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- Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Serie: Home Front Detective
- Sprache: Englisch
June, 1917. While German Gotha bombers raid London from above, a man's body is fished from the Thames below. The man had been garrotted and his tongue cut out before he was left to his watery grave, and as the killer has taken care to remove identifying items and even labels, Detective Inspector Marmion and Sergeant Keedy struggle to name the victim before they can begin properly with their investigation. As family and business associates are found, the list of suspects grows ever longer, and as Marmion wrangles with the case, he and his family must also contend with their anxieties for his now-missing son Paul. The interminable presence of war and, closer to home, pitched battles in the East End between rival adolescent gangs, suggest the Home Front is more insecure than ever before. With great care, Marmion must pick his way along a twisting path that will lead him towards the killer.
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Seitenzahl: 452
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017
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Under Attack
EDWARD MARSTON
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
Everitt White had spent most of his life afloat. Born on a narrowboat in Staffordshire, he’d devoted his early years to helping his father in the unremitting work of hauling cargo up and down canals in the Midlands and beyond. To broaden his horizons, he’d joined the merchant navy and learnt to cope with rough seas and gale force winds. When he felt that he’d seen enough of the world, he applied for a job in the Thames River Police and found his true métier. It was hard, gruelling labour but White was ideally suited for it. He made light of long days heaving on his oars and mastering the capricious tides. He didn’t blench when he had to retrieve the bloated corpse of a human being or of an animal from the water. Nor did he recoil from the distinctive reek of the Thames. It was his whole world now and he relished it.
The police galley was a clinker-built open boat less than thirty feet in length. It had three thwarts for oarsmen and a seat in the stern from which Inspector White could steer with rudder strings. He commanded a crew of three men, two of whom had only a single oar while the third, on the centre thwart, pulled on a pair of sculls. It was the position that White himself had held for many years so he knew how much skill and effort it took. He’d learnt how to read the river and, having seen colleagues swept helplessly into it over the years, he always respected its power. Though it seemed relatively placid that morning, White remained alert.
In the normal course of events, he rarely looked up. He was too busy scanning the surface of the Thames with a well-trained eye. For once, however, his attention was diverted and he stared up at the sky. Emitting an odd clanking noise from their whirring propellers, a fleet of fourteen big biplanes was cruising above him. His men also lifted their gaze upward. All of them thought at first that they were witnessing a display of British air power, visual proof that the city was well defended. It was a common mistake. They could hear people on both banks yelling in admiration or breaking into applause. Tragically, celebrations were soon cut short. When the bombs began to fall, everyone realised that they’d been cruelly deceived. London was under direct attack. Gotha bombers had reached the nation’s capital in broad daylight and they showed no mercy.
Their bombs caused deafening explosions and spread disaster. White was horrified at the sheer audacity of the attack. Cold, systematic and unchallenged, the planes were wreaking havoc. The main targets seemed to be the docks and the area around Liverpool Street Station. Poplar, in particular, was taking real punishment. Since they were close to the docks, the river police were right in the middle of the action. Fire sprung up among the warehouses around them. Moored vessels sustained direct hits. Dock workers were sent scurrying for cover. The Gothas kept up their barrage relentlessly until all their bombs had been dropped then, content with their work, they turned in a wide circle and headed for the south coast. Behind them they left chaos and confusion. Everitt White summed the attack up in one word.
‘Bastards!’
When he looked down at the river once more, he saw that they had company. A dead body was bobbing up and down only yards away.
CHAPTER TWO
It was not the best way to return to work. Harvey Marmion had had to force himself to go back to Scotland Yard that morning. He’d taken ten days’ leave in order to search for his son, Paul, who had run away from home months earlier, but it had been a fruitless venture. For all his efforts, Marmion had found no sign whatsoever of him. He couldn’t even come back with the reassuring news that Paul was still alive because he had no evidence of it. All that he could tell his wife was that they would find their son one day. It was cold comfort. Arriving at his office usually gave him an instant stimulus. Instead of being primed for action now, however, Marmion simply wanted to curl up in a corner and hide away. As a detective, he had an excellent record of success behind him. Yet when it came to tracing his only son, he’d failed abysmally.
Joe Keedy tried to cheer him up.
‘Paul can look after himself,’ he said.
‘Why doesn’t he just tell us where he is?’
‘He has his reasons.’
‘I’m one of them,’ admitted Marmion. ‘We were never close. Other fathers get to spend time with their children but shift work stopped me from doing that. I let him down, Joe. I’m afraid that Paul left home because of me.’
‘That’s nonsense.’
‘I was so proud of him when he joined the army. Life in uniform brought out the best in him at first. He blossomed. Then came the Somme and that ruined him. It wasn’t so much the physical wounds. He got over most of those in time. It was his mind.’ He heaved a sigh. ‘Paul couldn’t even be civil with us any more.’
‘That was his fault, Harv, not yours.’
‘We were all at fault – me, Ellen, Alice and even you, to some extent.’
Keedy bridled. ‘You can’t blame me because he hopped it.’
‘You’re part of the family, Joe, and that’s what he’s turned his back on.’
‘Since he got back from the army, I hardly ever saw him.’
‘Neither did I. That’s why I feel so guilty.’
Marmion made a conscious effort to shake off his lethargy and dispel his gloom. Forgetting his son, he asked to be brought up to date with the investigation on which Keedy had been working during his absence. The sergeant pulled out his notebook. He was concise yet comprehensive. His report provided a good basis for discussion and they traded ideas freely. Time slipped more easily past and Marmion began to feel at home once more. They were just about to go off to the canteen when the door was flung open to reveal the tall, slim figure of Superintendent Claude Chatfield.
‘Ah,’ he said, seeing Marmion, ‘you’re back at last.’
‘I tried to report to you, sir, but you were busy with the commissioner.’
‘We had a lot to discuss – until the air raid interrupted us, that is.’
‘What air raid?’ asked Keedy.
‘Are you deaf, man? German aircraft have been pounding the docks this morning. There’s been significant damage and many fatalities.’
Marmion was surprised. ‘Zeppelins don’t usually attack in daylight, sir.’
‘This was a raid by Gothas, apparently,’ explained Chatfield. ‘How they got this far, I shall never know, but it’s given us a nasty shock. The war is no longer something that’s happening on the other side of the English Channel. It’s right here.’
‘You mentioned fatalities, sir.’
‘I can’t give you a number but it will be a distressingly high one. The latest information I have is that there was a direct hit on a school in Poplar. The bomb detonated in the basement where the youngest children were being taught. You can imagine the disaster it must have caused. It’s inhuman,’ said Chatfield with sudden passion, ‘and it’s happened right here in London. None of us is safe any longer.’
It was a grim prediction. With its recurring defeats and setbacks, 1916 had been a dreadful year for the Allies. Its few victories were bought at enormous cost. There seemed to be little visible progress in the succeeding year. Trench warfare had moved the conflict close to a stalemate. British tanks had been lauded as the weapons to change the face of the war but it had simply not happened to the degree imagined. The latest outrage would tilt the advantage in favour of Germany once more. The sight of bombers flying at will over the capital was a far more powerful image than a photograph of tanks stuck in the mud on the Western Front.
‘However,’ said Chatfield, fussily, ‘let’s concentrate on our own work. We can leave the emergency services to deal with the aftermath of the air raid.’
‘The sergeant has been telling me what I’ve missed,’ said Marmion. ‘I’m well prepared to continue with the investigation now.’
Chatfield was peremptory. ‘I’m assigning it elsewhere.’
‘Why?’
‘Because something more important has come up,’ explained the other. ‘Trying to solve a spate of burglaries is not the ideal use of your time. You and the sergeant are at your best when you have something to get your teeth into.’
‘That’s true,’ agreed Keedy.
‘A corpse has been hauled out of the Thames. It’s not another case of suicide this time. We’ve had our fair share of those. There’s clear evidence of foul play. I want you to handle the case, Inspector,’ he went on with a shrewd glance at him. ‘I take it that you’re up to it?’
‘Yes, sir,’ replied Marmion, firmly.
‘If you need more time to settle in …’
‘I’m fine, Superintendent. All we need are the details.’
Chatfield handed him a sheet of paper. Marmion was annoyed at the suggestion he might need time before he was functioning properly in his role at Scotland Yard. He showed no irritation, however, because Chatfield had been very accommodating. The two men had never liked each other and there was always a residual unease between them. When he’d applied for leave, Marmion had expected some opposition from the superintendent but it never came. A father himself, Chatfield encouraged him to go in search of his missing son. Marmion was very grateful for the unconditional support.
‘Did you make any headway?’ asked Chatfield, softly.
‘No, sir,’ replied Marmion. ‘To be honest, I made none at all.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘We won’t give up the search until we find him.’
‘How is Mrs Marmion?’
‘My wife is … doing her best to remain hopeful, sir.’
Ellen Marmion was struck by the paradox every single day. Having wanted her son to go, she was in despair at his disappearance. When Paul was there, she’d found his presence both intrusive and worrying. He’d been so rude to any friends she’d invited into the house that she stopped asking them to come there. He showed his mother no respect, still less any affection. It was like having a stranger living with them. Since her husband worked such long hours, the burden of dealing with their brusque and uncommunicative son fell on her. It had been a struggle for Ellen simply to get a few words out of him. Paul had treated her with something approaching contempt. And yet she wanted him back. She longed to be reconciled with him.
Pain, anxiety and guilt had combined to take its toll on her. Ellen had been a plump, attractive, middle-aged woman until her son had been invalided out of the army. All of her old vivacity had now drained away. Her eyes were dull, her brow wrinkled, her shoulders hunched and her whole body seemed to have shrunk in size. Alice was all too aware of the physical changes in her mother. It was one of the reasons she tried to spend more time at home. She wanted to offer love and companionship. What she was unable to do, however, was to still the demons in Ellen’s mind.
‘I thought that your father would find him somehow.’
‘So did I,’ said Alice.
‘That’s his job, after all – searching for people.’
‘Tracking down criminals is a different matter, Mummy. There’s usually a trail of evidence to follow. Paul didn’t leave that. We had no clue as to where he might have gone. When he first set out, he probably had no clue himself. He just wanted to get away from us.’
‘Away from me, you mean.’
‘Away from the situation he was in,’ corrected Alice. ‘He felt trapped and worthless while he was here – and you mustn’t think that it was because of you. The blame lies with this terrible war. That’s what destroyed him.’
‘Other young men had worse injuries and learnt to live with them.’
‘Paul couldn’t manage to do that.’
‘We were ready to help him in every possible way, Alice.’
‘He spurned our help. There was an element of cruelty in that.’
‘I know,’ confessed Ellen. ‘He wanted to hurt us.’
She hugged her daughter impulsively. Alice was in the Women’s Police Service but, because her shift didn’t begin until that afternoon, she’d spent the morning at home again. Her mother had been distressed when she’d first moved out to enjoy a degree of independence. Looking back, Alice was glad that she’d done so. Being stuck at home when her brother was there would have created an even more fractious household. Though she sympathised with her mother’s plight, Alice felt that she’d made the right decision.
When she broke away, Ellen’s eyes were moist with tears.
‘My biggest fear is that Paul will … end it all.’
‘No, Mummy, I don’t think that’s likely somehow.’
‘But he said in effect that his life was not worth living.’
‘That doesn’t mean he’s been thinking of suicide,’ said Alice. ‘If he’d reached that stage, he’d have done something about it long before now.’
‘You read such awful stories in the newspapers. There was one only yesterday about a disabled soldier who slit his throat because he’d lost both legs and no longer felt like a proper man. And there have been lots of others.’
‘Those are the exceptions, Mummy. As you said earlier, most victims have found a way of pulling through. Paul will survive somehow. He’s got far too much sense to want to do anything desperate.’
‘Running away from us was an act of desperation.’
‘He might have thought he was helping us, Mummy.’
‘Helping us,’ echoed Ellen. ‘He frightened me to death.’
‘I’m trying to see it from Paul’s point of view.’
‘I did that when he was here. It was a waste of time.’
Alice glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. ‘I must be going.’
‘Thank you so much,’ said Ellen, squeezing her daughter’s hands.
‘I’ll come again as soon as I can.’
‘Don’t go yet. There’s something I must tell you. I haven’t had the courage to tell your father yet. I’m not sure that I ever will. But …’ Ellen was clearly wrestling with mixed emotions. She took a deep breath before plunging in. ‘When he spent all that time searching and came back empty-handed, I was very upset at first. Then I remembered what I had to go through when Paul was here and … well, part of me was glad he wasn’t found. Isn’t that a dreadful thing for a mother to admit?’ she said, biting her lip. ‘But it’s true. I’m not sure that I ever want him back, Alice.’
The detectives were familiar visitors to the police morgue. Since they dealt almost exclusively with murder investigations, their work often began there. While he was not squeamish, Marmion never enjoyed being obliged to view cadavers, especially if they’d been butchered in some perverse way. Keedy, by contrast, took it all in his stride. Having worked in the family undertaking business, he’d been cheek by jowl with death on a daily basis and was accustomed to the hideous distortions it could inflict on the human body. The information that had taken them there was scant. All they knew was that an unidentified, middle-aged white male had been pulled out of the Thames earlier that morning.
Entering the building with his usual flutter of trepidation, Marmion was delighted to see someone he recognised. The burly frame of Everitt White was seated on a bench. He got to his feet instantly and extended a gnarled hand.
‘How are you, Harvey?’ he said, pumping away. ‘It’s good to see you again.’
‘It’s good to see you, Everitt,’ said Marmion, noting the strength of the handshake. ‘You’ve found us another customer, I see.’
‘I like to keep you busy.’
‘You remember Sergeant Keedy, don’t you?’
‘Yes, I do.’ He shook hands with Keedy. ‘You’re looking spick and span.’
‘Someone has to set standards,’ said Keedy with a grin.
It was a gibe at Marmion who always looked shabby even in his best suit. Keedy, by contrast, took great pains to look smart. White was in uniform and manifestly proud of his rank. Marmion showed him the sheet of paper he’d been given. When he’d glanced through it, White handed it back.
‘I can add a few things to that,’ he said. ‘For a start, I can tell you exactly where the poor devil was found. We were too busy watching the air raid to spot him at first.’ He waited until Keedy had his notebook out. ‘Ready, Sergeant?’
‘Yes, I am,’ said the other. ‘Fire away, Inspector.’
‘This chap is unusual. Bodies usually stay underwater for one or two weeks. My guess is that he was only dumped in the river three days ago at most. Don’t ask me why or I’ll talk for the whole afternoon. My judgement is based on years of pulling corpses out of the Thames. Trust me.’
‘How was he killed?’ asked Marmion.
‘He was strangled. The marks around his neck tell their own story.’
‘Is there anything else of interest?’
‘Before he made a big splash,’ said White, ‘he was robbed. His wallet, watch and cufflinks were taken. His shoes are missing as well, but they could just have been eased off by an undercurrent.’
‘What kind of man was he, Everitt?’
‘Oh, he’s not short of a few pennies, I can tell you that. His suit has real quality and his shirt probably cost more than I earn in a month. When we’d hauled him aboard, my immediate impression was that we had a wealthy businessman in the galley.’
‘Are you still using those old things?’ said Keedy. ‘You should have gone beyond rowing boats by now. Why not use a steam-powered vessel?’
‘We tried a couple of them,’ replied White, ‘and they just weren’t up to it. Three strong men in a galley are much more reliable. That’s why you’ve had a steady supply of bodies from us over the years.’
‘This latest one takes priority now,’ said Marmion. ‘One of us has to go in and take a close look at him. I’m volunteering you, Joe.’ Keedy gave a hollow laugh. ‘If there’s no identification on him, we’ll need some of his effects. Since he’s so well dressed, he may have an expensive London tailor.’
‘I’ll ask him,’ said Keedy.
After an exchange of farewells with White, he went off and left the two old friends alone. White narrowed his eyelids as he peered at Marmion.
‘You look tired, Harvey.’
‘I feel exhausted.’
‘Has that swine of a superintendent been making a nuisance of himself?’
‘No,’ said Marmion, ‘he hasn’t. In fact, Chat has been very understanding. Our son decided to run away from home and I was granted ten days’ leave to find him. Chat urged me to go.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘It was a wild goose chase. I only came back to work today.’
‘I’m sorry to hear about your son.’
‘We all have our crosses to bear, Everitt.’ He forced a smile. ‘Let’s go back to the murder victim. When you first saw him, did you draw any other conclusion?’
‘Yes, I did.’
‘Go on.’
‘It’s based on instinct rather than on any evidence.’
‘I’d still like to hear it.’
White ran a contemplative hand across the lower part of his bulbous features.
‘I think he was killed as a warning to others,’ he said. ‘That’s why he was allowed to bob back up to the surface. If his killer had wanted him to disappear altogether, he’d have attached weights to keep him underwater indefinitely. But he deliberately let him pop up for us to find.’
‘It’s an interesting theory, Everitt. I’m not sure that I’m convinced by it.’
‘There’s something I haven’t mentioned.’
‘Oh?’
‘His tongue has been cut out.’
CHAPTER THREE
When the war broke out in 1914, Sir Edward Henry was well past the age of sixty and on the brink of retirement. A sense of duty impelled him to stay on in his taxing role as commissioner of the Metropolitan Police Force. A distinguished career in the civil service and the police lay behind him but he felt that he still had more to offer. He was a tall, elegant, impeccably attired man with curling grey hair counterpointed by a curling grey moustache. Everyone in the force respected him, though those in the lower ranks found him rather aloof, resenting his habit of dealing primarily with those at superintendent level or above it. True to type, he summoned a group of his senior colleagues to his office to pass on the latest news.
‘I can’t give you chapter and verse,’ he apologised, ‘but I do have some numbers to pass on. They are demoralising. As a result of today’s air raid, 162 people were killed and somewhere in the region of 400 were wounded.’
There was a general murmur of sympathy and disgust.
‘All of these victims, please note, were civilians.’
‘It’s intolerable,’ said Chatfield. ‘War should be fought between soldiers. Due consideration should be given to non-combatants.’
‘I couldn’t agree more, Superintendent.’
‘Do those figures include the victims at that school?’
‘Unhappily, they do,’ replied the commissioner. ‘On the top floor, a class of girls was having a singing lesson. When the bomb came through the roof, one of them was killed outright. On the floor below, a boy was killed by flying rubble but the real carnage was in the basement. That was where the bomb exploded. It took away the lives of eighteen children and left thirty or so horribly maimed. Such are the monsters we are up against, gentlemen. They make no distinction whatsoever between soldiers and civilians. Women and children are equally attractive targets to them.’
‘It’s revolting!’ exclaimed someone. ‘It must be stopped.’
‘That task falls to our armed forces. All that we can do is to protect the people of London and give them a sense of safety, however tenuous it may be. In view of today’s raid, that will be even more difficult. When the war started,’ he reminded them, ‘the government imposed censorship on the press and controlled the flow of information that was released. They rightly suppressed some of the horrors at the front to prevent such news from spreading panic. But it’s impossible to hide what happened in the skies above London today. It was a perfect example of German ruthlessness. Our citizens will go to bed in fear tonight.’
‘Where was the Royal Flying Corps?’ demanded Chatfield. ‘Why weren’t our planes taking on the Gothas?’
‘You may well ask, Inspector.’
‘We had no defence at all.’
‘I’m sure that the newspapers will make that point,’ said the commissioner. ‘At least, they’ll have a story to tell tomorrow. When they’re starved of news, they make it up for themselves. Who will forget those nonsensical claims earlier this year that the bodies of soldiers killed in action were taken to a factory where they were boiled down to provide material for pig feed, fertiliser and soap? That’s what the British public were being asked to believe.’
‘I believed it myself at first,’ murmured someone. ‘The Huns are bestial.’
‘Even they have their limits,’ added Chatfield.
‘I’ve called you here this afternoon,’ said Sir Edward, ‘to issue two warnings. The first is to handle the press with care. There has been a lot of sniping at us recently. Naturally, I’ve had to bear the brunt of it but that’s my job. What I object to is the routine attacks on our operational efficiency. Newspaper editors seem to forget that we’ve taken on an increased range of duties with depleted manpower. I suppose that the pendulum was bound to swing the other way,’ he continued. ‘We all enjoyed the praise we garnered from the way we dealt with cases like those of Dr Crippen and Steinie Morrison. Our triumphs were well and truly trumpeted then. Open a newspaper today, however, and it’s our perceived failings that get the publicity.’
There was general agreement that Scotland Yard had come in for sustained criticism of late. Instead of praise for their success, they were being called to account for their failures. Rising crime figures were attacked and those involved in unsolved murders were castigated. Pressure on the police was increasing all the time. Several people in the room had felt the painful lash of a newspaper’s whip.
‘To conclude,’ said the commissioner, bringing the debate to a halt, ‘we must get the press back on our side. The best way to do that is to redouble our efforts to solve outstanding cases and to project ourselves in a better light. And though we need to impress crime reporters, don’t get too close to them. Don’t leak information to them about a particular investigation. In a word – beware.’
As he let his words sink in, he looked around at every face in the room.
‘You said that there were two warnings, Sir Edward,’ recalled Chatfield. ‘What’s the second one?’
‘It’s linked to the first. I’m talking about juvenile gangs. Reports of their antics are getting more and more publicity. It’s another stick with which the press can beat us. Unfortunately,’ said the commissioner, ‘it’s another consequence of the war. The fathers and elder brothers who could control these delinquents have either joined the army or died in action. There’s no strong voice in such families.’
‘It’s the same everywhere,’ someone interjected. ‘Glasgow has an appalling problem with young hooligans. Manchester, Birmingham and other cities have similar headaches. Feral gangs are terrorising the poorer districts. They’re running riot.’
‘Well, they’re not going to do that here,’ said the commissioner. ‘The rule of law must be obeyed. When we lost a sizeable number of our men to the army, we appointed 20,000 constables in their wake. They’re all good, public-spirited men but they’re predominantly elderly. They can’t chase hooligans as fast as they’d like. So let me issue this warning,’ he went on, raising his voice, ‘I intend to divert resources to take a more robust stance against juvenile crime. As of today, I’m appointing a special unit to coordinate our response.’ Everyone voiced their approval. ‘London has enough to put up with already. I’m not having this city plagued by gang warfare.’
There were eight of them in all and they walked along the street with the arrogant strut of conquering soldiers. All of them carried knives and some had additional weapons. Most of them bore scars from earlier encounters or from initiation ceremonies. Huddled in the doorways, old men, women and small children looked at them with mingled respect and fear. Nobody dared to get in their way. This was their territory and they were untouchable. The oldest of them was fifteen but he had the build of a full-grown man. As he led them into a long, dark tunnel, they yelled out obscenities for the sheer pleasure of hearing the echo. When they came out into the light again, they were laughing. Fatally, they were off guard. Before they knew it, they were ambushed by well over a dozen rival gang members, armed with broken bottles, hammers and knives. With the advantage of surprise, they struck with ferocity. The clash was over in a minute. When the attackers fled, they left wounded bodies strewn across the ground in pools of blood.
‘This is getting us nowhere,’ complained Keedy. ‘He may not even have had the suit made here in London. We could wear out our shoe leather for nothing.’
‘I thought you’d enjoy calling on some of the cream of our men’s outfitters, Joe. Every time you look in a window, you drool.’
‘I could never afford a suit like those.’
‘Staring at them costs nothing,’ said Marmion.
‘Well, I’ve had enough goggling for one afternoon.’
They’d just come out of their third shop in Bond Street and it had been as unhelpful as the previous two. None of them had recognised the suit that had been removed from the corpse and – after most of the water was squeezed out of it – put into a sack. Managers of all three shops had recoiled when the soggy mass had been hauled out for their inspection.
‘This is ridiculous, Harv,’ said Keedy.
‘Why?’
‘We’re keeping dogs yet barking ourselves. This is not our job. We’ve got detective constables at our beck and call. Let one of them do the legwork.’
‘Do you really want to miss the fun?’
‘I haven’t noticed any so far.’
Marmion laughed. ‘See it as your reward, Joe,’ he said. ‘Because you took on the sordid job of viewing the body on the slab, the least I could do was to let you be there when we discover who the deceased really is.’
‘We may never find out. The killer cut the tailor’s name out of the suit.’
‘He was just trying to make it difficult for us. I’m relying on Everitt White’s judgement. He knows a good suit when he sees one. Only last year, he fished a member of the House of Lords out of the river. And he was right about the latest victim, wasn’t he?’
‘Yes,’ conceded Keedy, grumpily. ‘The pathologist agreed that he’d only been in the water two or three days.’
‘The post-mortem may tell us why.’
‘Meanwhile, I have to carry this sack around London. It stinks.’
‘My sympathies lie with the man who used to wear it.’
Keedy lowered his head. ‘And so should mine.’
‘Remember that, Joe.’
‘I’m sorry to moan. He’s the victim, not me. Oh, I hate this stage of an investigation,’ he said. ‘It’s tiresome. I joined the police for action.’
‘That begins when we have his identity.’
‘If we ever do, that is.’
Marmion nudged him playfully. ‘Your optimism is an inspiration to us all.’
By the time that the two middle-aged special constables got there, most of the gang had got to their feet and were threatening reprisals against their attackers. Some were badly wounded. The policemen could see the discarded broken bottles in the gutter and imagine what had happened. When they took out their notebooks, however, they were met by a wall of silence. None of the gang was prepared to give his name or to describe what had happened. Ignoring dire warnings, they vowed to get their revenge very soon.
‘We’ll kill them!’ boasted their leader.
‘Then you’ll finish up behind bars,’ said one of the policemen.
‘It’d be worth it.’
The other policeman had been examining wounds. ‘Five of you at least need to go to hospital. Those gashes should be stitched up.’ He looked around at the members of the gang. ‘All of you need to be examined by a doctor. Some of you might have broken ribs or other wounds that are not visible.’
‘We’ll manage,’ said the leader.
‘You need help, lad.’
‘That’s our business.’
‘When there’s been a brawl in the street, it’s our business as well.’
The gang sniggered with contempt and, though they were in obvious pain, they began to slink away. When one of the policemen tried to go after them, his companion put a restraining hand on his shoulder.
‘Let them go, Dave,’ he advised.
‘We should at least search them for weapons.’
‘And do you think they’d stand there meekly while we did so? Let them go. If they want to bleed to death, they’ll be doing us a favour.’
At their fifth port of call, they finally had success. The manager wrinkled his nose in disgust when he first saw the suit, then he did something that none of his predecessors had done. They’d dismissed it instantly because it was not in their individual styles. Having laid out the jacket and trousers on the counter, the latest man extracted a tape from a drawer and took a series of measurements. Their hopes were raised.
‘Was it made here?’ asked Keedy.
‘I’m fairly certain that it was, sir,’ said the manager.
‘What are you doing?’
‘I’m trying to bring its owner back to life for you. We keep a detailed record of our clients’ measurements. You’d be surprised how they change over the years.’ He lowered his voice. ‘This gentleman, for instance, had a substantial paunch.’
‘I know. I saw it.’
‘You can see how the tailoring accommodated it so skilfully.’
When he’d taken a complete set of measurements, the manager disappeared into the back room. In the plush surroundings, the suit looked both repulsive and incongruous. Marmion pointed to the model in the shop window.
‘How would you like to wear something like that, Joe?’
‘I’d love it,’ replied the other, eyeing the suit covetously. ‘But there’s the small problem of paying for it. I’d need to be promoted to the rank of commissioner before I could afford that.’
‘You’d have to leapfrog me to do that. And I’d have to leapfrog Chat.’
‘The chain of command above us is endless.’
‘I agree. We have to resign ourselves to staying where we are.’
‘You had a good chance to move up in the world, Harv.’
‘That was a mistake. When the job was within my grasp, I realised I didn’t really want it.’
When the post of superintendent had become vacant, Marmion had applied for it along with Claude Chatfield. Both were equally well qualified to take on extra responsibility. Most onlookers felt that Marmion would be the better choice. At the last moment, however, he’d deliberately failed the interview so that he could keep a job that he prized. Knowing nothing of his change of mind, Chatfield had been promoted on the grounds of what he believed was his clear superiority and he was never slow to remind Marmion of that.
They were still admiring the suit in the window when the manager returned with a small, round-shouldered man in his fifties, his face clouded with grief. The detectives were introduced to Mr Vickery.
‘Is it true that he’s dead?’ he asked, querulously.
‘That depends who you mean,’ said Marmion.
‘He’s been a client for years. I made all of his suits.’ He looked wistfully down at the jacket and fingered the lapel. ‘Including this one.’
‘Then who the devil is he?’
‘I thought it might be Mr Vickery’s work when I first saw the suit,’ said the manager. ‘The measurements confirmed who bought it.’
‘What was his name?’
‘Mr Gilbert Donohoe.’
‘Do you have an address? We need to inform his next of kin.’
‘Of course, sir,’ said the other, reaching under the counter to produce a ledger. ‘Mr Donohoe lived in Birmingham.’
CHAPTER FOUR
Back on duty, Alice Marmion walked along the pavement with her beat partner, Iris Goodliffe. Of the two, Alice was by far the slighter, smarter and prettier. Iris was always bemoaning the fact that, while her friend was engaged to a handsome detective sergeant, she aroused no interest at all in the opposite sex. It consigned her to a lot of lonely evenings.
‘I don’t know what to do, Alice,’ she said.
‘Someone will come along eventually.’
‘I’ve been saying that to myself for years.’
‘It’s one of the legacies of the war, Iris. It’s obvious why. Young men are in very short supply. Hundreds of thousands of them joined up. Many of those left behind are either married or not available for some reason.’
‘How did you manage to get your hands on someone like Joe Keedy?’
‘Oh, we’d known each other for ages,’ said Alice, ‘ever since he and my father started working together, in fact. Joe was simply a friend at first. Nothing developed between us for years, then one day …’
‘If only that sort of thing could happen to me!’
‘It will, I’m sure.’
Alice spoke with false confidence. It was easy to see why Iris was not popular with men. She was a big, rather plain young woman with an over-eagerness that would deter most potential suitors. Worryingly, she’d started to copy Alice in the hope of improving her appearance. She had the same hairstyle and used the same cosmetics. Iris had even started to pick up her friend’s catchphrases and speech rhythms. In aping Alice, however, she was making herself even less appealing.
‘I wish I’d had the chance to meet him,’ she said.
‘Who are you talking about?’
‘Paul, of course – I’d like to have known your brother.’
‘He wasn’t very sociable, Iris.’
‘I’d have been happy to make allowances.’
‘He could be quite coarse sometimes.’
‘Beggars can’t be choosers,’ said Iris with a wan smile.
Though she enjoyed working with her, Alice had always protected her private life. She didn’t want to let Iris get too close and she certainly hadn’t been ready to introduce her to the members of her family. The one time she’d gone out for the night with Iris had been unnerving. Pleasant and easy-going at first, Iris had become a different woman when she had a drink inside her. It had released all her inhibitions and she’d made a scene in public. Alice had had to hustle her quickly out of the bar into which they’d gone after an evening at the cinema. From that time on, she’d kept the other woman at arm’s length when off duty.
‘Do you think that Paul will ever come back?’
‘We don’t know, Iris.’
‘But you’re sure that he’s still alive.’
‘Oh, yes, there’s no doubt. Daddy feels strongly about that.’
‘You have such a happy family. Why did your brother run away?’
‘We don’t know. He felt he didn’t belong with us any more, perhaps.’
‘Since he had shell shock, you’d have thought he’d be even more dependent on you all. He was virtually blind at first, wasn’t he?’
‘His eyesight steadily improved. Unfortunately, his behaviour didn’t.’
‘Didn’t he have any friends from the army?’
‘He did at first,’ replied Alice. ‘He used to meet a group of them from time to time. They’d all been invalided home. Paul soon got bored with them. He used to be so tolerant in the old days, but not any more.’
‘It must be so upsetting for you.’
‘It is.’
‘Do you think the army did enough for him?’
‘They did what they could, Iris. Paul is only one of thousands, many of whom are in a far worse state. There was only so much time the doctor could give him.’
‘Is he bitter about the war?’
‘Who wouldn’t be in his position?’
‘We had a taste of war ourselves earlier on. That air raid really scared me.’
‘I was visiting my mother when I heard the explosions. Those incendiary bombs can cause so much damage.’
When they turned a corner, the road widened. Coming towards them on the opposite pavement were two policemen on their beat. Alice acknowledged them with a smile but Iris gave them a cheery wave. Both men grinned. Iris was despondent.
‘I don’t know why I bothered,’ she said. ‘They only looked at you.’
Marmion and Keedy caught a train to Birmingham and managed to find an empty compartment where they could talk freely. They reviewed what they’d learnt from the visit to the tailor’s shop.
‘They both said the same thing,’ observed Marmion. ‘Mr Donohoe was very refined. When he came to London, he often went to the theatre or a concert.’
‘I wish I had the time and money to do that.’
‘The likes of us have to make do with the cinema, Joe.’
‘We haven’t seen a film for months,’ said Keedy. ‘Alice is always complaining about it.’
‘Inspector White summed him up correctly. Donohoe was a rich businessman. Knowing his politics, I’m surprised that Everitt didn’t call him a bloated capitalist.’
‘That’s what he was – in both senses. He was very flabby. It takes a lot of four-course meals to make a body look as repellent as that. It’s a pity that neither the manager nor Vickery knew where he stayed when he was in London. Donohoe had a secretive streak, by all accounts.’
‘Refined, prosperous, overweight, secretive,’ mused Marmion. ‘He lived in a very different world to us, Joe.’
‘How well do you know Birmingham?’
‘I know enough to recognise that Edgbaston is one of the posh parts of the city. Since he lives there, he must have money to burn. What surprises me is that nobody’s reported him as a missing person.’
‘He’d only been in London for a few days, Harv. Maybe his family was used to him being away that long. After all, he had business to transact in the City.’
‘Not any more, he doesn’t.’
‘There’ll be partners and associates to talk to,’ said Keedy, uneasily. ‘We’re on foreign soil there. That suit Donohoe was wearing cost over a hundred pounds,’ he added in disbelief. ‘We’re going to be dealing with people who have the same expensive tastes.’
‘They may have the money,’ said Marmion, hand to his chest, ‘but our job brings us rewards of the heart. Besides, it’s not impossible that the killer was a business rival. He won’t have much use for a hundred-pound suit when we secure a conviction. He’ll be shivering in prison garb as he waits for the hangman to come calling.’
‘Do you think Donohoe was murdered by a business rival?’
‘It’s an obvious assumption. On the other hand, it may be that he was simply killed for his money. Wallet, watch and cufflinks were taken. They’re the kind of things a thief would be after.’
‘Why did he remove the tailor’s name out of the coat?’
‘He wanted to delay identification of the victim.’
‘Most thieves wouldn’t have bothered. As soon as they’d got what they wanted, they’d simply drop their victim in the river and run for it.’
‘Everitt White thought he might have been murdered as a warning.’
‘Who was the warning aimed at?’
‘Some associates of his, I suppose. Don’t forget his tongue.’
‘Yes,’ said Keedy, ‘why was that cut out?’
‘Perhaps he spoke out of turn and someone objected to what he said. We can but speculate. The main thing is that we have a name and address. Once the family has been informed, details can be passed on to the press. If Donohoe was a regular visitor to London, a lot of people will have known him. We just have to hope that they’ll come forward to help us.’
Though often derided by those in the lower ranks, Claude Chatfield had his virtues. Indeed, in some ways, he did certain things better than Marmion. He had a good grasp of detail, a readiness to take on the burden of administration and a gift for deploying the right people to the various cases that landed on his desk. His ability to work long hours impressed his colleagues. They found him less admirable when Chatfield, a devout Roman Catholic, lapsed into homiletic mode. Most of them felt that finger-wagging Christianity was out of place in Scotland Yard.
Chatfield was leafing through some documents when there was a tap on the door and the commissioner entered. The superintendent stood politely to his feet.
‘Sit down, sit down,’ said the visitor, flapping a hand. ‘I just wanted you to see this report. It’s so relevant to what I was saying to you all earlier on.’
Handing a sheet of paper to Chatfield, he waited while the other man resumed his seat and started reading. It was a report of the brawl between two gangs. The superintendent was shocked by the details.
‘This is deplorable,’ he said. ‘It’s open warfare on the streets of London.’
‘That’s what it’s come to, Superintendent, and it’s why I’m giving it priority.’
‘They’re nothing but adolescent ruffians.’
‘As you can see, the ones who were viciously attacked call themselves the Stepney Warriors. They’re a law unto themselves. We don’t know their individual names. They refused to give them. When they staggered off, some of them had the sense to go to the hospital for attention but they gave false names there.’
‘Were there no witnesses?’
‘There were several,’ said the commissioner, ‘but they stayed in their houses and watched from behind the curtains. Needless to say, they didn’t rush to come forward when our officers asked for statements.’
‘They’re afraid, Sir Edward. These gangs always threaten revenge.’
‘Oh, I think we know where they’ll try to get that – from the vile thugs who laid that ambush. They rejoice in the name of the Evil Spirits. Well, they can’t be allowed to do so for long. I want the whole area exorcised.’
‘I couldn’t agree with you more, Sir Edward.’
‘The East End can do without any more upheaval. It’s been in the eye of the hurricane for far too long. Don’t these hooligans realise that there’s a war on? Heavens!’ exclaimed the commissioner. ‘Poplar was hit by German bombs only this morning and so was part of Stepney. Those gangs should have been helping to rescue people from the rubble, not doing their damnedest to kill each other.’
‘Thank you for showing me this,’ said Chatfield, returning the report. ‘It’s a timely reminder of a growing problem.’
‘I came to you for advice. When I discussed it with the new unit, we were of one mind. The most effective way to deal with this problem is to infiltrate the gangs in some way.’ He raised a palm. ‘I don’t mean that we should hire some fifteen-year-old to take his life in his hands and join the Stepney Warriors or the Evil Spirits. That would be impossible. But we need someone who knows the East End well and who can get close enough to these young blackguards to find out their names and anticipate where they’ll strike next.’
Chatfield scratched his head. ‘That’s a tall order, Sir Edward.’
‘I’m asking a number of senior officers to suggest names.’
‘The detective chosen would be taking huge risks.’
‘That’s why we need someone who does that routinely.’
‘Ordinarily, I’d have put forward Sergeant Keedy,’ said Chatfield. ‘He’s fearless to the point of being foolhardy at times. But he’s a first-rate detective. The main strike against him is that he’s not an East Ender. He wouldn’t blend in so easily. Also, he and Inspector Marmion are already busy elsewhere.’
‘Can you think of anyone else?’
Chatfield pondered. ‘There is someone,’ he said at length.
‘What’s his name?’
‘Constable Burge.’
‘How long has he been with us?’
‘He came to Scotland Yard five years ago, Sir Edward, and I’ve heard nothing but good of him. In fact, I believe that Clifford Burge is sergeant material in due course. His record is exemplary.’
‘Does he know the area?’
‘He was born and brought up in Limehouse. When you first meet him, you think he ought to be selling fruit from a stall in the local market but you’d be mistaken. He’s got a keen intelligence and a talent for making significant arrests.’
‘I like the sound of this fellow already.’
‘Interview others, if you must, but I do recommend that you also take a look at Constable Burge.’
‘I most certainly will.’
About to leave, the commissioner remembered something. ‘You mentioned Inspector Marmion a moment ago.’
‘He and Sergeant Keedy are on their way to Birmingham.’
‘What are they doing there?’
‘They have to break the bad news to a family of a murder victim.’
‘Is this the man who was hauled out of the Thames earlier on?’
‘It is, Sir Edward. His name is Gilbert Donohoe. He was a businessman of sorts and a very successful one, it seems.’
‘Perhaps someone resented his success,’ said Sir Edward. ‘At all events, you put the right person in charge of the investigation. Inspector Marmion never lets us down, does he?’
With some difficulty, Chatfield manufactured a semblance of a smile.
The house was even bigger than they’d anticipated. Sitting on two acres of land, it was a Victorian construction with three storeys. Standing apart from it was a large garage with living accommodation above it. When the taxi dropped them off there, Keedy stood and marvelled.
‘It’s enormous,’ he said. ‘It’s big enough to have a snooker room.’
Marmion laughed. ‘Is that your idea of luxury, Joe – to play snooker whenever you fancy?’
‘Don’t mock. You enjoy a game as much as I do. If you keep at it, you might actually beat me one day.’
‘Your luck won’t last for ever.’ As they walked towards the house, Marmion pricked up his ears. ‘Can you hear something?’
‘It’s only the sound of money being counted.’
‘No, listen. It’s quite clear. Someone is playing the piano.’
Keedy concentrated. ‘You’re right, Harv, and they’re playing it very well.’
‘It’s a shame to interrupt the music – especially with the news that we bring.’
He tugged the bell pull and there was a tinkling sound deep inside the house. The door was soon opened by a maidservant. Marmion performed the introductions and both men produced their warrant cards. Young and pale-faced, the woman was clearly alarmed.
‘Mr Donohoe is not here,’ she stuttered.
‘We know that,’ said Marmion. ‘We came to speak to other members of the family. How many of them are here?’
‘Mrs Donohoe is in the music room. That’s her, playing the piano. Her son is here as well. He’s not long come back from the factory.’
‘We’d like to speak to both of them together, please.’
After inviting them into the hall, she went off down the corridor. The first person she alerted was Adrian Donohoe who came at once. When he reached the detectives, he appraised them with an almost patrician air. He was a tall, lean, assertive individual in his thirties. Keedy recognised the facial similarities with the father. Before they could explain the reason for their visit, they saw Clara Donohoe coming towards them. Middle-aged and of middle height, she was a woman with natural poise who’d kept both her figure and her beauty. After names had been exchanged, she invited the detectives into the spacious and tastefully furnished living room. While she sat on the sofa with her son, Marmion and Keedy settled into armchairs opposite them. Keedy had been more than happy to take the lead at the morgue. In a situation like the present one, however, he was glad to let Marmion do most of the talking. The inspector had many years’ experience of passing on bad news gently and tactfully.
‘Is this about my father?’ asked Adrian, bluntly.
‘I’m afraid that it is, sir,’ replied Marmion.
‘Has there been some kind of accident?’
‘It’s rather more serious than that.’
Clara tensed. ‘What’s happened?’
‘A body was retrieved from the Thames earlier today, Mrs Donohoe. We have reason to believe that it might be that of your husband. To be absolutely certain,’ said Marmion, softly, ‘we’ll need a formal identification by next of kin, of course.’
Clara was numbed. Significantly, Adrian made no attempt to comfort his mother. He fumed in silence for several seconds then blurted out an accusation.
‘You must be mistaken, Inspector,’ he said. ‘Father had a regular schedule whenever he went to London. He’d never go anywhere near the river. You’ve given us an unnecessary fright. I think you should be more certain of your facts before you barge into someone’s house like this.’
‘We spoke to his tailor, sir. He recognised the suit that Mr Donohoe had been wearing. Your father has been a client for some years, I gather.’
Adrian was scornful. ‘Is that all you’re going on – the word of a tailor?’
‘Keep your voice down,’ advised his mother, quietly.
‘I refuse to believe that Father would either have fallen in the river when he’d drunk too much or – an even more ridiculous idea – that he committed suicide. Both suggestions are palpably absurd.’
‘I haven’t made either of them, sir,’ said Marmion, levelly.
‘Then how is he supposed to have ended up there?’
The inspector looked from mother to son before speaking. ‘He was murdered, sir,’ he told them, almost whispering. ‘Valuables were taken from him and there were no means of identification on the body. We had to resort to a trawl around a series of men’s outfitters. One of them eventually recognised the suit.’
‘It was at Langley, Hope and Catto in Bond Street,’ interjected Keedy.
‘Does that name ring a bell?’
Adrian glared at them. ‘Yes, it does,’ he said through gritted teeth.
Before he could say anything else, his mother put a firm hand on his arm.
‘Let the inspector speak, dear,’ she said. ‘I want to hear every single detail he can tell us. Then we can go to London in due course to … identify the body ourselves. I’ll need you with me to do that.’
‘Your son could go in your stead, Mrs Donohoe,’ suggested Keedy.
‘He was my husband, Sergeant. I won’t shrink from my duty.’
‘You must do as you wish.’
‘We’d be grateful for all the information you can give us,’ said Marmion. ‘We’d like, for instance, to know where he stayed when he was in London and whom he was going to see on this latest visit.’
‘Before that,’ she said, mastering her emotions, ‘I’d like to know exactly what happened. However disagreeable the truth, I must hear it.’
