“Firstly, what’s your name and, secondly, are you the owner of this establishment?” asked Tollman, getting out his notebook and pencil.
The man looked at him with barely disguised contempt. “Do you think I would be living in two poxy rooms in this dump if I was the owner?”
Billy cuffed him round the ear and barked, “Oi! Show some respect to the detective, or I’ll have you flat on the floor under my boot again!”
The man glared at Billy and decided to co-operate more fully.
“The name’s Fred Miller and I’m just the porter,” he said sullenly. “I don’t know who owns the place. All I know is that some woman comes every two weeks and collects the rents.”
“Name of the woman?”
Miller shook his head. “She never gave one and I never asked.”
“What does she look like … this woman who collects the rents?”
Miller reflected for a moment. “Powdered and painted … but that don’t make her good-looking. Sort of medium height with fair hair. Hard face. If you’d have pointed her out to me in the street and told me she was a prossy, I’d have believed it.”
“And was this woman here last night?”
Miller shook his head. “She never normally comes at night but, if she was here, I wouldn’t have seen her.”
Tollman was momentarily puzzled. “Why wouldn’t you have seen her?”
Miller looked uneasy. “Because once it gets past seven o’clock in the evening, I shut that door and I don’t come out—no matter what goes on upstairs.” He lowered his voice and looked intently at Tollman. “There’s some very important men come to this house to … conduct their business, if you get my drift. I don’t want to see them and they don’t want to see me. What a person doesn’t know, or see, can’t be sworn in court. The woman told me that. She said I was to mind my own business and stay in my room, no matter what I hear going on upstairs. So, if anyone came here last night, I wouldn’t have seen them.”
Tollman nodded. “I understand. Does the woman get involved with the … er … tenants upstairs?”
“Nah. She’s like a ghost, she is. She comes early in the morning, about nine, when they’re all sleeping. No one ever sees her except me.”
Tollman filed this piece of information away and then said, “So now tell me what you heard last night.”
Miller sighed. “The usual. Men coming in and going up the stairs. Some screaming …”
“Screaming?” Tollman was taken aback by the casualness of the remark.
“Two types,” Miller continued unabashed. “On Tuesdays and Thursdays there is one of the young men upstairs who screams a bit. On Mondays and Wednesdays, there’s an older man’s voice, which sort of screams and moans.”
“God help us!” muttered Billy.
“And you do nothing about this?” asked Tollman with a strong tone of distaste.
Miller was defensive. “I told you—I don’t want to know what goes on in this house and who does it. Each to their own. It’s not my cup of tea but let ’em get on with it. It’s not my place to interfere. If they need a doctor, they’ve got one lined up.”
“Name of the doctor?”
“No idea. You’ll have to ask them.”
“Did you hear anything else last night?”
Miller looked reluctant but said, “I heard someone come in the back door, run the full length of the hallway and go out the front.”
“And you saw nothing?”
“I told you … I don’t open that door after seven. Not for anything.”
Tollman thought for a moment and then said, “Where’s your accounts book?”
Miller reluctantly got up off his chair and went to a drawer and withdrew a battered leather-bound book. “There’s nothing much in there,” he said as he handed it to Tollman. “Just the rents and the fortnightly totals for when the woman picks them up.”
“Mm.” Tollman flicked through the pages. “When is the woman due to collect again?
“Tomorrow.”
Tollman thought for a moment and then handed back the book. “Here’s the deal,” he explained firmly. “You will say nothing of this to the woman. When she appears you will not have a conversation with her about our visit …”
“I don’t anyway,” interrupted Miller.
“Don’t what?”
“Have a conversation with her. She comes in and says, ‘Got the rents?,’ I give her the money, she goes. That’s it. We don’t exchange pleasantries. She’s never shown any inclination ever since she employed me to be the porter here.”
“She employed you?”
“Some two years ago now. I answered an advertisement in the paper. I came here, she asked me a few questions and gave me the job. I was lucky to get it on account of me being inside for three years for grievous. The rooms came with it. I was told what went on here. Told to keep my mouth and the door shut at night and that was it. She picks the rent up, gives me my money and goes. She ain’t the owner though.”
“Who is then?” Tollman was intrigued.
Miller shrugged. “Dunno. Some bloke, I suppose. I once asked for money to get stair carpet put down to muffle the noise of the patrons going up and down all night. She said, ‘I’ll ask my boss,’ and that was it. Next time she came, she said, ‘He said yes,’ and gave me ten pounds to get it done. That’s the only conversation we’ve had in two years.”
“Right.” Tollman scribbled furiously. “So, I will repeat what I just said. You do not mention that we have been here. This is part of a serious murder investigation …”
“Murder?!” Miller was alarmed.
“Oh, didn’t I mention that?” Tollman feigned surprise. “Yes. Someone murdered a witness that we were looking for, right outside your back door. So, if you mention to this woman who collects your rents that we were here, and she turns out to be the murderer, I will have you up in court as an accessory. Understood?”
“Understood,” said Miller firmly. “But what about being had up for running a knocking shop? Am I facing that as well?”
Tollman looked at the man and said quietly, “Not necessarily. If you co-operate with us in this investigation, it will go well for you. If you do a runner, I will find you. So stay where you are … carry on with your job … and I will put in a good word for you when the time comes. Got that?”
Miller nodded.
“Good.” Tollman turned to Billy, “Now, PC Rigsby, I’m afraid we have the unpleasant task of interviewing the lads upstairs.”
* * *
Beech had an idea and he turned to Caroline with a triumphant look on his face.
“Caro … you are going to pretend to be my secretary!”
Caroline looked at him in astonishment. “I beg your pardon?!”
“Look,” he answered patiently, “we don’t want this doctor to know that you are as highly trained as he is. If you go into his office and start asking him medical questions and displaying your credentials, he might get all defensive or, at worst, refuse to say anything. If he thinks that we are both ignorant laymen … women … you know what I mean … he may try to bluff and we can catch him out.”
Caroline looked at Beech. “I can see the sense of that,” she admitted, “but, Peter, why on earth would you take a secretary with you to conduct an interview?”
Beech grinned. “Ah! I’ve thought of that. I want you to bind my right hand up like Rigsby’s. I’ll pretend that it’s one of my war wounds and that I can’t write, so I need someone to take notes—which you will do for me—but it will also allow you to write down any questions you feel I should ask … couching them in layman’s terms, of course. I will periodically ask you to give me the notes to check, so that I can read your prompts.”
“You have worked this out, haven’t you?” Caroline was impressed.
Beech smiled, her praise making him feel quite proud.
“I rather like the idea of dealing with this doctor by deception,” she said cheerfully. “I’ll go and get my bag and then
I can tape up your hand. Perhaps you should limp a little as well?” she suggested as she left the room.
Caroline seemed to be gone for some time but, once she returned, she began to bandage his hand tightly, while chattering away about her planned role as his secretary.
“You should start off by asking him exactly what drugs he gave Lord Murcheson—although he probably won’t tell you. He’ll probably fall back on the old chestnut of patient confidentiality, which I personally think is ridiculous once a patient is dead.”
“But we know what drugs he gave Murcheson,” said Beech, puzzled by her statement. “We have them from the house.”
“We know what drugs he prescribed, Peter. The ones he put his practice labels on. We don’t know if he gave him other drugs—not obtained through a pharmacy.”
Beech looked at her askance. “Would a Harley Street doctor do that?”
Caroline snorted derisively. “You think that because a doctor has a fancy practice and rich patients he is above making some extra money on the side? You heard Arthur Tollman’s report about the aristocrats in the nightclub. They bring their own drugs—given to them by their doctors. I bet they’re not written down in the practice books, just like the illegal abortions performed in Harley Street.”
“Surely not? Eminent doctors? Why would they perform abortions?”
Caroline sighed, then smiled. “For a policeman, you are terribly naïve, Peter Beech,” she scolded him gently. “They do it because their patients—Lady so and so and the Duchess of wherever—ask them to get rid of an unwanted or inconvenient pregnancy. Or they ask them to get rid of their unmarried daughter’s proof of indiscretion. The trouble is that many of them might be top-notch physicians but they are not surgeons. I have patched up too many botched jobs among upper-class women to know only too well what goes on with so-called ‘eminent’ doctors.” She patted his bandaged hand. “All done. Try and move it.”
Beech found that the hand was completely rigid, although not uncomfortable. “Well done, old thing,” he said. “Now go and get your coat and hat and let’s be off.”
“Actually, I’ve borrowed a coat and hat from Esme. I didn’t want to be too expensively dressed. Not for a secretary. And my personal coat is from a private designer. Our man in Harley Street would spot its worth straight away. I also borrowed Mrs Beddowes best handbag and I have a notebook and fountain pen.”
“Good Lord! I wondered why you were away for so long, just now. You have really thought of everything!” Beech shook his head in disbelief. “But I think the handbag was a touch too much.”
“Not at all!” Caroline was adamant. “It’s the first thing they teach male medical students—‘base your fees on the price of a good lady’s handbag’—so all the male doctors are very aware of what a good handbag looks like and what it is worth.”
“Astonishing.” Beech marveled at Caroline’s attention to detail.
The cab journey to the doctors was spent in companionable silence until the cab turned off Oxford Street.
“Remember, Caro,” Beech murmured, “you are a secretary. That means you cannot venture any opinion or ask any questions. You will have no authority once we enter those rooms.”
“Understood,” Caroline replied. “It will probably kill me to keep quiet but I promise I won’t give the game away.”
Beech smiled fondly at her and they stepped on to the pavement to begin their little charade.
CHAPTER 17
Tollman eyed the assembled young men in the bedroom. He was trying to estimate their ages and he was sure that no one would tell him the truth in that regard.
Before he had ascended the stairs with Billy, he had imparted some words of wisdom to the young constable.
“Whatever you see up there, lad, just let it wash over you. Don’t react in any way. Don’t show anger or disgust. We need information from these lads and we don’t want to put them too much on the defensive.”
Billy had merely raised an eyebrow and said sardonically, “What—you don’t think I’ve had any exposure to nancy boys? I was in the Guards for four years. Plenty of them hire themselves out to old queers. I believe the going rate for a guardsman is a guinea. For some reason the Household Cavalry blokes are worth two guineas—don’t ask me why—must be because they smell of horse liniment. And as for the boxing game—how many places do you know where blokes can go and gawp at young men in shorts being oiled up in the corner of a ring? I’ve been propositioned by my share of ’em. There ain’t nothing that will surprise me about this lot upstairs. Don’t you worry about me, Mr Tollman. I’m not one of your faint-hearted young coppers who hasn’t seen the seamier side of life.”
Tollman had given a weary smile and patted Billy on the shoulder. “You are a constant wonder to me, lad—and a constant reminder that I am getting old and ill-fitted for the way the world is changing.”
But even Billy had been unprepared for the huddle of pale and frightened youths assembled in the room. Stripped of their make-up and bravado, some barely looked older than eighteen and some looked ill.
Tollman took a deep breath. “Are any of you here in this house against your will? If you are, we can help you.”
All the young men shook their heads. Tollman singled out the one that looked youngest to him. “What’s your name, lad?” he asked quietly.
“George Harris,” he mumbled.
Tollman looked at the others. “Right. I want the rest of you to go into the room opposite and wait until I call you. I want to have a word with George here.”
The tallest, and what looked to Tollman like the oldest, young man looked alarmed.
“No, I need to stay with him!” he said urgently.
“And you are?” Tollman enquired.
“Michael …” he seemed reluctant to give his surname.
Tollman looked at the pale youth, George, and detected a faint trembling. He nodded to the tall youth. “You can stay, as long as you don’t interfere.”
Billy shepherded out the rest of the youths into the facing room, closed the door on them and returned to stand behind Tollman. He removed his helmet and he saw George react at the sight of his facial scar.
“War wound,” he said.
George nodded.
“Sit down, lad,” said Tollman quietly. “I need to ask you some questions.”
George sat on the edge of the bed and pulled his dressing gown further around his slight body. Michael came and sat next to George and put his arm around George’s shoulders to reassure him. Tollman’s sharp eyes noticed the small flicker of pain across the young man’s face at his friend’s touch.
“How old are you, George?” Tollman asked. “I want the truth now.”
George looked at his friend, who nodded.
“Eighteen,” he said quietly.
Out of the corner of his eye, Tollman saw Billy stir slightly and he put out a hand to warn Billy not to say or do anything.
“Now show me the injuries to your back, lad,” Tollman said slowly.
George looked frightened again and his eyes began to fill with tears.
Tollman persisted. “I need to see your injuries, George.”
Michael murmured quietly, “Do as he says …” and removed his arm from his friend’s shoulders.
George stood up, a tear trickling down his cheek. He turned around and slipped his dressing gown down to his waist. His back was scarred with long whip marks—some livid, some old and some looked yellow with pus.
“Jesus Christ,” Billy said under his breath.
“Who did this to you?” Tollman asked, his voice thick with pity.
George began quietly sobbing.
Tollman turned to Michael. “You know who did this. Tell me.” He said it accusingly and Michael flushed.
“His patron,” he said dully. “The man who visits him every week. The man who pays for his services, this room, his food, his clothes …”
“Name?”
Michael shook his head. “Don’t know.”
Tollman was beginning to get angry. “I want a name!”
George spoke quietly, his back still turned to the two policemen. “He calls himself David. That’s all I know.”
“Was he here last night?”
Michael nodded.
“What time?”
“Between eight and ten, I think.”
Tollman looked at Billy. Their unspoken thought was that the time fitted in with the timing of Dodds’ murder.
“Cover yourself up, lad,” he said tersely to George.
Billy spoke suddenly. “He needs tending to. I can do it. I’ve patched up worse in the trenches.”
Tollman nodded.
Billy looked at Michael. “I need a clean bowl of water with lots of salt in it. Has anybody got some iodine?”
Michael said he would find out.
“I need some clean handkerchiefs and an unused razor blade,” Billy continued. “Oh, and we need to give him something for the pain.”
Michael fished in his dressing gown pocket and produced a packet. “Give him this,” he said, before leaving to assemble Billy’s first aid kit.
Billy opened his hand and showed Tollman the packet.
“One of those bloody packets of heroin again,” muttered Tollman bitterly.
“The porter has them,” said George quietly. “We buy them from him.”
“Do you?” Tollman wasn’t asking a question. He was making an angry observation. “Billy, you minister to this lad, while I speak to matey downstairs,” and he walked out of the room briskly.
Billy held out the packet to George. “I don’t want to give this to you but what I am about to do to your back is going to hurt like the blazes.”
George gave Billy a very thin mirthless smile. “As you can see, I’m used to pain,” he whispered as he took the packet. “And I’m also used to this stuff.” Another small tear trickled down his cheek again as he began to sniff the powder.
* * *
Tollman almost broke the door handle as he burst into the porter’s room in a rage. Miller leapt up in concern and let out a roar of protest.
“Where are the drugs you sell to these young men?” Tollman hissed venomously.
Murder in Belgravia Page 20