by R. N. Morris
Then he shook his head in disbelief, as his shoulders shook in laughter and relief.
THIRTY-TWO
Brick-built and suburban in their scale and vision, the properties on Wallingford Avenue were more modest than the three-storey stuccoed town houses that dominated the Ladbroke Grove area. They were pleasant enough all the same, and presented a front of quiet domesticity. The sunlight glinted benignly on their bay windows. Their front gardens were well tended, competitively so perhaps. And behind the benign bay windows and the tidy front gardens, ordinary English lives were lived out. Lives of uniformity, composure, convention and restraint.
Elsewhere, in the bigger, flashier houses, the rich and servanted classes might indulge in their racy pastimes and let their jealous passions run wild. Here the worst that could be imagined of one’s neighbours was the coveting of another man’s gardenias, or perhaps going hatless on a warm Sunday afternoon.
And yet into this west London Eden, the most terrible of crimes had intruded.
The glints on the windows no longer seemed so benign. The universal compulsion for tidiness was revealed to be a mask.
Quinn looked down at the address written on the scrap of paper that Lettice had given him.
He had to admit, she had surprised him. She had handed the address over nonchalantly, with the merest flick of an eyebrow, her old ironic amusement back in place. She knew, of course, that he had underestimated her. And it evidently gave her the greatest pleasure to see his confusion.
‘I didn’t see you come out.’
‘Well, I did. Obviously.’
‘Yes. You must have been very quick. I was worried.’
‘You needn’t have been.’
‘You did well. Very well.’
‘Thank you.’
‘I had no right to involve you in this.’
‘No, probably not. But I did it because I wanted to.’
‘Still, I … There was probably another way to get this. I should have …’ He should have asked Inchball was what he should have done. But he had noticed Coddington watching his former sergeant even more closely than before. And so he had put Lettice at risk.
‘Don’t spoil it now.’
‘Spoil it?’
‘You chose me. To help you. Don’t spoil it by wishing you hadn’t.’ Her tone had lost its playfulness.
At that point, the door to Sir Edward Henry’s office had opened and Sir Edward himself had come out. Quinn discreetly pocketed the piece of paper.
Sir Edward seemed startled to see him. ‘What are you doing here?’ The commissioner did not wait for an answer. ‘No, no, this won’t do. You don’t report to me any more, Quinn. You know that. You report to Thompson now. I can’t speak to you.’ With that – and a recriminatory glare at Miss Latterly – he had retreated back inside his office.
And they had instinctively looked at one another, Quinn and Lettice, and laughed, the sniggering laughter of naughty schoolchildren.
Quinn came at last to the house. It was at the end of the terrace. The front garden was a little less well tended than its neighbours. The windows had their curtains drawn and somehow seemed to absorb the gleam of sunlight without benefiting from it. That was all to be expected, perhaps.
The door was opened by a woman perhaps somewhere in her forties. She was dressed in black, her dark hair tightly pinned up, with a few loose strands of wiry grey sticking out. These stray hairs gave her a look of impending derangement, as if they were lines drawn around her head to represent the silent scream of her thoughts. Her face was drained of colour, except in the eyes, the whites of which were raw, while there were dark smudges of exhaustion around them. She was exhausted by grief, as if grief was all she had to offer and it was never enough. She gave the impression of being a woman out of her depth, but then who wouldn’t be in these circumstances?
Quinn held out his warrant card. He may as well use it, even if he were not here officially. ‘Mrs Cardew?’
‘No. My sister is … indisposed.’
‘Yes, quite. I understand. I wonder if I may speak to Mr Cardew then. Pastor Cardew, as I believe it is.’
‘Has there been news? Have you found the man who did it?’
Quinn thought of William Egger, and of Coddington’s self-satisfied conviction that he had his man. ‘No.’ It would be cruel to answer otherwise.
The woman stood to one side to allow Quinn to enter. ‘Who could have done such a thing? Poor Evie. Poor, poor child.’ The emotion that was evidently only just held in check burst through. Ready tears streaked from her eyes. A convulsive sob shook her as she turned hurriedly away from him, as if to hide something shameful. Quinn had a glimpse into the life they must have been living inside this house since the murder. Uncontrollable weeping, questions asked that had no answers, no expectation of comfort or solace.
She left Quinn to close the door behind him and led the way into the house. He had walked in the wake of violent death before. Often, as now, it presented an incongruously mild face. This house, the walls hung with homely decorations, paintings of Bible scenes, scriptural verses embroidered in needlepoint, was in its fundamentals unchanged since the murder. They kept the curtains drawn now, so that a mournful pall had settled over everything. But here in the hall, light streamed in through the panes in the front door. It showed the dust gathering where once it might have been chased away. There was a stale, airless atmosphere, as if the building was holding its breath. The aunt who had let him in was thin and drawn, as if she had reduced her nourishment to the minimum.
Quinn guessed that she had come to take care of her sister and her family. But the impression he had was that she was barely able to take care of herself. They might have benefited from a maid. He presumed they lacked the resources.
She showed him into the front parlour, which was cast in a gloom that the electric light failed to dispel entirely. The empty chairs were arranged in a desolate grouping, as if they had given up hope of ever being sat upon again and had resorted to each other’s company.
He saw the aunt shake her head as she closed the door on him, an involuntary tic, a gesture of denial, of refusal to accept the unacceptable, of hopelessness that could not be articulated any other way, the negation of all hope. It was perhaps as well that the girl’s mother was indisposed. He could not imagine facing her grief.
He was left alone with the loud tick of a grandfather clock in the corner, meting out the heavy seconds until eternity. It was an ugly object, domineering and stubborn in its insistence on the relentless passage of time. Around the room, he saw more evidence of the family’s faith. A simple wooden cross was mounted above the fireplace, stark and minimal. On another wall he saw a painting of a lamb. And on the sideboard, he found a modest Bible open at the Book of Matthew. A ribbon marker lay under chapter five, verse four: ‘Blessed are those who mourn, For they shall be comforted.’
Quinn sensed the presence of another in the room and turned to see a man of middle years, dressed in a dark suit, wearing a shirt collar and tie. His hair and beard were greying and dishevelled. You would say that he was a handsome man; his good looks had survived the evident pain that he was suffering, perhaps had even been enhanced by it. He looked more like an actor than a minister, although perhaps, thought Quinn, those two professions were more closely related than many suspected. Both required that mysterious quality known as charisma.
‘My condolences,’ said Quinn, holding out his hand. ‘I am Detective Chief Inspector Quinn of …’ Quinn hesitated. He had been about to say of the Special Crimes Department. ‘Of the CID.’
The pastor took Quinn’s hand in both of his, as if he were offering comfort to Quinn. ‘“The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away.”’
‘It must be a great comfort to you, your faith?’
‘It is more than my comfort. It is my rock. Do you have no faith yourself?’
‘Once, perhaps.’
‘I spoke to your colleagues. They told me that the man who did this is probably a
German spy.’
‘That is one theory.’
There was a beat, a tense beat, before: ‘There are others?’
‘There are always many theories.’
‘Which, I suppose, means you are no closer to catching the man who did this?’
‘Where do you think … where do you believe she has gone?’
‘Who?’
‘Your daughter.’
‘She is dead.’
‘Yes. And you are a man of faith. So, do you believe she is in Heaven?’
The pastor hesitated. His eyes narrowed as he assessed Quinn. ‘That is a strange question for a policeman to ask. Is it relevant to the investigation?’
‘I don’t ask it as a policeman but as a man. A man who wants to believe but cannot. My father committed suicide. I suppose it was about that time that I lost my faith. I don’t know. Or maybe it had already happened. Certainly I lost my mind. Your sister-in-law, I met your sister-in-law.’
‘Yes. Gwyneth. What about her?’
‘She seems to have taken it very badly. Your daughter’s death. I would say. I don’t know. But that’s how she seemed to me. Raw.’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘She doesn’t have the same faith as you?’
‘I suppose not.’
‘And your wife, Mrs Cardew … how is she taking it?’
‘How do you think?’
‘It must have been a tremendous blow to her.’
‘To all of us.’
‘But you have your faith.’
‘I don’t quite see what you are driving at.’
‘“O Death, where is thy sting?” That’s from the Bible, isn’t it?’
‘The Book of Corinthians.’
‘My governor, Sir Edward Henry, is forever quoting the Bible at me. He’s a very Christian man. A good Christian. Forgiveness … surprisingly perhaps, for the commissioner of the Met … forgiveness is something he places great store by.’
‘Is there any particular reason why you have come here today, Chief Inspector?’
‘I wished to offer my condolences.’
‘Which you have done.’
‘And to tell you that we are doing all we can to find your daughter’s killer.’
‘I should hope so.’
‘But you didn’t answer my question, you know. Do you believe she is in Heaven? With God, in Heaven? That would be a great consolation if you could believe that, I would imagine. A great comfort.’
‘Wherever she is, it is God’s will.’
‘That is enough for you?’
‘More than enough.’
‘And my father … a man who killed himself? It is a sin, is it not, suicide? Where do you think he is?’
‘God is compassionate. He may forgive us our trespasses.’
‘As we forgive those who trespass against us? The Lord’s Prayer. I remember it well. It is ingrained in my memory. Even though I have not said it since I left school.’
‘Would you like us to say it together?’
‘Perhaps not now.’ Quinn took a moment to gather his thoughts. ‘You know the pork butcher’s on Goldhawk Road? Egger’s?’
‘I know of it. I think we get our pork chops and bacon from there. Herr Egger died, I believe.’
‘Yes, there was a riot at the shop. My colleagues have arrested William Egger – he is the son of the man who died.’
‘I don’t quite …’
‘They have arrested him for the murder of your daughter.’
‘I see.’
‘The theory is that Eve was there at the riot and, in fact, played a part in instigating it. And that William Egger, holding her somehow responsible for his father’s death, and the damage that was done to the shop, took his revenge by murdering her.’
‘You speak as if you do not concur with the theory?’
‘Well, to begin with, it came as the result of an anonymous tip-off. I am always suspicious of anonymous tip-offs. And in the current climate, a tip-off directed against a person of German or half-German parentage makes me even more suspicious than usual. You understand?’
Cardew nodded distractedly.
‘Does that sound like Eve, your daughter? Do you believe she could have whipped up this crowd to loot the butcher’s shop?’
‘She always was a wilful child.’
‘So you do not discount it as impossible?’
‘I believe my daughter was capable of many things.’
‘That you would not approve of?’
‘I will be honest. There is little point in being otherwise.’ Cardew paused, looking Quinn directly, unflinchingly in the eye. ‘She had a sinful nature.’
‘Your daughter?’
‘It is painful for me to admit it. But I am trying to help you. That is why I think it better to be frank.’
‘I see. I have had another … lead, you might call it. On the day of the Purity Meeting, she was seen giving a white feather to a young man who was there with his mother. His mother, I understand, had a German accent.’
‘Felix, you mean?’
‘That’s right, yes. Felix. You know him?’
‘Felix Simpkins. You don’t suspect Felix? His mother is a little … eccentric, but … Well, I suppose you must have your reasons.’
‘He had a motive.’
‘You mean the feather? Surely that’s not enough to …’ Pastor Cardew trailed off thoughtfully.
‘Humiliation is one of the most powerful emotions there is.’ Quinn grew reflective. ‘As is shame.’
‘But to kill?’
‘What would you consider a sufficient motive?’
Cardew thought for a moment. ‘Self-defence. Or the defence of your country against an aggressive enemy bent on your destruction.’
‘That’s why you held a war rally in your church?’
‘Do you think there is some incongruity there? Our nation faces a mortal peril.’
‘Self-defence takes many forms, does it not? A man may feel himself threatened in numerous ways.’
‘I am not sure what you mean.’
‘What was the relationship between your daughter and this youth, Felix?’
‘There was no relationship. Except to say that they both attended Sunday school together. But that was a long time ago. And other children did too.’
‘So it’s not true that Eve and Felix were at one time close?’
Cardew pinched the bridge of his nose. It was a gesture of profound weariness. ‘Close?’
‘Perhaps she confided in him?’ Quinn watched the pastor carefully. It seemed that he had been hit by a fresh wave of emotion. Grief was like that. It came at you when you least expected it.
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Still, I would like to talk to Felix. Do you happen to know his address?’
‘The twins used to go to his mother for piano lessons. That was years ago. But they lived on Godolphin Avenue then, just off Goldhawk Road. As far as I know they still do.’
‘You don’t remember the number?’
‘Adam will know.’ Cardew turned, as if to leave the room. ‘I’ll go and ask him.’
‘Ah yes, your son. Would it be possible for me to speak to him?’
Cardew stopped with his hand on the door. ‘Is that really necessary?’
‘He was the one who found your daughter, I believe.’
‘Yes, he did. And he has not got over the shock of it.’
‘I understand.’ Quinn fixed Cardew with a steady gaze. ‘I would not ask if I did not consider it necessary.’
Cardew trembled with a conflicted tension, as if he were torn between nodding his assent and shaking his head in refusal.
THIRTY-THREE
The young man shuffled into the room, dragging his feet, or perhaps just one of them, avoiding eye contact, his face a ghastly grey as if he was about to be sick, or just had been. The resemblance to his father, who was right behind him, was marked. Adam Cardew looked like a stretched out, younger version of the other man.
But it was as if in that stretching out, all the strengths of the original model had somehow been spread a little too thin. Adam was not as strikingly handsome as his father; his chin was weaker, his eyes more evasive, his overall demeanour sullen rather than forthright. Fiery constellations of acne erupted across his cheeks. Somehow you could never imagine his father suffering from acne. And Adam lacked that mysterious quality that marked Pastor Cardew out as a leader, a teacher, a shepherd of souls. It might have been self-belief he lacked, or a belief in anything. He held himself stooped and seemingly tensed in a permanent flinch. Of course, all this may have been simply grief, or shock. But Quinn had the sense that there was something else on display here.
He was dressed in cream flannels, the turn-ups floating a good inch above his ankles, with a woollen vest over a white shirt, a cravat tied at the open neck.
For all that he lacked his father’s charisma, Adam struck Quinn as an interesting young man, more human, more sympathetic, more complex somehow than his father.
Quinn held out his hand. ‘Hello, Adam.’
‘Hello. Are you the policeman?’
‘That’s right. I’m Detective Chief Inspector Quinn of the Special Crimes Department.’ The words were out before Quinn realized they were no longer strictly true. He let them go uncorrected.
‘I’ve heard of you? Have I? I think I have?’
Quinn shrugged as if that was not important. But it was true that he had wanted to impress the boy, even intimidate him.
‘Father says you want to ask me something.’
‘Shall we sit down?’ Quinn consulted Pastor Cardew. ‘Would that be all right?’
Quinn detected a tension in the pastor’s demeanour, between wariness and a desire to appear cooperative. ‘Make yourself at home.’
Quinn waited for Adam to sit down before taking a seat opposite. Cardew remained standing at the edge of the room, a spectator.
‘Your father tells me you used to have piano lessons?’
Adam appeared bewildered by the question. ‘I thought this was about Eve?’
‘It is. We’re anxious to speak to Felix Simpkins. He’s the son of the lady who used to teach you and your sister piano, I believe?’