to take it on locally, so we’ve been pulled in to help. Now, I know my way from here to Victoria but I’ll need a bit of help finding Gerald Road, so have a look in that little cubbyhole in the dashboard in front of you and fish out my A to Z map book.’
Cradock took the book out, pleased at the thought of being useful. He looked up their destination. ‘I’ve found Gerald Road, sir. It’s just a couple of streets away from Victoria Coach Station.’
‘That should be all right, then,’ Jago replied. ‘Keep the map handy, though – you can direct me if we run into any hold-ups on the way.’
‘Righto, sir.’
Cradock found the page that showed Stratford and did his best to keep up with the route Jago was taking through the East End of London.
‘So how’s Mr Soper going to manage without you, sir?’
‘I’m sure he’ll cope, Peter. Sometimes when you’ve got no choice it’s easier to cope.’
‘No choice? He’s the DDI.’
‘Yes, but this was an order, and it came from the top.’
‘The top?’
‘Yes – he told me we’ve been seconded to Scotland Yard.’
The brief silence that followed suggested that Cradock needed time to take this in.
‘Blimey, guv’nor,’ he said. ‘Who’d have thought? Scotland Yard.’ He sounded suitably awed by the last two words.
‘Don’t get too excited, Peter,’ Jago replied. ‘I doubt whether it’ll mean a pay rise.’
‘But even so, sir. Scotland Yard. Wait till I tell my mum.’ He smiled to himself: she’d feel proud of him. ‘So who’s this Detective Superintendent Hardacre we’re reporting to at Gerald Road?’
‘He’s the head of Central Branch – that’s the Yard’s own squad of detectives that get deployed wherever they’re needed. I believe that also makes him in charge of the Flying Squad.’
‘The Flying Squad? Wow – does that mean we might get one of those Railton cars? They can do a hundred miles an hour, can’t they?’
‘Ah, yes, the Railton Straight Eight – beautiful cars. Since we’re not going to be in the Flying Squad, though, I doubt very much whether Mr Hardacre will have a spare one in his back pocket for us. I shall assume we’re sticking with this faithful old Riley Lynx until and unless advised otherwise.’
‘So what’s he like, then? Do you know him?’
‘No, I’ve never met the man – I only know him by reputation.’
‘And?’
‘It’s only hearsay, so it’s not admissible as evidence, as you know. I don’t want to prejudice you, so I think I’d better leave you to form your own impression.’
Jago drove on, passing through familiar scenes of overnight destruction and of the usual morning recovery efforts in Mile End and Stepney. At Aldgate he turned down towards the Thames, skirting the north side of the Tower of London. Speeding along Tower Hill beside the moat that surrounded the fortress, he glimpsed through leafless trees on his left more evidence of the power of German bombing. What had once been the squat, round bastion at the midpoint of the outer wall was now a ruin, its shattered insides exposed as nakedly as those of the humblest working family’s dwellings in West Ham’s dockland.
There was something shocking about the sight. For Jago, the Tower was like Buckingham Palace, St Paul’s Cathedral and Tower Bridge: an indelible symbol of London. For so many centuries the capital city’s protector, now it was as vulnerable to attack as anywhere.
He drove on in silence until a blazing warehouse on a wharf near Blackfriars Bridge forced him to seek his colleague’s map-reading assistance. Cradock, anxious not to be the one to blame for any delays, managed to direct his boss on a hasty detour away from the river and back again to join the Victoria Embankment. The road ahead was clear, and Jago increased his speed. He noticed a poppy seller across the road but was loath to risk incurring the wrath of Detective Superintendent Hardacre by being late for their first meeting. His poppy would still have to wait.
They continued west along the river, neither man speaking. On the opposite side of the Thames, a jumble of barges were loading and unloading at the haphazard succession of ancient wharves and jetties that lined the south bank, while overhead the silver-grey barrage balloons rode gently at anchor against a sky of similar colour. It seemed to him there were more of them than he was used to seeing in West Ham. Perhaps that was because the width of the river made him feel he could see more of the sky, or maybe the powers that be reckoned there were more things important enough to protect from enemy aircraft in central London than on his own home turf. Not that it made much difference: as Stanley Baldwin had told the House of Commons eight years ago, if it came to war, the bomber would always get through, and now it seemed the Germans were proving him right.
The road took them under Waterloo Bridge, and as they emerged on the other side Jago couldn’t help glancing to his right to where the Savoy hotel stood. He wondered whether Dorothy was in her room, typing out some article about Britain at war, unaware that he was passing. Or perhaps she had a suite? He realised he’d never asked. He wouldn’t be surprised, though, if it turned out an American newspaper like the Boston Post thought nothing of providing such accommodation for one of its reporters. He was meant to be taking her out for a meal this evening, and he hoped today’s sudden redeployment wouldn’t prevent him keeping their appointment. If it was in his power to keep it, nothing would stop him.
For now, though, he had to try to take his mind off her.
‘Right,’ he said to Cradock, ‘I’ll stick to the Embankment now, if I can – it should give us a clear run all the way round to Westminster, give or take the odd bomb crater or traffic lights, and then it’s not far to Pimlico. I’ll need your help to get through the place, though. Do you know it?’
‘What, Pimlico, sir? I do a bit, of course, from my basic training – you know, Peel House.’
‘Ah, yes.’
‘I remember it well, sir – me and the other new recruits. We all turned up in civvies with a suitcase, and ten weeks later we came out the other end policemen, with a uniform and a warrant card.’
‘Yes – a frightening thought.’
Cradock carried on regardless. ‘They didn’t let us out much, but I did get to see a bit of the area. I remember there was a nice little shop just down the road that used to sell everything you needed. There was this lovely couple who ran it – they were very kind to me. Do you reckon I might be able to pop in while we’re there?’
‘I don’t suppose we’ll be working twenty-four hours a day, so I dare say that’ll be possible.’
‘Oh, thanks, sir – if they’re still there, of course.’
‘Of course. For a man of your advanced age it must’ve been a long time ago. When were you at Peel House?’
‘In 1932, sir – a bit after your time, I suppose. When were you there?’
‘I wasn’t. I joined just after the war, and there were so many new recruits that they couldn’t fit us all in at Peel House, so some of us ended up at a place called Eagle Hut, down at the Aldwych, where India House and Bush House are nowadays. Very different. It was some kind of club for American and Canadian servicemen in the war, and it really was just a load of wooden huts – you could see right over it to the church in the middle of the Strand, which you certainly can’t now. And facing it on the opposite side of the street was the Waldorf Hotel, just to remind us of our station in life.’
‘So what was it like back in those days, sir? The training, I mean.’
Jago smiled to himself: to a man of Cradock’s youth, the world of twenty years ago was probably not far short of the Dark Ages.
‘Oh, enough to scrape by on, I suppose. We only had eight weeks, of course, so I imagine it wasn’t as advanced as yours. We covered the basics, though – even how to fire a pistol, although I doubt there were many men of my age on the course who needed to be taught that. The thing I remember most clearly was the superintendent in charge – he told us when we started that by the end of the training if we were any good we’d be allowed on the street, but we’d still know practically nothing. Good advice, I think, looking back – but by then I suppose he’d probably seen a lot of raw young constables who knew nothing.’
He gave Cradock a knowing glance as he said this. The young constable’s face suggested he wasn’t sure whether Jago had spoken in jest, but wasn’t going to pursue the point in case he hadn’t.
Jago took pity on him and allowed himself a brief reassuring smile. ‘But you’re a detective now, aren’t you? And if nothing else, you can be thankful you don’t have to get up at half past four in the morning to polish your boots and buttons in time for parade, can’t you?’
Cradock was tempted to correct the word ‘detective’ to ‘Scotland Yard detective’ but decided to think it rather than say it.
‘Oh, yes, sir,’ he replied. ‘Definitely.’
CHAPTER FOUR
Vauxhall Bridge lay ahead of them, spanning the Thames in five shallow arches. Each of its piers was decorated with a conspicuously large statue, but Jago didn’t know who or what they were supposed to represent, and now was certainly not the time to stop and admire them. He pressed on. The classical portico of the Tate Gallery flashed by on their right, and as the road swung away from the riverside towards Vauxhall Bridge Road, Cradock checked the map again and began to direct them towards their destination, Gerald Road police station.
Jago’s initial impression of Pimlico was that it must once have been a rather genteel place, but it seemed to have fallen on hard times. He saw roads flanked by Regency terraces of narrow, stucco-fronted houses four or even five storeys high, many with columned porticos and even cast-iron railings that had somehow escaped the ravages of the government’s scrap metal salvage campaign. Grand residences of wealthy people a century ago, today they presented a scene of at best faded elegance and at worst the shabby decay of poverty. Clusters of bell pushes by front doors indicated that comfortable Victorian family homes with servants had now been carved up into flats.
The style was a far cry from what he was used to in West Ham, where homes were plain, cramped and cheaply built: here the streets looked as though they’d been designed to impress. But however superior their origins, the years had taken their toll. Many of the properties were patched and dishevelled, grimy with generations of soot from London’s chimneys, and now had fallen prey to a greater devastation. He passed a terrace that might once have been an architect’s proud achievement. Now it was fractured by a bomb-blasted gap marking a lost home, little of which remained except smashed joists and rafters, twisted metal pipes, and fragments of peeling stucco facade mingled with the nondescript London brick it had concealed for a century or more. To Jago it seemed like a desecration.
He thought of the humbler but no less cherished dwelling he’d seen burnt out on his way to work this morning. Here in Pimlico he felt a long way from home, but it was clear that West Ham wasn’t the only place to have received close attention from the Luftwaffe in recent weeks. When Cradock’s map-reading brought them to a bridge spanning the tight ranks of railway tracks squeezing into Victoria station, he could think of one reason why. This major rail terminus would be an important target for the raiders, and the fact that Pimlico, like West Ham, was on the river would no doubt offer the enemy bombers a priceless navigational aid.
‘Almost there now, sir,’ said Cradock, snapping him out of his thoughts.
The bridge brought them to Buckingham Palace Road, where Jago recognised on the opposite corner the sleek art deco lines of Victoria Coach Station.
‘Straight up there, sir,’ said Cradock, pointing across the road, ‘then it’s second on the left.’
When they arrived at Gerald Road it proved to be a sleepy residential side street that had so far been spared the random levelling of the air raids. It struck Jago as a secluded, even refined, setting for a police station, but he thought whoever built the station had made it fit in well with the smaller houses that made up the rest of the street. It looked almost homely beside them.
He parked the car and went in through the front door with Cradock. They were taken straight to a small office that Detective Superintendent Hardacre had commandeered for their meeting and where he was now waiting for them. He looked older than Jago, with thinning grey hair and the beginnings of a double chin, and was wearing a black suit that had seen better days, with a poppy in its lapel buttonhole. He was also a little shorter than Jago, who thought he must barely have met the height requirement for joining the Metropolitan Police. Perhaps it was due to many years of looking up to taller colleagues, or perhaps it was just in hope of concealing the excess flesh developing on his neck, but he stood with his chin jutting out, looking Jago up and down through round, wire-rimmed spectacles with a sceptical curl of his lip, as if inspecting a guardsman on parade.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘So you’re Jago?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And this is?’
‘Detective Constable Cradock, sir.’
‘Step outside for a minute, Constable,’ said Hardacre with a cursory glance in Cradock’s direction. ‘I want a word with your guv’nor.’
Cradock turned away, as instructed.
‘And close the door behind you,’ Hardacre added.
Cradock did so, taking up a position on the opposite side of the corridor until bidden to re-enter. He felt suddenly glum. In the car he’d been daydreaming about the exciting prospect of becoming a Scotland Yard insider, but now, within seconds of meeting the big man from the Yard for the first time, he was a deflated outsider.
Alone now with Jago, Hardacre sat down behind a desk and motioned his visitor to take the wooden chair in front of it.
‘So,’ he said, ‘you’re the new chief constable’s blue-eyed boy, eh? Well, I’ve never met you before and I don’t know anything about you, but he seems to think you’re going to be the solution to all my problems, so let’s hope he’s right. I’m a busy man, so let’s get one or two things straight before we start. The fact that you’ve got friends in high places cuts no ice with me, Detective Inspector. I judge a man by results, so you’d better get some, otherwise trust me, Mr Ford’ll be the first to know, and your new career as a Scotland Yard man will be over before you know it.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Jago replied. It already looked like the sort of conversation in which this was the only reply he’d be required to provide.
‘I don’t know what you’re used to over on K Division, but I learnt what effort and discipline are in the British Army, and I run a tight ship.’
Jago wondered briefly which branch of the army involved naval command, but knew better than to open his mouth. He’d met men before who claimed to run a tight ship, and it usually meant they were either self-important or bullies, but he gave Hardacre the benefit of the doubt and waited for him to continue.
‘I’m told you were in the army yourself, Jago,’ said Hardacre. ‘Is that right?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘A captain, I gather, with an MC to boot.’ He gave a sort of derogatory sniff.
‘Only a second lieutenant, actually, sir, and it was just a temporary commission when they were desperate for officers and promoted men like me from the ranks.’
‘You came out of it with a nice Military Cross, though, didn’t you? That can’t have done your career any harm.’
‘I don’t think I did anything that warranted an MC, sir.’
‘I dare say you didn’t. They gave those things out like sweeties to the young officers, didn’t they? See this?’ He ran his finger along a scar in front of his right ear. ‘Retreat from Mons, September 1914. I was there, with the West Kents. An Old Contemptible, that’s what I am, and proud of it. That was the Kaiser’s first big mistake, calling us a contemptible little army – a lot of men joined up because of that, and we showed him we weren’t so contemptible after all. He thought he was insulting us, but for us it was like a badge of honour. You don’t look old enough to have been there at the beginning, though. Were you?’
‘No, sir, not till it was halfway through.’
‘Conscript, or volunteer?’
‘Conscript, sir, 1916.’
‘Well, I may not’ve been an officer, but I was a volunteer – regular army, before the war. I made it to sergeant, and I don’t need to tell you it was the sergeants who ran the army in the field, nursemaiding the officers and leading the men.’
Jago would have agreed with this if asked, but Hardacre was telling, not asking.
‘I haven’t got time to nursemaid you, though, so you’d better make sure you’re on your toes and keep your nose clean. Is that understood?’
‘Yes, sir.’
A detective superintendent whose main instruction was to ‘keep his nose clean’ didn’t quite seem to match DDI Soper’s description of Hardacre as a man who liked original thinkers. Jago wondered whether Soper might have a previously unrevealed sense of intentional irony, but soon dismissed the idea. More likely it was just Soper’s way of getting Jago off on the wrong foot with his new boss.
‘Right,’ Hardacre continued. ‘If you’re working for me, you’ll need one of these.’ He reached down below the desk and produced a brown leather attaché case. ‘I’ve got nine of these in my office at the Yard, and the rule is that no officer of mine investigating a suspected murder goes out to the scene without one. So this is your little box of tricks – take it with you.’
He passed the case to Jago, who supported it carefully with both hands and set it flat on his knees.
‘It’s what we call a murder bag,’ said Hardacre.
‘I know, sir. I’ve heard of them but I’ve never had the use of one. May I take a look inside?’
‘Go ahead.’
Jago lifted the lid and scanned the contents. It was like stepping into Aladdin’s cave.
‘Those are for the use of my department because I’m required to send men out at short notice to anywhere in the country they’re needed,’ said Hardacre, ‘and given that some of those little provincial forces have got hardly any CID at all, they have to go fully equipped. You’ll find everything you need in there for the crime scene – rubber gloves, test tubes, envelopes, measuring tape, fingerprint kit, the lot. Your man’s trained, is he?’
‘Cradock, sir? Yes, he’s done the course.’
‘Good. He should enjoy playing with this too. Even got a pair of handcuffs, see?’
Jago could see them, and much more.
‘There’s thirty quid’s worth of stuff in there,’ Hardacre continued, ‘so make sure you don’t lose it.’
‘I won’t do that, sir. This is going to be very useful.’
‘Tell your constable he’ll be docked a couple of months’ pay if he does – that should keep him on his toes.’
Jago half-thought Hardacre might laugh after saying this, but he didn’t.
‘Right,’ the superintendent continued, we’ll get him back in now, and you can meet Wilks too.’
‘Wilks, sir?’ said Jago, not having heard the name before.
‘Detective Sergeant Wilks – he’ll be your point of contact here at Gerald Road. Based here, very experienced, been on the force for years, but he was over at Savile Row in September when West End Central got hit. You heard about that, I suppose?’
‘The bomb, sir? Yes, we all heard about that. It was a land mine, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes, nasty business. I suppose Goering reckons we’ve got used to those screamer bombs making that horrible noise that’s supposed to frighten us, so now someone’s had the bright idea of sticking a bomb on the end of a parachute so we can’t hear it coming. Only it’s not a bomb. Turns out it’s a blinking navy mine big enough to sink a battleship – you can imagine what that can do to a police station. Only been open since July too, that West End Central nick – one almighty bang and it’s gone. Two good detectives and a PC killed, and I don’t know how many injured.’
‘Including Wilks?’
‘He had to be dug out. No major wounds, but he’s still a bit shell-shocked. He’ll be fine, though – just needs to pull himself together.’
‘Will he be working with us, sir?’
‘Not if you can manage without him. He’s got more than enough on his plate already, so leave him alone if you can, right? It’s looting mainly, all over the West End – they’ve got four and a half thousand cases to deal with up on C Division, and they’re up to their eyes in it here on B as well.’
‘Yes, sir – we’ve had a lot on K Division too.’
‘Right, well, when you get to know me a bit better you’ll find out it’s not just murderers I don’t like – I hate thieving too, and I hate thieves. This looting’s getting out of hand, and it’s a fight we can’t be seen to be losing.’
‘Like the war itself, sir?’
‘Be serious, man. If people see looters getting away with it, they’ll all start doing it – and where’ll we be then, eh? The law says they can be shot, but there’s still too many magistrates letting them off with ten-bob fines. Sometimes I wonder what side those people are on.’
‘On the side of justice, presumably, sir.’
‘On the side of law and order, that’s what I’m talking about – it’s either that or anarchy, and if we don’t crack down on it, that’s where we’re heading. You’ve got bigger fish to fry, of course – but if you see a looter anywhere, you make sure you nick him, right?’
‘Yes, of course, sir. Is there anything else I need to know about the murder?’
‘No. The new chief constable’s decided in his wisdom to bring you in, and I’m sure that can only be because he thinks the local men can’t handle it. Whether he’s right or not is none of my business. Either way, you’re here now, so as far as I’m concerned you just need to get on with it. Understood?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Jago.
Hardacre jumped up, bustled out of the door and shouted an order in the corridor. Moments later he was back with Cradock, followed by a thin, middle-aged man in a crumpled suit who was puffing on a cigarette with what seemed to Jago to be more compulsion than pleasure.
Hardacre motioned for the two men to pull up a chair each and resumed his position behind the desk. The thin man took the cigarette from his mouth as he sat down, a tremble in his hand causing a quarter-inch of ash to fall onto his trouser leg.
‘Sorry, sir,’ he said, brushing it off. ‘All right if I smoke, sir?’
‘Yes, yes, carry on,’ said Hardacre, pushing an ashtray across the desk towards him. ‘Right,’ he continued, now directing his comments to Jago, ‘this is Detective Sergeant Wilks. As I said, he’ll help you if he can, but—’ His eyes switched to Cradock. ‘The only reason you’re here is because he’s too busy, so don’t go wasting his time.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Cradock mumbled.
‘What’s that?’
‘I said “Yes, sir”, sir,’ Cradock replied, feeling as disconcerted as he sounded.
‘What’s your name again?’
‘Cradock, sir.’
‘Right, Cradock, I’ve just entrusted one of our murder bags to your guv’nor.’ He jerked a finger in Jago’s direction. ‘Take it off him, lad.’
Cradock’s eyes widened slightly at the mention of a murder bag, and he picked it up with what seemed like something approaching reverence.
‘Now then, Cradock, it’s your job to carry that, not his, and you make sure you look after it. Got it?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good. Now then, Detective Sergeant Wilks will take you two gentlemen over to Tachbrook Street. Some woman found a body in an Anderson shelter there this morning – it’s over on the far side of Pimlico, and not quite as salubrious as here. Built over a sewer, I believe – is that right, Wilks?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Pimlico’s the poor end of Westminster, you see – not like Gerald Road. People who live round here prefer to think they’re in Belgravia, much fancier – all very spick and span. None of your hoi polloi round these parts. Here, Wilks, tell them about your famous neighbour.’
‘Yes, sir. I, er, I think what the superintendent’s referring to is Mr Coward – Noel Coward, that is. He lives just a few doors down the street from here – number 17.’
‘Quite a swanky place, from what I’ve heard on the grapevine,’ said Hardacre. ‘Three places knocked into one, apparently, that he’s had tarted up for parties or whatever with his theatrical pals. Lord knows what goes on at those little capers – not circles I move in, that’s for sure. You neither, I should think, Wilks.’
‘Er, no, sir.’
‘Good job too, on police wages, eh?’ Hardacre turned to Jago. ‘And speaking of the high and mighty, that reminds me – our new chief constable wants to see you in his office at the Yard tomorrow morning. That’s just you, not your man.’
‘Very good, sir. What time?’
‘Eight o’clock, sharp.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Right. Now, any questions before you go?’
‘Just one small thing, sir,’ said Jago. ‘Will we be billeted somewhere nearby?’
‘What, you’re thinking maybe Mr Coward’ll put you up in a spare bedroom? I don’t think so. We’ve got something much more homely organised for you. You can’t stay here – it’s too small to take guests in, unless you fancy sharing a cell – so it’ll be Rochester Row nick for you, for the time being. I know it’s on A Division, but it’s closer to Scotland Yard than this place, and closer to where the body was found, for that matter. We’ve got a little married-quarters flat above the stables there that’s empty, so you can have that. A bit pokey, but more than enough room for one.’
Cradock looked as though he was about to say something, but Hardacre continued, ‘And we’re putting your constable in the section house at Ambrosden Avenue, just up the road from there.’
Jago could see the hint of disappointment in Cradock’s face – hearing the word ‘flat’ must have raised his hopes of being spared yet another tiny cubicle in a police section house – but Hardacre seemed not to have noticed.
‘So that’s all sorted,’ he continued. ‘Now, Sergeant Wilks here will go with you over to Tachbrook Street to where the body was found, and then he can make his own way back. We’ve got a man guarding the scene until you get there. Not a proper PC – we’re too short to spare one for that – just one of those War Reserve men. As far as I’m concerned they’re a bunch of untrained amateurs, but they’re all right for standing about stopping anyone getting into a house, so I suppose we should be grateful.’
‘And a pathologist, sir?’
‘Yes, yes, don’t worry, I’ve got one standing by. He’s called Dr Gibson, and he’s at St George’s Hospital, just up the road at Hyde Park Corner. Knows his onions and does a lot of work for the Yard. I’ll give him a call and tell him you’re on your way over – he’ll join you at the scene. I’ve got a photographer on his way down from the Yard too.’
His instructions seemingly completed, Hardacre stopped and looked Jago and Cradock over again with a questioning air.
‘One last thing before you go, you two,’ he said. ‘It may’ve escaped your attention, but the regulations changed last year – police officers in uniform are allowed to wear a poppy for Armistice Day now.’
‘Yes, sir, I know,’ said Jago.
‘Well, if uniform can wear it, I see no excuse for a plain-clothes man like yourself not to. I believe in respect for the fallen, Detective Inspector – and I expect men under my command to show it, so don’t let me see you or your constable again without one. Understood?’
‘Understood, sir.’
‘Off you go then – get cracking.’
‘Yes, sir.’
They left the office, with Wilks in tow, and returned to where the car was parked. On the way, Jago reflected silently on the meeting he’d just had. How his relationship with Hardacre would develop remained to be seen, but he’d already formed the conclusion that if it came to conflict, explanation might not be a reliable form of defence.
CHAPTER FIVE
They set off in the Riley with Wilks installed in the front seat as navigator and Cradock relegated to the back, examining the contents of the attaché case.
‘Superintendent Hardacre was right, guv’nor,’ he said. ‘They’ve got everything in here. Even some little tweezers for picking things up, and a rubber blower for blowing the fingerprint powder off.’
‘Good,’ said Jago. ‘You can get to work with it as soon as we arrive, then – we don’t want to keep the pathologist waiting.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Cradock pictured himself strolling onto the scene, murder bag in hand, asking bystanders to stand back while he started the vital work of dusting for fingerprints. ‘They know how to do things properly at Scotland Yard, don’t they, sir?’ he said.
‘I hope you’re not suggesting we don’t, Peter,’ Jago replied. ‘Scotland Yard has probably got more money to spend than we do, but I’d like to think we manage very well in West Ham CID under wartime constraints and with very limited resources.’
‘Of course, sir, yes. I’ll, er, continue familiarising myself with this stuff.’
Within a few minutes they were in Tachbrook Street, where Wilks directed them to pull up outside a tired-looking house of the age and style that now seemed to Jago typical of the area. It was narrow, three storeys high with a basement, and wedged into a long, curving terrace – perhaps, he thought, reflecting the course of the sewer that Hardacre had said it was built on. The locals might prefer to keep that unsavoury part of the street’s history to themselves, but now, unbeknown to most of them, one house in this bland row held another unsavoury secret: a dead body.
They got out of the car, and Jago was about to go and knock on the door but noticed Wilks was hanging back, lighting a cigarette. His hand was trembling as before, causing the match to flicker.
‘Are you all right, Sergeant?’ he said.
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ Wilks replied. ‘It’s just – well, the detective superintendent said the body’s in an Anderson shelter, and I’m not too good at confined spaces at the moment, especially underground. I know it sounds silly, but I had a spot of trouble a few weeks back. I thought I’d be OK, but now we’re here, I don’t think …’ He stopped mid-sentence and drew deeply on his cigarette.
‘Was that the West End Central business?’ Jago asked. ‘Superintendent Hardacre mentioned you’d been there.’
‘That’s right, sir, so if you don’t mind … would it be all right if I got back to Gerald Road? Only I’ve quite a lot to do.’
‘Of course, don’t worry – you get along there as soon as you like. I’ll let you know if we need you.’
‘Thank you, sir. Much obliged.’
It seemed to Jago there was a note of genuine gratitude in the detective sergeant’s voice, not to mention relief, as he trod out the butt of his cigarette under his foot and set off slowly back down the street.
‘Poor fellow,’ said Jago to himself.
Cradock came to his side. ‘Bit twitchy, isn’t he, guv’nor?’ he said.
‘Twitchy? You’d be twitchy if you’d been blown up by a land mine and had to be dug out. You should be thankful you’re not, Peter.’
‘Ah, yes, sir,’ said Cradock meekly. ‘And I am thankful, sir.’
Jago knocked on the front door. It was opened by a young War Reserve constable who identified himself as Bennett.
‘Good morning, sir,’ he said, admitting them to the house. ‘The body’s out the back, sir, in the Anderson shelter, and the photographer’s already taking his pictures.’
‘Thank you, Constable.’
Bennett pointed to a door at the side of the hallway. ‘The landlady’s in there, sir,’ he added in a hushed, reverential tone, which Jago guessed was more out of respect for her than for him. ‘She’s Mrs Baker, sir, Mrs Nancy Baker. She’s quite upset, but I’ve made her a cup of tea and told her to have a sit down until you’re ready to talk to her. She’s the one who found the body – she says it’s her lodger.’
‘And the lodger’s name?’
‘She says he’s called Terry Watson.’
‘Right, let’s just say hello to her, then we’ll take a look at him.’
Bennett knocked on the door and opened it. ‘Excuse me, Mrs Baker,’ he said, ‘only I’ve got the detective inspector here now, and he’s going to have a look round out in the back yard.’
Over Bennett’s shoulder Jago saw a modestly furnished living room and a woman sitting in an armchair, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief.
‘That’s all right, Constable,’ she said in a weak voice. ‘Do you need me?’
‘Sir?’ said Bennett, turning round to Jago for the answer.
‘No, we’ll be OK, Mrs Baker,’ said Jago. ‘We’ll just go and have a look at the Anderson shelter and then we’ll come back and have a word with you, if that’s all right.’
‘Help yourselves,’ she replied. ‘I don’t think I want to see all that again.’
Jago and Cradock went to the back of the house and out into a narrow strip of garden. A path made from old bricks led down towards the corrugated-iron Anderson shelter sunk into the earth at the far end, and the rest of the meagre space was given over to a vegetable patch. The photographer was setting up his camera on a tripod near the shelter. He stopped when he saw them approaching and introduced himself as Nisbet.
‘I’ve done my photos of the body and the inside of the shelter,’ he said, ‘so I’ll keep out of your way until you want me to do pictures of fingerprints or anything else.’
Jago thanked him and peered down into the shelter through the rectangular hole in the front wall that formed its entrance. He saw the body of a fair-haired young man sprawled face up on the concrete floor. So this was where Mr Terry Watson had ended his days. He felt an involuntary shiver in his back and shoulders: it was a cold and ugly place to die. He became conscious of the chill penetrating his overcoat, and a memory flashed into his mind – a dugout in France in 1917, its occupants slain by a pitiless shell burst in the trench. But that was on the battlefield. Here in south-west London, amidst the domestic ordinariness of a Pimlico street, there was something offensively inappropriate about the sight of a man slaughtered in his place of refuge, lying dead in what was supposed to be a safe haven.
He climbed down into the shelter, followed by Cradock.
It was the standard Anderson shelter that had become a familiar feature in back gardens across London, albeit with one slight variation from the norm. If it had been fitted out according to the official instructions, with bunks for four adults and two children, there would barely have been room for the body, but this one was different: it had bunks on only one side. On the other side was a maroon-coloured sports bicycle, upside down on its saddle and handlebars.
‘Mending it, do you think, sir?’ said Cradock, squeezing in beside Jago.
‘Possibly,’ Jago replied. ‘Watch where you put your feet, now, Peter. And first things first – get your rubber gloves on, and give me some too.’
Cradock produced two pairs of gloves from the case and gave one pair to Jago, feeling like a magician’s assistant.
Jago crouched down beside the body. The dead man was dressed in a worn-looking blue plaid overcoat, a brown scarf and gloves, black boots and grey flannels with an oil stain near the turn-up on the right leg. A cap lay on the floor behind him. Everything about the man looked ordinary, with one exception – there was no missing the ugly wound on the left side of his head. The hair around it was matted with blood, and more blood had seeped down onto his collar and soaked his shirt. There was no other obvious sign of injury, but to Jago’s eye that one wound looked enough to have snuffed out a young man’s life. He would wait to hear what the pathologist had to say.
He stood up and glanced at the bunks to his right. A threadbare blanket hung down from the upper one, and another lay in an untidy heap on top of it. At the end of the lower bunk stood a half-empty bottle of whisky with its cork in and two tin mugs. Close to the man’s feet lay an upturned Tilley lamp, its glass globe smashed, and on the floor by the bicycle’s handlebars were an oily rag and a screwdriver.
‘Adjusting his gears, perhaps?’ said Jago, shifting to one side so that Cradock could see the screwdriver. ‘The bike’s got derailleur ones.’
‘Yes,’ said Cradock, ‘and they’re not cheap, are they? Drop handlebars too – serious cycling.’
‘It’s been a long time since I did any cycling,’ said Jago, ‘and I’ve certainly never had derailleur gears. Have a look under that bunk and see if you can find anything – your knees are younger than mine.’
Cradock craned his neck under the lower bunk. ‘Aha,’ he said, ‘this might be what we’re looking for.’ He knelt down on the floor and reached a hand under the bunk. ‘Here we are, guv’nor,’ he said, getting back to his feet. ‘What do you make of that? Murder weapon, perhaps?’
He held out his hand for Jago to inspect his finding. It was a rat-tailed spanner, about nine inches long, its open end bearing traces of what looked like blood.
‘Perhaps,’ said Jago. ‘We’ll see what the pathologist says when he’s had a look at it. In the meantime, you get started on checking for prints, starting with that spanner. And don’t forget that whisky bottle and those mugs – it looks as though this fellow might’ve had a drinking companion. I’m not sure we’re going to fit that photographer in here with us, so I’ll send him in and he can take pictures of any prints you find as you go along. I’ll stay outside – shout if you need me.’
‘Will do, sir.’
Jago left the shelter as Cradock began dusting the spanner with fingerprint powder. He remained just outside the shelter’s entrance, however, keeping a close eye on Cradock’s fingerprint work until he had finished. The photographer came out of the shelter first.
