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- Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Serie: Blitz Detective
- Sprache: Englisch
December, 1940. The area around St Paul's Cathedral suffers a devastating air raid and the heart of British book publishing burns to the ground. Detective Inspector John Jago must break bad news to a woman sitting in the ruins of her business: her husband has been found murdered at their home in Soho. An antiquarian bookseller, he had just acquired a mysterious, and now missing, volume. Did someone covet it enough to kill for it? Unscrupulous dealers haunt Jago's descent into Soho's underworld, where criminals are branching out in the shadows of the blackout.
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Seitenzahl: 474
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024
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THE SOHO MURDER
MIKE HOLLOW
4
For Neil,
a straight bat, honest and true
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
Eric Thompson trudged along Romilly Street with his hands in his pockets and fury in his heart. In the distance, at the junction with Dean Street, he could see the ravaged remains of the parish church of St Anne, a Soho landmark for more than two hundred and fifty years but now reduced to an ugly shell by Hitler’s bombs. The eastern façade was still standing, as was the tower beyond it, but the roof was burnt out and most of the side walls had been reduced to rubble. The magnificent stained-glass window that had once graced the church at its eastern end was now no more than a gaping hole through which the charred remains of the roof timbers were silhouetted against the December sky. If the mad Nazi tyrant had stepped out of the newsagent’s with the Daily Mirror tucked under his arm at that very moment, Thompson would gladly have shot him on the spot. 8
If pressed, he would have to admit that the number of times he’d been inside the church could be counted on the fingers of one hand, but that didn’t alter the fact that he appreciated beauty, and he remembered that window as a great work of art as well as craft. Its destruction was of course an assault on religion, but more than that, it was a desecration of what sane people regarded as civilisation. It had been beautiful, and now it was lost for ever.
He turned right into Dean Street and continued across Old Compton Street, where the bitter east wind gouged his face like broken glass. Not for the first time, he resented the course his life had taken. Trying to build a property empire, however modest, in the two decades of economic crisis, political instability and depression that followed the Great War had been an uphill struggle at the best of times, but the outbreak of war all over again in 1939 had put the curse of death on it. Since the beginning of the Blitz nearly four months ago, he’d lost two shops and the flats above them, and a third property had been severely damaged. Hitler had a lot to answer for. In the absence of the hated dictator, however, Thompson’s rage of frustration turned instead onto Samuel Bellamy, the tenant from hell.
What irritated him most about Bellamy was his constant quibbling about the rent, and his uncanny talent for breaking fittings in the flat and damaging its fabric – always, he claimed, by accident. Yesterday he’d rung to complain that his toilet wouldn’t flush and had threatened to withhold his rent until it was fixed. 9Thompson’s regular plumber was generally unavailable these days. There was so much demand for his services across the area that he could afford to pick and choose, and if he should deign to honour you with his presence even his oldest customers would find his rates grossly inflated. Rental incomes for property owners, of course, were not.
Thompson was adamant that he wasn’t going to fork out good money for what was probably just a faulty ballcock – or more likely one that Bellamy had somehow managed to wreck – and that was why he had in his bag a small collection of tools with which he would do the job himself. His day of rest would go out the window, but he’d stop Bellamy’s whining and make sure he collected the rent at the same time.
He checked his watch as he approached Bellamy’s home in Peter Street. It was just coming up to eleven o’clock. With a bit of luck he’d get the ballcock straightened, extract the rent from Bellamy’s wallet, and be in time for a pint and sandwich at The Intrepid Fox on the corner of Wardour Street. He’d rung Bellamy to say he was coming but told him he’d arrive at twelve. He knew Bellamy’s tricks: at midday he’d be unexpectedly out, called away on some unspecified but urgent business to escape Thompson’s wrath. But by arriving at eleven Thompson stood a chance of catching him at home and getting what was due to him. And if for any reason Bellamy proved to be out when he arrived, he’d brought along his own key to the property, so he’d fix the ballcock and then wait for Bellamy to return. At 10least there’d be something to read while he waited: with the number of books the man had crammed into that flat, it was a wonder the whole place hadn’t collapsed under the weight of them years ago.
He arrived at number 37 and pressed the bell button beside the street door. To his left, the boarded-up door and windows of the small travel bureau that used to occupy the ground floor silently goaded him with another reminder of lost rental income. Four months ago the couple who ran it had decided to decamp to Oxford to avoid the bombing, and since then he’d had no takers for the lease. To his right were some vacant premises and then a gramophone record shop, from which came the sound of raucous jazz music. There was no response to the bell, so he banged loudly on the door knocker and waited, resenting the chill seeping through his overcoat. Still no answer. So, Bellamy had contrived to be out after all: it was typical of the man.
Thompson pulled the key from his pocket and let himself in. He climbed the narrow staircase up to the flat and shouted a perfunctory ‘Hello’ in case his tenant was unavoidably detained and unable to get to the door, but there was no answer. He put his bag of tools down at the top of the stairs and went into the room that Bellamy called his office: it smelt musty, as usual, and to Thompson’s eye it looked like nothing more than a dumping ground for dust-laden old books. The only sign of occupation was the coal fire burning low in the grate behind the mesh of a smoke-blackened brass fire guard. But of Bellamy there was nothing to be seen. 11
He moved towards the fireplace to warm his hands by the glowing embers, wondering idly where Bellamy might have gone, but as he rounded the large desk that stood in the middle of the room he stopped in his tracks. On the threadbare square of carpet surrounding it lay the body of a thin, middle-aged man with untidy dark hair. He was sprawled on his back, arms and legs akimbo, and his unbuttoned jacket had fallen open. The white shirt that it revealed might well have been clean when he put it on that morning, but now it was disfigured for ever by the spread of a grimly glistening red stain, at the centre of which was a small hole. A single glance was all Thompson needed to recognise the face. It was Samuel Bellamy, and he wasn’t going anywhere.
CHAPTER TWO
The chilly draughts that blew into the Riley Lynx on all sides reminded Detective Inspector John Jago that winter was not his favourite season. He’d always wondered what it might be like to live in a warmer climate than London could offer, but his time in France in the army during the Great War had all been spent in the north, where it wasn’t much different to home. The only other time in his life that he’d travelled outside Britain was in 1936, when he’d been seconded to Special Branch for six months. Civil war had broken out in Spain, and the Branch had sent him to liaise with the French police over cross-border arms smuggling, using the language he’d learnt from his French mother. That had taken him to the South of France, but he’d been disappointed to find that even down near the Spanish border at this time of year temperatures could drop to freezing point and 13below. Now, people here in London were saying that the current winter was the coldest in sixty years.
He and Detective Constable Peter Cradock were driving up Charing Cross Road towards Soho. The London Metropolitan Police was responsible for some seven hundred square miles of the capital city and its surrounds, so Jago made no claim to familiarity with every inch of it. There were parts he knew like the back of his hand, but Soho wasn’t one of them. He’d spent time there, however, in the line of duty: long enough to reckon he could find his way about it reasonably well, and long enough to know it was the kind of place where even the most experienced police officer had to be wary.
The uniformed constable standing outside the front door of 37 Peter Street looked as though he too was feeling the cold. He was stamping his feet when the two detectives pulled up and got out of the car, but when Jago gave his name, he drew himself up to attention.
‘Morning, sir,’ he said.
‘Good morning to you,’ Jago replied. ‘And you are …?’
‘Purdew, sir. From West End Central – they got the call about the body and told me to come straight over and make sure nobody interfered with the scene of crime.’
‘And has anyone?’
‘Not since I got here, no, sir. The photographer from Scotland Yard’s taking photos of the body, and I’ve got the man who found it waiting for you in the living room. He’s the landlord, apparently, and he says it’s Mr Samuel Bellamy, a bookseller, and this is where he lives.’ 14
‘Very good. What’s this landlord’s name?’
‘Thompson, sir – Eric Thompson.’
‘And what time did he find the body?’
‘He said he found it at about eleven – he called 999 at five past. Oh, and by the way, sir, I took the liberty of calling the exchange, and they confirmed that they’d received a 999 call from this number at five past eleven.’
‘Thank you – well done. Right, you stay here now, and we’ll take a look around. Tell the landlord we want to speak to him, and we’ll be with him as soon as possible.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Has Dr Gibson arrived yet – the pathologist?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Well, send him up as soon as he does. What floor’s the body on?’
‘First floor, sir. Up the stairs and turn left at the top – there’s a door there to Mr Bellamy’s office, and that’s where he is.’
‘Thank you.’
Jago and Cradock followed his directions, found the door in question and went in. As they stepped into the office, Cradock’s eyes widened. ‘Blimey,’ he said. ‘He was a bit of a reader, then.’
Jago took in the scene without comment. All four walls of the room were packed from floor to ceiling with shelves – not the elegant fitted type one might expect to find in a rich man’s study, but a hotch-potch of bookcases of various hues and sizes cobbled together unevenly to fill the maximum possible space. Every shelf was stuffed with books, most of them old-looking and leather-bound, 15but some with a more modern appearance. A dark wooden spiral step ladder with the air of a library relic salvaged from a junk shop offered the only visible means of reaching those on the higher shelves, and there were smaller stacks of books dotted around the floor. His nostrils caught a smell of pipe tobacco and old leather in the stale air.
The room was about ten feet by fifteen, and in keeping with the chaotic shelving was furnished in a variety of styles. A voluminous upholstered armchair of a contemporary style filled one corner, attended by a couple of Victorian caned chairs and a nondescript occasional table with ring stains on its once-polished surface, and in the centre of the room stood a cluttered and battered mahogany desk that looked as though it belonged in a much larger space. A couple of feet away, pushed back and turned to one side as if its occupant had just left the desk, was an old-fashioned captain’s swivel chair with splits in its worn leather seat. Jago wondered idly whether its owner had been a seafarer, or perhaps had just fancied himself as the captain of this room. Whatever he’d been or done, he was now lying dead on the floor.
Nisbet, the photographer, was at work on the far side of the desk. He paused to greet them. ‘Morning – I’m nearly done. Just got a few close-ups to do.’ He adjusted his camera on its tripod so that it was pointing downwards and completed his work. ‘There,’ he said, ‘all done. He’s all yours now. Looks like he’s been shot in the chest.’
Jago knelt down beside the body. ‘Indeed it does,’ he said, noting, but not touching, the small hole an inch or 16so to the left of the buttons on his shirt which appeared to mark the site of the entry wound. ‘And no sign of a gun, as far as I can see.’
‘So not suicide, then?’ said Cradock.
‘That depends – someone else could’ve removed the weapon, couldn’t they?’
‘Oh, yes – of course.’
‘We’ll see what the doctor has to say when he gets here. In the meantime, see what you can come up with in terms of prints.’
‘Righto, guv’nor.’ Cradock got the fingerprinting equipment out of its bag and began to explore the room, dusting for fingerprints with Nisbet accompanying him to photograph them.
Jago stayed with the body. He slipped his hand into the dead man’s inside jacket pocket and brought out a leather wallet that contained an identity card and a couple of pound notes. ‘Here we are, Peter,’ he said, showing the card to Cradock. ‘He had one of those new green ones, with a photo.’
Cradock looked up from his fingerprinting to examine it. ‘They’re the ones people have to get if they want to travel into protected areas, aren’t they? Could that be significant?’
‘Possibly – we’ll need to check that. But in the meantime, it’s in his name, Samuel Bellamy, see, and the address is 37 Peter Street, so that tallies with what the landlord says. The photo’s him too, so I think we can safely say we’ve identified him. And here – date of birth. Eighteenth of June, 1897, so that makes him forty-three.’ 17
Jago checked the dead man’s other pockets: they yielded a handkerchief, a comb, a pair of Yale keys and a few shillings’ worth of coins. Jago put all these personal items into a buff envelope, and his attention shifted to a scattering of leather-bound books that lay open on the floor as if they had fallen. ‘What do you make of that, Peter?’ he said, pointing to them. ‘Signs of a struggle, perhaps?’
‘Could be, yes,’ Cradock replied after a quick glance. ‘I don’t suppose a bookseller would go chucking books around for no reason. Maybe he got into a fight and someone shot him. They have gangsters in Soho, don’t they?’
‘So I believe, yes, but we’ll need to check whether Mr Bellamy had a gun himself.’
‘For protection, you mean?’
‘For any reason.’
The sound of a door banging came from the floor below, followed by that of footsteps bounding up the staircase. The door opened, and in came Gibson, the pathologist.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ he said, getting his breath back. ‘We had a busy night at St George’s – the hospital was taking in casualties from that terrible fire in the City. It was a case of all hands to the pump, and even I was called in to help out. I expect you heard about it.’
‘The big air raid? Yes, I heard a bit about it this morning – it sounded dreadful.’
‘It was – but now I’d better get started on this poor fellow, if that’s all right.’ 18
‘Yes, please – it looks as though he was shot.’
Dr Gibson examined the wound on Bellamy’s chest. ‘Yes, I think you’re right. Let’s just see if there’s an exit wound.’ He rolled the body carefully onto its side. ‘Well, there’s no obvious sign of one, but I’ll examine him more thoroughly when I get him back to the hospital. I’ve got a vehicle on its way to pick him up.’
‘Is there any chance it was suicide? We haven’t found the weapon here, but it’s possible someone could’ve found him dead and removed it.’
‘I think suicide’s unlikely. People doing that usually shoot themselves in the right temple – or the left temple if they’re left-handed. It’s much less common to find the entrance wound in the chest like this.’
‘I see – in that case I think we’re looking at a suspected murder. Could you give me an estimated time of death?’
‘Yes – just let me get my thermometer.’
He reached for his bag. This was not a procedure that Jago enjoyed watching, so he made himself busy examining the papers on the desk until the doctor had finished.
‘Right,’ said Gibson. ‘On the basis of his body temperature, I’d say this man’s not been dead for much more than an hour.’ He checked his watch. ‘It’s half past twelve now, so I’d say his estimated time of death was between ten-thirty and eleven-thirty. If the post-mortem suggests anything different, I’ll let you know. Now, I propose to get him back to the hospital as soon as possible so I can take a proper look at him – and if that bullet’s still inside him, I’ll find it for you.’ 19
‘Thank you,’ said Jago, inwardly bemused by the cheerful manner in which Gibson approached his gruesome tasks. ‘And when will you be able to let us know your findings?’
‘Let me see,’ the pathologist replied. ‘Why don’t you come over to St George’s at about four o’clock this afternoon, and we can discuss my findings over a nice cup of tea. Would that suit you?’
‘Yes, certainly. We’ll see you then.’
Jago saw Gibson off the premises and returned to Cradock. ‘Are you finished now?’ he asked.
‘Yes, sir, all done – I don’t think I’ve found anything that’s going to help us, though. Pity there’s no cups and saucers or glasses on the desk – if he’d had a cup of tea with whoever killed him we might’ve got something useful. But it’s just books everywhere. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many books in one little room like this.’
‘Right, then – we need to talk to that landlord now, so let’s go and find him.’
Thompson was waiting for them in the living room and got to his feet when they came in. ‘You’re the police, I suppose, are you?’ he said.
‘Yes, Mr Thompson – I’m Detective Inspector Jago and this is Detective Constable Cradock.’
‘About blinking time, too. Do you think I’ve got all day to sit around waiting for you? I’ve got a business to run and rents to collect – my tenants don’t come knocking at my door begging me to let them pay me, you know.’
‘I’m sorry – we won’t keep you for long. Please sit down.’ 20
‘All right,’ said Thompson grudgingly as he resumed his seat. ‘So what do you want from me?’
‘I’d like to know what time you found the body.’
‘That was eleven o’clock this morning. I could see straight away he was dead, so I picked up his phone and dialled 999. That would’ve been about five past eleven.’
‘Did you see anyone leaving the building as you were arriving?’
‘No – there wasn’t a soul on the street. Must be the cold weather.’
‘And I understand you’re the landlord of this property.’
‘That’s right.’
‘So you knew Mr Bellamy well?’
‘I wouldn’t say well – I’d say just reasonably well.’
‘I understand you said he’s a bookseller – is that correct?’
‘That’s right, yes – he’s got a little bookshop called Bellamy’s Books, over in Old Compton Street. It’s just by the junction with Charing Cross Road.’
‘What else can you tell me about him?’
‘Not much – but I can tell you he was a landlord’s nightmare. Always late with his rent, complaining about everything, untidy, careless with my property – you name it. All the things guaranteed to drive a landlord crazy. But don’t get me wrong – that doesn’t mean I’d kill him. You don’t think I did, do you?’
‘I’m not suggesting that, Mr Thompson. Why were you here this morning?’
‘I came to collect the rent – and to mend the toilet. He said it wasn’t working properly. When I got here no one 21answered the door, so I let myself in – and when I came upstairs I found him lying there, dead. It’s as simple as that.’
‘And where were you in the hour before you got here?’
‘I was visiting another one of my tenants – up the other end of Denmark Street. I got there about ten o’clock and left about ten to eleven to come here.’
‘Could you give me his name and address, please?’
‘Yes – his name’s Harold Jenkins and he lives at 32 Denmark Street. And just so you know, I was having a row with him.’
‘About what?’
‘His rent – he’s another one who doesn’t seem to understand what that word means. So if you go checking up on me, I expect he’ll remember my visit. Anything else?’
‘Yes. Do you happen to know who Mr Bellamy’s next of kin is?’
‘Yes, that’d be his wife – Marjorie Bellamy. She lives here with him, but she’s in the book business too – got a little shop or office or something over near St Paul’s. I suppose you’ll be wanting to break the news to her.’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘Sooner you than me, mate. I can give you the address if you like.’
‘That would be helpful.’
Thompson took a pocket diary out and thumbed through it. ‘Here we are – the business is called Hayle and Sons and it’s in Paternoster Row. I’ll write it down for you.’ 22
‘Thank you. And could you jot down your own address for me too?’
‘By all means,’ said Thompson. He scribbled on a page of his diary and tore it out. ‘There you are,’ he said, handing it to Jago. ‘I’ve written her phone number down for you as well. Whether she’ll be there or not’s another matter – I heard they caught it pretty bad over that way last night.’
‘Yes, I believe they did. That’s all we need for the time being, Mr Thompson, so you can go now. And thank you – you’ve been most helpful.’
Thompson picked up his bag of tools and left. As soon as he’d gone, Jago moved back to the office and picked up the phone on Bellamy’s desk. ‘I’m going to try and get hold of Mrs Bellamy,’ he said.
He dialled the number Thompson had given him and heard the familiar clicking in his ear as the dial slowly rotated back to its rest position, but there was no ringing tone, only the continuous high-pitched buzz that meant ‘number unobtainable’. He put the phone down.
‘No one there, guv’nor?’ said Cradock.
‘I don’t know, Peter. It sounds as though it’s not ringing at the other end. It may just be broken, but I think we’d better get over to Paternoster Row – after that air raid last night it’s just as likely to mean a bomb’s got it.’
CHAPTER THREE
Jago drove eastwards, in the direction of St Paul’s Cathedral, with Cradock beside him in the car. From the little he’d heard that morning about the previous night’s big air raid on the City, he’d assumed there’d be extensive damage, but the scene that met them defied his imagination. It was as though overnight the clock had been wound back three centuries to the Great Fire of London, and everything he remembered from before the war had gone. The rabbit warren of narrow streets on the north side of the cathedral had been known for generations as the heart of the nation’s book trade. Now all that remained was a jumble of ghost-like ruins. Walls here and there still towered two or three storeys high over the streets, but behind them was nothing but disorderly heaps of broken yellow bricks and charred timbers that spilt out in a deluge onto the roads. 24
They left the car when they could drive it no farther and continued on foot. The first thing that struck Jago was the silence that hung over the area; the second was the air he breathed, still warm from the fires and laced with acrid smoke. There was a strange stillness about the place: it was the stillness of death. He stumbled on the rubble, and as he steadied his feet and gazed at the desolation around him a sudden flash of memory seared his mind like a tormenting wound. He knew what would follow, and it did. Somewhere deep within him a pain and a grief that he’d never tamed began to well up, and he turned away lest Cradock should see his face. He pressed on and fought back in the only way he could: pushing it back down, as all his adult years had taught him, back down to where it could not break the surface and overwhelm him. His tactic worked: it was like screwing down an armoured plate over his raging emotions. He’d won the skirmish again, but he knew it was never the end of the battle.
Jago composed himself and forced his mind back to the job in hand. He could see firemen in the distance fighting a fierce blaze, while others nearby were spraying water onto smouldering debris. He approached one of them, a man who looked exhausted, his face black with soot and his uniform soaking wet. ‘Excuse me,’ said Jago, his voice calm and professional. ‘We’re police officers, and we’re trying to find a place called Hayle and Sons, in Paternoster Row. Can you point us in the right direction?’
‘I can tell you where Paternoster Row is,’ the fireman 25replied. ‘You’re standing on it – or what’s left of it. I don’t know where that particular business is, but I suggest you look down that way.’ He gestured with his head to their right. ‘There’s some bits and pieces still standing and a few people poking around in the remains, so you might be lucky. But you can see for yourself there’s not much left of anything round here. We’ve been here since nine o’clock last night, and it was all well ablaze by then – it was a windy night, and the flames were going wild. There was so much of it, we’ve had to pump water all the way up here from the Thames. I reckon we’ve got the worst of it under control now, though – I just hope we can get home soon, if we’ve still got homes to go to.’
The fireman shifted his stance so he could direct his hose towards another patch of smoking ruins. Jago thanked him for his help, and he and Cradock made their way down the street, clambering over the debris until they found the shell of a building with a scorched sign on which they could make out the first three letters of what might have been Hayle and Sons. A woman in a dirty overcoat was sitting on a pile of shattered masonry, her head in her hands.
‘Excuse me,’ said Jago, approaching her. ‘Is this Hayle and Sons?’
She lifted her head to see who was speaking to her, and he could see her grimy face was streaked by what might have been tears. Her eyes seemed to look through him as if he wasn’t there, as if she was struggling to drag her mind back from some other place to register his presence. Jago waited as she visibly pulled herself 26together. She stood up, brushing some of the dust off her coat in a gesture of businesslike determination, and gave him a polite smile. ‘You’re not going to tell me you’re a customer – if you are, we’re closed.’
‘No, we’re police officers and we’re looking for Mrs Marjorie Bellamy – we understand she works at Hayle and Sons.’
‘She certainly used to, until last night – now I’m not sure what she’s going to do. But I can help you with that – in fact you’ve found her. I’m Marjorie Bellamy.’ She extended a hand to shake his. ‘Perhaps you can tell me why you’re looking for me in particular.’
Jago looked around for somewhere more suitable to break the news of her husband’s death to her, but there was nothing but the aftermath of the night’s destruction to be seen. ‘I think perhaps we should sit down, right here.’
She sat down again, and he joined her. She looked at him anxiously. ‘This is going to be more bad news, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘What is it? What’s happened?’
Jago hesitated. He was about to add more anguish to this poor woman’s suffering, but there was little he could do to soften the blow. ‘I’m afraid it’s your husband, Mrs Bellamy,’ he said. ‘There’s been an incident.’
‘An incident? What do you mean?’
‘I’m sorry to have to tell you this, Mrs Bellamy, but Mr Bellamy’s been killed.’
She stared at him, wordless. She looked stunned. ‘But I was with him … We had breakfast together … It’s not possible … What happened?’ 27
‘Your husband was found dead in your home this morning, with a bullet wound to his chest. The wound was fatal.’
‘You mean somebody shot him?’ She paused. ‘You don’t mean he shot himself, surely?’
Jago shook his head. ‘We don’t believe he shot himself, no – we’re treating it as a case of suspected murder.’
‘Murder? But that’s … Why? Who would want to murder Samuel?’
‘We don’t know, Mrs Bellamy, but we’re going to find out.’
She looked down and shook her head as if not hearing him, then raised her head sharply. ‘Where is he? Can I see him?’
‘He’ll be at St George’s Hospital by now.’
‘Is that the one at Hyde Park Corner?’
‘Yes, it is. In a case like this there has to be a post-mortem examination.’
‘Do I need to identify him for you?’
‘It’s not essential – he had his identity card on him, with his photograph in it. And the landlord also confirmed it was him. But if you want to see him, we can take you over to the hospital.’
‘Thank you. I think I’d like to do that.’
‘Very well – and then we’ll take you back to your flat in Peter Street if you wish, or do you have to go elsewhere?’
‘No, Peter Street will be fine. But you said just now the landlord confirmed it was Samuel – how did he get involved?’ 28
‘I believe he was there to collect the rent.’
‘Ah, well, I leave that to Samuel – it was his flat before we got married, so after the wedding I moved in, but he was always the one who dealt with the landlord. That was fine with me – I’ve always had quite enough on my plate with the business.’
‘You mean Hayle and Sons?’
‘Yes, that’s right – we’re a small ecclesiastical publisher. I’ve worked here all my life. My grandfather started the business in 1870, publishing things like bishops’ collected sermons. He had two sons – my father and his brother, who carried it on after him. My uncle died, but my father kept the name “and Sons” as a mark of respect. There were no more sons after him – I was my father’s only child, so when he died it all came to me, and I left the name unchanged too. I say “it all”, but it actually wasn’t a lot. Times have changed, and there isn’t the same demand for thick volumes of bishops’ musings as there was, but I managed to keep things ticking over. But then this confounded war started, and that’s made things very difficult – especially when the government brought in the paper restrictions. You only get six pages in your newspaper now, and we’re not allowed the paper we’d need to publish even the reduced amount of books we were managing before the war.’ She glanced around them and took a sharp breath. ‘And now look at it – last night the German air force turned our offices to dust, and I’ve discovered this morning that the warehouse we used round in Ivy Lane was burnt down too, so we’ve lost all our stock. It means the entire business has been 29destroyed.’ Her voice caught, and she sobbed. ‘And now you say I’ve lost Samuel too. Everything’s gone – my whole life.’
Jago said nothing, but waited. Within a minute or so she had regained her composure. ‘So,’ she said, ‘is there anything else you need to know?’
‘I’d appreciate it if you could tell us what time you last saw your husband.’
‘Of course – that would have been at about nine-thirty this morning. As I said, we had breakfast together, and then I had a phone call about all this.’ She swept her arm round to encompass the destruction surrounding them. ‘I came straight over here to see what the damage was to our property … I never imagined it would be as bad as this.’
‘But your husband didn’t come with you?’
‘No, he had someone coming to see him, and besides, this is – or was – my family’s business, so he’s never got very involved in it.’
‘Do you know who that someone was?’
‘No – he just said he couldn’t come with me, because he was expecting a visitor, and it was important.’
‘Do you know what time he was expecting this visitor?’
‘Yes, it was at ten o’clock, I think.’
‘Could you be more definite? It could be an important piece of information.’
She furrowed her brow for a moment or two. ‘Yes, I’m sure he said ten o’clock.’
‘And did he happen to say he or she?’ 30
‘No, he didn’t. Look, do you think you could take me to see Samuel now?’
‘Of course. We’ll go straight away – we just need to go back to the car. It’s parked not far away.’
They returned to the car and set off for the hospital. Mrs Bellamy lapsed into silence in the back seat of the Riley, and Jago didn’t disturb her. She was on her way to see the body of the husband she’d had breakfast with this morning, and he wasn’t going to burden her with questions: there’d be time for that when they got back. His mind revisited the picture of her sitting in the ruins of her grandfather’s business in Paternoster Row, and he thought what a strange job he had. He’d never met this woman before, but now, suddenly, circumstances had forged a connection with her, obliging him to invade her privacy and if necessary probe every secret corner of her life. He wondered how he’d feel if the shoe was on the other foot.
The sights he’d seen in Paternoster Row brought Dorothy to mind. Her job was reporting the war to the American public, and he was sure she would have visited that area, barely a mile from her temporary home at the Savoy, to see the effect of the bombing for herself and craft it into words for her editor back in Boston. She might even have been there when he and Cradock were talking to Mrs Bellamy – in whatever remained of the next street, perhaps. That same war had suddenly and unexpectedly forged a connection with her too, but in a different way. She had become the most agreeable part of his life, and spending time with her the most agreeable 31of activities. He was surprised to feel something akin to sadness at the thought of possibly having been so close to her without bumping into her and decided to call her in the hope of meeting up sometime soon.
He had rung Gibson from a call box on the way to check that the body was suitable for viewing, and the pathologist had assured him that by the time they got there he’d have everything arranged appropriately so that she would see nothing unnecessarily distressing. When they arrived, the room was neat and tidy, and the body was covered up to the chin with a clean white hospital sheet, concealing any signs of the post-mortem examination.
Marjorie Bellamy needed only a brief look before pronouncing, ‘Yes, that’s my husband.’ She stood and stared at him for a few moments before murmuring a brief farewell and planting a single kiss on his cold forehead, then turned away and buried her face in a handkerchief. The three men waited in silence until she signalled with a nod of her head that she was ready to go. Jago stepped to one side to let her leave first, looking for any outward sign of her inner thoughts or feelings as she passed him, but her face was expressionless.
CHAPTER FOUR
The journey back to Marjorie Bellamy’s home in Peter Street was as subdued as the one to the hospital, but once they were in the flat, she seemed to force herself back into action. ‘I’m going to make a cup of tea,’ she said with an air of determination. ‘Would you like one too?’
‘Thank you, yes,’ said Jago. ‘That would be very kind. And would you mind if I asked you one or two more questions?’
‘Very well,’ she said, pushing her shoulders back. ‘I know you have a job to do. I’ll do my best.’
‘Thank you. We’ll take a look at your husband’s office, if that’s all right.’
‘Yes, of course. I’ll bring the tea in there when it’s ready.’
When she had left them, Jago and Cradock returned to the office, where Jago began to peruse the books on the 33shelves. Most of them were works he’d never heard of. Before he could get very far in his examination, however, Mrs Bellamy returned with a cup of tea for each of them.
‘Thank you,’ said Jago, taking a cup and saucer from her. ‘I understand your husband had a bookshop in Old Compton Street. Would these books be part of his stock, or is this his personal library?’
‘It’s a bit of both, I think,’ she replied. ‘Storage space is always a problem for booksellers. Samuel sold all sorts of books in the shop – new and second-hand, anything he thought there was a reasonable chance of someone buying. I suppose that was the bread and butter of his business, but he was more interested in what they call antiquarian books – that means old and rare ones, like these – because that was where he said the real money was to be made. He sold those in the shop too, and as far as I know most of these are stock he didn’t have room for there. Booksellers tend not to collect books themselves, but I believe Samuel kept a few in here that he was particularly fond of. He had some private clients too, who collected particular types of book, and anything he’d acquired with them in mind he’d keep here too. I don’t know anything more about those, though.’
‘Can you tell me more about the shop?’
‘There’s not much to say, really. It’s his business, and I haven’t got very involved in it – as you know, I have my own to run, or at least I did until this morning. Besides, we only got married a couple of years ago, so what with the war and everything we’ve both had our hands pretty full just keeping our own businesses afloat.’ 34
‘What’ll happen to the shop now?’
‘Well, he’s had a woman working there for a while, so I imagine I’ll just keep her doing that until I’ve had time to think about the future.’
‘What’s her name?’
‘Oh, she’s called Judith Langley – Miss.’
‘Thank you. And your husband’s work – was it the sort of thing that might’ve made him enemies?’
‘No, I don’t think so. I know there were the usual business rivalries and the odd difficult customer, but not the sort of thing anyone would kill him for, if that’s what you mean.’
‘Are you aware of anyone else who might’ve wanted to cause him harm for any other reason?’
‘No. I mean, I know what kind of place Soho is. It’s full of shady characters and out-and-out crooks, and some of them are quite vicious, so I was a bit concerned about coming to live here when I married Samuel, but he was a bookseller, for goodness’ sake. Who wants to murder a bookseller? And in his own home, too. It doesn’t make sense.’
‘Did many people know he lived here?’
‘Yes – he made no secret of it, and he did most of his business from here, not the shop, so everyone he had any dealings with would know his address. Anyone could have got hold of it.’ She glanced distractedly round the room. ‘Do you think it could have been an intruder, like a burglar?’
‘We’ve found no evidence of a forced entry.’
‘So it must have been someone Samuel knew.’ 35
‘Possibly, but it could equally have been a stranger he let in for some reason, or someone who’d obtained a key to your home. Can you think of anyone that would apply to?’
‘No. The only other person who has a key is our landlord. But what about that visitor he was expecting?’
‘We need to know who that was – can you remember anything more?’
‘No – as I said, I don’t even know if it was a man or a woman. Since you asked me I’ve racked my brains, but I’m certain Samuel didn’t mention anything more about who it was. All I know is he said it was important, but I don’t know whether that was in a good sense or a bad sense. I’m very sorry, Inspector.’
‘Don’t worry, Mrs Bellamy. You mentioned just now that your husband kept books here that he’d acquired for collectors – would I be right in thinking some of those would be valuable?’
‘Oh, yes – some of those collectors are quite wealthy. That’s what made me think perhaps it was a burglar, and that Samuel had disturbed them or caught them in the act. But even so, do many burglars carry a gun?’
‘Did your husband own a gun?’
‘No. I’m sure he’d have told me if he did.’
‘And do you?’
She looked at him with wide-eyed astonishment. ‘A gun? Me? That’s absurd – of course I don’t.’
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Bellamy, but I have to ask. By the way, we also noticed that your husband was carrying a green identity card. Those are usually issued to people who 36want to travel into prohibited places within the meaning of the Official Secrets Act, or protected places or areas within the meaning of the Defence Regulations. Do you know why Mr Bellamy had such a card?’
She shrugged. ‘I think it was because he might need to go to a country auction in one of those areas, to buy books, or visit someone with a private library who was thinking of selling – he’d have to see their books where they were. I’m sure there wasn’t anything suspicious about it, if that’s what you mean.’
‘Thank you. Now, did your husband have any family or close friends that we should inform about what’s happened?’
‘Well, the only family he has is his sister – she’s called Christine Edison, and she lives with her husband, John, in Broadwick Street. I’d appreciate it if you could let them know – they’re not on the phone, but the address is number 75, flat 2. As for close friends, I believe his oldest friend is a man called Ron Fisher, but I don’t have his address. And there was another man he used to spend time with – I think they were quite pally. He’s called Frankie Rossetti, and he runs a cafe in Frith Street called Frankie’s Cafe. Not a very imaginative name, I know, but Samuel liked the place – he used to eat there quite a lot before we were married, and I think he still used to go round there sometimes in the evenings, especially when I was busy with work, but he didn’t always say where he was going. We both had our own lives, you see. I think that’s what happens when you marry later in life – you’ve got used to doing a lot of things on your own or with old friends, and you don’t necessarily 37give all that up just because you’ve got hitched. We didn’t – Samuel had his friends and I had mine, and we didn’t spend all our time together.’
‘And what about business associates?’
‘I’m sure I don’t know all of them – as I said, I didn’t get involved in his business affairs – but there are two men whose names came up in conversation quite often. One’s called Charles Abingdon – he’s a collector who’s bought quite a few things from Samuel. The other’s called William Quincy – I think he buys and sells books, and sometimes buys things from Samuel. They’re both quite well-to-do, I believe. Samuel said they were both posh, although he also used to say William Quincy was more posh than was good for him.’
‘What did he mean by that?’
‘I don’t know – probably just some private joke, I should think. I don’t know where they live, unfortunately, but they must be in London because Samuel used to say he was going to pop round and see them. I expect they’ll be in the phone book – shall we check?’ She opened a drawer in the desk and pulled out the two volumes of the London telephone directory, found the relevant entries and jotted them down on a scrap of paper. ‘Here we are,’ she said, handing it to Jago. ‘Will that be all?’
‘Almost all, thank you,’ Jago replied. ‘But just one more question. Can you tell me whether any book of particular value is missing from this room?’
‘I can’t, I’m afraid, no. Samuel had his own way of protecting his valuable books – he called it the wildebeest system.’ 38
Jago raised his eyebrows in an unspoken request for elucidation.
‘I know,’ she continued, ‘it sounds funny, doesn’t it? I don’t know the first thing about wildebeest, but he explained it to me once. He said they’re hunted by lions and other predators, but they protect themselves by moving around in huge herds. He reckoned that if he had a valuable book, the best way to protect it from being stolen was to hide it amongst all the hundreds he’s got in this room. No burglar would be able to tell what was worth pinching, and they certainly wouldn’t be able to cart the whole lot away.’
‘But how would your husband remember where the valuable ones were?’
‘Ah, yes – he had a little trick for that. You’d never know, but there’s a bit of loose skirting board over there.’ She pointed in the general direction of the fireplace. ‘And Samuel kept a special piece of paper behind it. I’ll show you.’ She crossed the room and knelt down, keeping herself between the hiding place and the detectives as if needing to protect the secret even from them, and then turned back to them with the paper in her hand. ‘Here, you see,’ she said.
Jago examined it: all it showed was a short handwritten list of what he took to be book titles, some of them crossed out, along with a jumble of letters and numbers and what might have been dates.
‘I’ll have to explain it to you,’ she continued. ‘The letters refer to the bookcases and the numbers to the shelves. When Samuel wanted to conceal something valuable, he 39made a note here of where he’d put it. The bookcases are in alphabetical order, but of course you have to know which one is A and which way to count round the room from there. The shelves are counted from the bottom up. Samuel reckoned that a burglar wouldn’t find the list in the first place, and even if they did, they’d still have to work out what the letters and numbers meant. I suppose it wasn’t foolproof, but he reckoned it was better than putting them in a safe or somewhere else that would be obvious.’
Jago nodded. ‘And these numbers here,’ he said. ‘Are they dates?’
She took the paper from him. ‘Yes, that’s right. He made a note of the date he’d acquired the book, and then when he’d managed to sell it he crossed it out. You can see there are only three items not crossed out, so if you bear with me for a moment I should be able to check they’re still here.’ She moved to the bookshelves and counted carefully, then turned back to him. ‘All present and correct.’
‘So there’s nothing valuable missing?’
‘You could say that, I suppose, but of course the fact that the remaining items on his list are still here doesn’t necessarily mean there wasn’t something else of value that he hadn’t quite got round to adding to it, or even that he’d forgotten to add. He was always busy. So if I’m to answer your question truthfully and accurately, I’d have to say I’m afraid I haven’t a clue.’ She offered him a smile that suggested sympathetic helplessness and shrugged her shoulders. ‘Very sorry, Inspector.’
CHAPTER FIVE
The bitterly cold air on the street assailed Jago and Cradock as they left the Bellamys’ home. The traffic was sparse, and there were no pedestrians in sight: it was the kind of day to be indoors if you could manage it, and if you were a policeman, the kind of day when you knew you’d be outside for hours on the beat getting chilled to the bone because you had no choice. Jago was grateful that he no longer had to spend his time standing in the middle of the road directing traffic on point duty. The hours in CID might be longer, but at least some of them were spent out of the cold.
‘Let’s check the neighbours,’ he said. ‘I want to know whether any of them heard or saw anything this morning around the time Bellamy was getting killed.’
‘Righto, guv’nor,’ Cradock replied, glancing back at the building they’d just left. ‘The places either side aren’t 41very promising, are they? One’s boarded up, and the other one looks empty too.’
Jago turned round to face the neighbouring properties and nodded to his right. ‘That one there looks more promising – the record shop. I think I just saw somebody moving inside the window.’
He tried the shop door and it opened, setting its bell tinkling above them, and they went in. A man with untidy hair and wearing a crumpled suit came over to greet them. ‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ he said, ‘and how can I help you today? If you’d like to browse around the shop, please do, or if there’s something particular you’re interested in, I’ll see whether we’ve got it. And of course, if you’d like to hear a record I’ll be happy to play it for you.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Jago, taking his warrant card from his pocket and showing it to the shopkeeper, ‘we’re not here to buy records – we’re making enquiries in connection with an incident that occurred near here this morning. And your name is?’
‘Mayhew – Leslie Mayhew. I’m the proprietor here. What sort of incident was that?’
‘It was a shooting, Mr Mayhew, in the property next door but one.’
Mayhew’s expression was incredulous. ‘A shooting?’
‘Yes, that’s right. Were you here this morning?’
‘Yes, I’ve been here since about eight o’clock. But when you say a shooting, do you mean—has anyone been hurt?’
‘I’m afraid that is the case. Do you know Mr Bellamy, the bookseller?’ 42
‘Yes, of course. Is it him?’
‘I’m sorry to say it was, yes – he was shot dead.’
Mayhew’s eyes widened. ‘Oh, my goodness. Was it an accident?’
‘We don’t think it was.’
‘Dear Lord, that makes it worse – you think someone deliberately shot him?’
‘It looks that way at the moment, yes.’
‘Dear, oh dear – I know this is Soho, and people who don’t live here probably think there are gunmen on the loose all the time, but it’s not really like that – not here in Peter Street, at least. What a terrible thing to happen. But how can I help you?’
‘I’d like to know whether you heard or saw anything suspicious, especially between about half past ten and half past eleven.’
‘No – I was busy sorting out some of the stock, so I wasn’t looking outside at all. I haven’t had a single customer today, either – people don’t go out buying records on Monday mornings.’
‘Did you hear a gunshot?’
‘No – but then I don’t suppose I would. I was playing records, you see, and quite loudly. I sell all the latest hit records here, of course, for the more general customer, and sheet music too, to keep my turnover up. But what I specialise in is jazz, and I like it with the volume turned up, so that’s what I play when there’s no one else in the shop – and the places either side of here are empty now, so I’m not going to be disturbing anyone. I was probably playing some Count Basie or Billie Holiday about the 43time you mentioned, but whatever it was, there was only me in the shop and I had it on nice and loud. I don’t think I’d have heard anything happening outside.’ He shook his head. ‘Poor Samuel. He was a customer of mine, you know – he was a big fan of jazz.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, he used to buy records here, and sometimes if I got something new in that I thought he’d like, I’d ask him round here to the shop to have a listen. We both used to go to the same jazz club too. Soho’s had all the best jazz clubs for years – the Shim Sham in Wardour Street, the Nest in Kingly Street, Jigs Club, the Cuba, you’ll find them round every corner. I have to say some of them weren’t too popular with the Metropolitan Police – they reckoned they were dens of vice and iniquity, and some of them have gone now, but the Blue Palm’s still going strong. That was Samuel’s favourite, and we’ve often gone there together. I should mention that we only went there for the music, of course – I wouldn’t like you to get the wrong idea. We’ve heard some great jazz musicians and singers there – not just British, but high-class acts from the Caribbean, and sometimes Americans too.’
‘Where is it?’
