by John Creasey
“Have you got to go out already?” Janet asked, as he leaned forward and kissed her.
“Only round the corner,” he answered. “I’ll be back for breakfast.”
Ten minutes later, he was out of the house, one of many detached ones in Bell Street, each with its well matured garden, neat hedge and winter-trim lawn. At the first corner was the largest house in the street, exactly right for him and Janet, and he had heard rumours that it was for sale. Would the price be too high? He paused, heard a whistle, looked round and saw the boys waving from the main bedroom window. Two neighbours were passing on the way to the buses in King’s Road, and there was a flutter of good mornings. Two paper boys were standing by their bicycles, in earnest consultation. A small girl with ridiculous spike-heeled shoes and overpainted lips and cheeks closed the door of a house at the corner, and came hurrying along the garden path, obviously late for her bus. She glanced at Roger and he said: “Good morning.”
“Good morning, superintendent!”
Roger turned the corner, his back to the girl, and saw two police cars and three policemen standing outside 24, Manville Street. Although it was just round the corner from Bell Street where he lived, the houses here had a different style and character. These were fifty years older, and stood in a terrace, all of them five storeys high. Number 24 was two houses made into one, and thirty years ago a fairly good job of conversion had been done. The landlord and his wife lived in a basement flat approached from the entrance to Number 22, and the main flatlets were approached by the single staircase of Number 24. It was an advantage to know the layout in advance. A uniformed man recognised Roger, saluted, and waved two excited-looking schoolboys away. Roger turned into Number 24, seeing the narrow passage and hearing voices, including those of a querulous, scared-sounding woman. Then he heard Thompson’s deep voice. Thompson was a senior superintendent in his last years at the Division. For some reason, he had always preferred night duty. He was a massive barrel of a man dressed in crumpled brown, and was talking to a dumpy grey-haired woman who still had curlers in her hair.
“But I keep telling you,” the woman said. “I just happened to be awake early and I’d run out of milk. I popped down to see if the milkman had been but he hadn’t and I was coming upstairs. Then I saw a light at Miss Murray’s door, the door wasn’t quite closed you see, it often springs open if it’s closed from the outside, her door does, the lock needs attention. I thought she wouldn’t mind lending me a little milk if she was awake, so I tapped, and when there wasn’t any answer I pushed the door a little wider, wondering if she was all right, and then I saw her.”
It was a good, straightforward, breathlessly told story.
Thompson said: “Thank you, Mrs. Cartwright. I won’t need to worry you any more just now. You’ll be in for the next hour, won’t you?”
“I’ll be in all the morning,” Mrs. Cartwright declared, and turned to see who Thompson was staring at. She looked into Roger’s eyes, and he saw the defensiveness in hers; she was afraid that he was going to ask her to repeat what she had said.
He smiled, not knowing that it was the way he did so, and his briskness, which had helped to earn him the nickname ‘Handsome’; that had stuck during his twenty five years at the Yard.
“Did you get any milk, Mrs. Cartwright?” he asked.
“Did I—” The woman opened her mouth wide, and then said in vexation: “Would you believe it, I completely forgot.”
“Not really surprising,” Roger said lightly, and turned and called to the constable just outside the front door. “Rustle up a pint of milk, constable, the milkman’s just along the street.”
Mrs. Cartwright managed to say: “Thank you everso,” as Roger passed her. Thompson was smiling behind his heavy moustache. Roger winked, and they went upstairs, Roger in the lead because the staircase was not wide enough for two such massive men.
“Public relations, that ought to be your field,” Thompson declared. “You’d have them eating out of your hand. How are tricks?”
“We live.”
“That what you call it?” Thompson asked with heavy sarcasm. There was little humour in his rather heavy-lidded brown eyes. “Got a nasty one here, Handsome. Wondered if Sloan would give it to you.” He pointed upwards. “One more flight.” A minute later, Roger stepped into the one-room flatlet where the dead girl lay on the bed, and three Yard men were taking measurements showing the position of the bed in relation to the doors, window and furniture. Another man was fiddling with a camera on a tripod. The Yard could be as old fashioned as a small county force. “Here she is,” Thompson said, needlessly. “Named Murray—Alice Murray.”
“Sent for a doctor?”
“On the way.”
“Anyone touched her?”
“Nope.” Thompson moved towards an outflung arm. “I felt her pulse, that’s all. Cold already.”
“Stiff?”
“Yes.”
“Been dead some time, then,” Roger observed. He stood looking down at the oval face of the girl, seeing the now dark bruises at her throat, seeing also the odd angle of her neck. Could there be a broken neck as well as strangulation? The police surgeon would have the last word about that.
The girl looked quite charming as she lay there. Her dark hair was short, with the rather untidy kind of cut that some girls thought was attractive, and she had very ordinary features, but a fine complexion.
“We had any luck?” Roger asked.
“Not a thing, yet,” Thompson answered. “But we haven’t had much time, Handsome, “give us a chance. What would you like to do?”
“It’s your case,” Roger said.
“Only for another two and a half minutes,” Thompson declared, taking a big gold watch out of his waistcoat pocket. “Don’t mind me, you won’t tread on my toes.”
“Have it your own way,” said Roger. “We’ll have the room vacuumed as soon as we can, but have a look round for obvious things first. Didn’t send for Fox, did you?”
“He’s on days.”
“We have to have some luck,” Roger said, and turned to one of the detectives who was busy with measuring tape, pad and pencil. “Go down and radio the Yard for Detective Sergeant Fox and his bag of tricks, will you?” he asked. “Speak to Mr. Sloan. He’ll still be there, and he’ll fix it.” Roger looked at Thompson. “How many chaps can you spare for questioning everyone in the house and in the street?”
“Half a dozen, I s’pose.”
“I’ll get another half a dozen from the Yard,” Roger said. “We don’t want to lose any time. The tenants won’t like it, but no one must leave the house until we give the okay. Anyone tried to leave?” he inquired.
“Not yet, but Mrs. Cartwright said there are two people who left at about a quarter past seven.”
“Pity,” said Roger. “We’ll find out where they work from the landlord, though, that shouldn’t be much trouble.” He was thinking exactly what should be done, and what reaction to expect from anyone inconvenienced by the investigation. In the next half hour, most of the residents would want to leave for their offices and shops, there would be protest and possibly uproar when they were detained. The daily exodus would start any minute, and the best way of making sure there wasn’t a buildup was to station a man at each landing, and keep the residents there as they opened the doors of their flats.
“Drop those jobs,” Roger said to the two men in the room, “and take over a landing apiece. Be very nice and polite, but tell everyone they can’t come out, and ask them if they heard anything—all the usual routine. Don’t forget to lay on the honey.”
Thompson said: “I’ll go and bring a couple more of my chaps up, Handsome.” He went out, leaving Roger alone with the body of the girl. He stood looking down at her, and then very gently turned the sheet down farther from her chin. He saw the pyjamas hugging the almost adolesc
ent curves of the breasts, the legs drawn up a little, but there was nothing to suggest that this girl had fought hard, or that anyone had attempted to rape her; one good thing. He studied the angle of the neck again, saw the bruises, saw that the right arm was flung out, almost straight. He could imagine that she had been disturbed, put on the light, and been attacked as she did so. This had the look of a burglar having been caught by surprise, but what would a burglar think was worth taking from here? No one with any money or valuables would live in this kind of house, so the obvious solution had a self-evident snag. Obvious things too often had. He moved to the window and opened the curtains an inch or two. It was a bright morning and would soon be broad daylight; when Fox arrived, he could make his search by the naked eye first, and then get busy with his vacuum cleaner. Fox was the best man at the Yard for a room search, a man who could spot even split hairs.
Thompson came back. “That’s fixed, every landing’s watched, and the first squawk made,” he said. “Old Dammit is coming up the stairs, he won’t waste any time.” Old Dammit was the affectionate nickname for Dr. Claude Mortimer, the chief divisional police surgeon. “I’m going back to clear up at the office. All right?”
Roger looked straight at him.
“The girl didn’t get out of bed, so she didn’t open the door. She wouldn’t be likely to go to bed with it open. If he’d picked the lock we’d know—that lock was turned with a key. So, it was someone who had a key. Boy friend, lover, brother, sister, girl friend, that’s who we’re after.”
“You know your trouble,” growled Thompson. “You think too fast. If you ask me, the best witness for your money is Mrs. Nosey Cartwright, if she would push open a neighbour’s door like that—” Thompson broke off, and grinned, his eyes widening. “Oh, I see, that’s why you fixed her up with some milk! Crafty so-and-so, that’s what you are. I’ll be seeing you, Handsome. Happy the case is in good hands!”
He grinned again and went off, to bump into Claude Mortimer at the door.
“Dammit,” Mortimer complained, “you don’t have to tread on my toes.”
“Sorry, Doc.”
“Morning, Doc,” Roger greeted. “Couldn’t be more glad to see you. Mind having a look at this, while I have a word with a neighbour who might have heard something?”
“Pleasure to have you out of my way,” Mortimer declared. He was a short, paunchy man, breathless from the stairs, always inclined to be crotchety, but a very able police surgeon who worked quickly and who seldom gave an opinion which wasn’t subsequently confirmed by an autopsy or evidence. “Oh dear, oh dear,” he said as he looked at the girl. “Dammit, why do these things have to happen?”
Roger went across to Mrs. Cartwright’s door, and was not surprised when it opened the moment he tapped; she must have been listening intently. Nor was he surprised that she had a fund of knowledge about the tenants, or that she knew that once or twice Alice Murray had had a man in her room, or that she believed she knew who the man was.
A rather young, bald-headed man, ever so well dressed, who had a Jaguar car. She couldn’t be sure, of course, but this man had driven her home sometimes; he had never come in, but young people were so cunning these days, weren’t they? Why, Miss Murray had even called the man Mr. Something, not by his first name, although the man had called her Alice. A smooth type, if Roger knew what she meant, and the name – oh, yes, she remembered the name, it was Anderson. So unapt, if he knew what she meant!
Mrs. Cartwright also knew that Alice worked for a jewel merchant named Anderson, who had a shop in Kensington High Street.
Chapter Five
Late Morning
John Payne felt a tug at his shoulder, waking him out of the stupor of sleep. On the instant he felt the kind of panic which had seized him several times last night; his body went rigid, he kept his eyes tightly closed, almost afraid to see who was shaking him.
Then, Gwen said: “What on earth is the matter with us this morning?”
The laugh, never far away from her, sounded in her voice – like that of the man, last night. Payne opened his eyes slowly, and looked at her through his lashes, anxious that she should not see the expression in his eyes at first. She was wearing a dressing gown, her flaxen hair was very fluffy, as if she’d just run a comb through it, and she had on no make up. She was bending over and shaking him.
“Hallo, Gwen,” he mumbled. “Is it late?”
“Late? It’s ten o’clock.”
“What?” he exclaimed, and opened his eyes wide at last. “It can’t be!”
“It is,” Gwen insisted. “Goodness knows why, but we’ve all overslept. Thank goodness it’s Saturday, and only Hilda has to go early.”
“Good lord!” Payne said, and hitched himself up in his pillows. The bedside clock showed that it was a little after ten. “We haven’t done this for months.”
“And then only after a late night,” said Gwen. “It must have been that sausage toad.”
“But we’ve had—” Payne began, and then broke off, seeing her smiling at him. “Well, it doesn’t matter what caused it, we’ve overslept.”
“Did you have anything special to do this morning?” Gwen asked.
“I wanted to see a couple of customers, but it wasn’t urgent, and I had no appointments. Just as well,” Payne added, “we might as well make a morning of it, now.”
“You can if you like, but I’ve got to go and do the shopping,” Gwen said. “Maurice wants an early lunch, he’s playing football at Harrow this afternoon, and the kick off is at two. Like breakfast in bed?”
“Er—no,” decided Payne. “No, I’ll have a cup of tea, and then get up. You forget all about me, I’ll get what I want to eat.”
“Please yourself, duckie.” Gwen stood back, looking at him, and he was uneasily aware of the broad daylight on his face; the sun was much brighter than most winter mornings. “Are you feeling all right, Jack?”
“Bit heady, that’s all,” Payne said. “I slept too long.”
“What time did you come to bed?”
“Soon after midnight.”
“You look as if you hardly slept at all,” Gwen remarked. “I’d lay in, if I were you.” She drew back, and Payne was glad when she turned and was no longer looking at him. Her dressing gown was tied tightly round the waist, and nothing ever disguised her swaying walk, but he was not thinking about Gwen and her curves. He was thinking of the restless hours he had spent here; the dread of waking her when he had first come home; the way he had undressed and crept into his cold bed; the way he had tried to sleep, but had been haunted by Alice’s face. It would not have mattered if he had left Alice sleeping, but to know that she had been aware of what he was doing, that her last few minutes alive had been in awful fear, was the haunting horror.
He wanted to be alone.
His head ached, and when he leaned forward to see his face in the mirror, he could understand why Gwen had been so concerned. His eyes were bloodshot, and his skin pasty.
Shock of course – it would be a long time before he recovered from the ordeal of the night. If that couple of love birds hadn’t come when they had, he might have been all right, but it had been a long drawn out agony.
At least no one would even know he had been out; no one could connect him with Alice …
Could they?
Had he been careful enough?
He tried to tell himself that there was nothing to worry about, but fears which had not even occurred to him before the murder crowded his mind, and suddenly he shivered. He would have to get over this mood, Gwen would soon begin to suspect that there was a guilty reason for it. He got up, went to the bathroom, and washed vigorously. Cold water stung some colour back to his cheeks, but his eyes remained bloodshot. When he got back to the bedroom, Gwen was coming up the stairs with the tea tray, and Hilda called out: “’Bye, Mum!’Bye, Dad!”<
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“Off you go,” Gwen called.
“Bye!” Payne made himself shout, and his head pounded after the exertion. “She’ll be in trouble,” he said to Gwen. “They hate her being late on Saturday mornings.”
“Well, they’ll have to lump it,” Gwen declared, and put the tray down and studied him again. “Are you sure you feel all right? You look a bit flushed. I’ll pop into the bathroom and get the thermometer, see if you’re running a temperature.”
He shouted: “Don’t fuss me! I’m perfectly all right!”
Gwen stared in astonishment; it was months, perhaps years, since he had raised his voice at her.
“You must be feeling bad,” she observed drily. “I don’t care what you say, I’m going to take your temperature.” She put the tray down and went out, leaving Payne lying back on his pillows, frightened at himself. To shout at Gwen. He felt perspiration cold on his forehead, and on his neck. He strained up so as to look at his reflection, and saw the flush receding, pallor replacing it; no wonder she thought he was ill.
He must get a hold on himself, and tell her something, anything, which would help to explain that outburst. But his head ached so much. Without warning, Maurice began to whistle on a high pitched note; he wanted to scream at the boy. A door banged. Payne clenched his teeth. Maurice came walking and whistling along, saw the bedroom door wide open, looked in and flicked a salute.
“Morning, Pop!”
“Hallo, Maurice,” Payne said.
“Say, what’s the matter with you?”
“Maurice,” Gwen called, “your father isn’t well this morning. Stop that whistling and go downstairs and start cooking the breakfast.”
“Sure,” said Maurice, promptly, and his face was a study in concern. “Sorry you’re not well, Dad. It’s nothing serious, is it?”
“Of course it isn’t,” his mother declared, bustling along from the bathroom. “It’s something we ate last night.”