Assassins

by Jim Eldridge

  Contents

  Cover

  Recent Titles by Jim Eldridge

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Recent Titles by Jim Eldridge

  The Detective Chief Inspector Stark Mysteries

  ASSASSINS *

  For Younger Readers

  THE LETHAL TARGET

  THE LAST ENEMY

  THE BIG ROCK AND THE MASKED AVENGER

  HUNK AND THUD

  THE GIANT RUMBLE

  THUD IN TROUBLE

  JACK VERSUS VETO

  THE FINAL SHOWDOWN

  * available from Severn House

  ASSASSINS

  An Inspector Stark Mystery

  Jim Eldridge

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  First published in Great Britain and the USA 2016 by

  Crème de la Crime, an imprint of

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  19 Cedar Road, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM2 5DA.

  This eBook edition first published in 2016 by Severn House Digital an

  imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Trade paperback edition first published

  in Great Britain and the USA 2016 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD

  Copyright © 2016 by Jim Eldridge.

  The right of Jim Eldridge to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78029-088-1 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78029-571-8 (trade paper)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-798-1 (e-book)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

  Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland

  To Lynne, my inspiration

  ONE

  London, October 1921

  Winston Churchill, Secretary of State for the Colonies, glowered at the tall, thin police detective standing before him. ‘Are you suggesting that my actions have interfered with a criminal investigation?’ he demanded menacingly.

  Detective Chief Inspector Paul Stark calmly held the angry minister’s stare. I know you, he thought grimly. Churchill the political opportunist. One day a Tory, the next a Liberal. Power at all costs, and beat down all those who stand in your way. Even now, Churchill’s stance was pugnacious: like a bulldog wearing a long, black overcoat.

  ‘No, sir,’ replied Stark quietly but firmly. ‘All I’m saying is, having Lord Amersham’s body brought in may have compromised evidence that might point to who killed him.’

  ‘We know who killed him!’ exploded Churchill. ‘The damned Bolsheviks!’ His eyes narrowed and he fixed Stark with a hard glare, then snapped warningly, ‘Now you listen, Inspector …’

  ‘Chief Inspector,’ Stark corrected him quietly.

  Churchill stared at Stark, indignation emblazoned on his pudgy features. ‘Are you being deliberately insolent?’ he demanded. ‘I could have you removed from your job!’

  ‘No insolence intended, sir,’ said Stark, still maintaining his apparent air of calm. ‘I felt it important to let you know that, on such an important case as this, Scotland Yard would not be sending a mere inspector.’

  Stark watched Churchill as the minister studied him for any signs of mockery, but Stark’s face remained composed and expressionless, giving nothing away.

  He knows, thought Stark. He knows I have no respect for him. He has all the trappings of wealth and position. The son of a long line of aristocrats, Member of Parliament, Minister of State, but inside he is a bully. A chancer, Stark’s grandmother would have called him.

  Finally, Churchill pulled himself up to his full height, stared at Stark defiantly and said, ‘I was not going to allow the body of a peer of the realm – and cabinet minister – to lie on the pavement for everyone to gawk at! Dignity, Chief Inspector! That is what we are talking about here!’ With that, he turned on his heel and headed for the door, with the words ‘The Bolsheviks! That’s who you should be looking for!’ as his parting shot.

  Stark waited until he was sure Churchill had gone, then allowed himself a scowl of his own. ‘Politicians!’ he muttered.

  His sergeant, DS Robert Danvers, who’d been standing to attention the whole time the exchange between the two men had been going on, visibly relaxed. ‘Neatly done, sir,’ he commented.

  Stark shook his head. ‘I hate cases involving politicians, and I hate cases involving the aristocracy. What we have here, Sergeant, is my absolute nightmare.’

  ‘It’ll be very high-profile, sir.’

  ‘Another reason for not wanting to touch it with the proverbial bargepole. Let’s look at the body.’

  Stark walked through to the dining room, Danvers close behind him. Lord Amersham’s body had been laid on the long, dark oak table. His hands had been placed on his chest, like a body in repose in a coffin. The image was spoiled by the spatters of mud on his trousers and coat, the blood soaking the upper part of his clothing and matting his grey hair, and the three bullet holes: two in the chest, one in the forehead.

  The call had come at ten o’clock that morning. Shots had been heard outside Amersham’s house in Regent’s Park. Amersham’s housekeeper had come out to investigate and found her master lying on the pavement in a pool of blood. Other servants had been sent with messages: one for the doctor, one to the police, one to Amersham’s government office. The doctor and the local police had arrived first. By the time word had been received at Scotland Yard
, and Stark and Danvers despatched to the scene, Churchill had arrived before them and taken command of the situation.

  Stark stood studying the body. ‘Where’s Lady Amersham?’ he asked.

  ‘In Scotland, staying with friends,’ replied Danvers. ‘A telegram has been sent to her.’

  Stark nodded. ‘Three bullets,’ he mused. ‘Why?’

  ‘The killer wanted to make sure he died.’

  ‘Two in the chest would have done it. Why the face as well?’

  ‘Maybe the shot to the face was the first?’

  ‘Which would have killed him. So why fire twice more? Why take the chance of hanging around after the first one to let off two more shots?’

  ‘A crime of passion? It’s well known that his Lordship was a bit of a … Well, he had an eye for the ladies. Especially married ones, I believe.’

  ‘So, an angry husband? A spurned mistress?’

  ‘That’ll depend on the calibre of the bullets,’ said Danvers. ‘The size of those bullet holes suggests a heavy pistol to me, not a lady’s weapon. Possibly a service revolver.’

  Stark nodded. ‘Very good,’ he said, impressed. ‘So, a man, then?’

  ‘At first sight. But we’ll need to find the bullets.’

  Stark studied the body. ‘Either the killer wanted to make sure he was dead, or he was very angry. Furiously so. If that was the case, why just three shots? Why not empty the whole chamber into him?’ He shook his head and turned back to Danvers. ‘Are uniforms canvassing the area?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ nodded Danvers. ‘I’ve got them door-knocking, talking to everyone who was in at the time. Also the surroundings streets, in case they saw someone running away. With luck, we might be able to get a description.’

  ‘And undoubtedly it will look like one of Churchill’s Bolsheviks,’ grunted Stark sourly. ‘A mad-eyed revolutionary in a ragged suit.’

  ‘You think the minister’s wrong?’ asked Danvers, curious.

  Stark sighed. ‘No,’ he admitted. ‘The killer could well be a Bolshevik sympathizer. Lord Amersham has been very vocal recently in his condemnation of all socialists.’

  ‘He called for the leaders of the British Communist Party to be hanged for treason, as I recall, sir,’ said Danvers.

  Stark nodded. ‘I’m glad you keep up with politics, Sergeant,’ he said approvingly. ‘Knowing which side you’re on will be very useful to you in this case.’

  ‘Surely we’re on the side of law and order, sir,’ said Danvers coolly.

  This time it was Stark’s turn to look at his subordinate with a hint of suspicion. ‘Is that a note of sarcasm, Sergeant?’ he asked.

  Danvers hesitated, then shook his head, a bland expression on his face. ‘No, sir,’ he said. ‘Just making an observation.’

  Danvers was a good copper, thought Stark. He’d been Stark’s sergeant now for three months. At first, Stark had been suspicious of him, especially after reading his application which set out his background. Aged twenty-one. Public school education. Father, Colonel Deverill Robert Danvers CBE, from a long line of generals and colonels stretching back to the Civil War. Mother, Victoria Danvers, descended from landed gentry, by all accounts. The family home in the most expensive part of Hampstead. The family even had an entry in Who’s Who, which certainly made them upper class, even if not completely members of the aristocracy. So what had brought Robert Danvers, son of such an illustrious line, into a job as lowly as the police force? He’d asked Danvers directly, and received his answer about ‘wanting to serve the public and make society safe for all’. It had sounded to Stark too much like a politician’s line for his liking. But, fair play to him, Danvers had stuck to his guns, stayed with it and shown himself a good officer. Sharp, clever and loyal. Something that had surprised Stark. Most of his sergeants before Danvers had moved on as soon as they could. Stark wasn’t ‘friendly’; he knew that. He was also seen as maverick by the top brass at Scotland Yard – a loner, one who didn’t toe the line easily. A fellow inspector had once told him he’d never get on because he had too much of a chip on his shoulder, which put people off.

  ‘I’m better balanced than that,’ Stark had responded. ‘I’ve got chips on both shoulders.’

  Where had it started, this dour mistrustful attitude for which he was known? In 1914? The year the war began and he volunteered with wide-eyed enthusiasm to fight the Hun and protect Britain. Well, that earnest naivety soon died in the mud of the trenches. Death and destruction everywhere. Incompetent generals. Jumped-up clerks, commissioned as officers because their father owned a factory, who led their men into needless slaughter. There was no honour in death, not the way soldiers died in the trenches.

  Or in 1918? The post-war flu epidemic that killed so many. Reports claimed that a hundred million people had died of the disease around the world in just a few short months. A quarter of a million dead in Britain alone. Numbers. Large numbers, but still just numbers. And, for Stark, one name: Susan Mary Stark. Just twenty-six years old when she died, his beloved wife, mother of their son, Stephen. Gone.

  They’d married in 1912. Stephen had been born the following year. Just one year later war had been declared, and Stark had gone off to fight for his king and country. When he returned to London four years later, badly wounded, it was to find that he was a widower and his son didn’t know him. He was a stranger in his own home.

  Stark’s parents had done their best, caring for Stephen, bringing Stephen with them to visit him in hospital. But Stark had seen the fear in the boy’s eyes. Fear of the maimed bodies of the men in the hospital, and of this silent and unhappy stranger who was supposed to replace his beloved mother as his parent.

  Stark had looked into the boy’s face, had done his best to smile an engaging smile, but thought, He doesn’t trust me. Everything he loved has been snatched away, and now he doesn’t trust anyone.

  Like father, like son.

  But slowly, bit by bit, he was building a relationship with Stephen. It was from the rest of society that he was still distant.

  TWO

  Stark sat in his office at Scotland Yard and reread his notes. Bolsheviks. Jealous husbands. Spurned mistresses. He looked at the information uniform had gathered so far. Basically, no witnesses. Stark didn’t believe it. Nothing happened in the crowded streets of central London, especially in broad daylight, without someone seeing it. People were afraid to talk. Why? He needed gossip. Send some plain-clothes officers in, pretending to be tradesmen. Find the nearest pubs and put some listeners in. Names would soon pop up, those who said they’d seen this or heard that.

  There was a knock at his door and Danvers came in holding a single sheet of paper. ‘Preliminary report from the pathologist,’ he announced.

  Stark looked at the clock in surprise. It was half past four. ‘That’s a rarity,’ he murmured. ‘Normally we don’t get that until the next day, if we’re lucky.’

  ‘Yes, but this is a peer of the realm …’

  ‘… and a cabinet minister,’ finished Stark with a sigh. ‘The chief super has already been to see me to tell me, as if I didn’t know already. So, what’s it say that we didn’t know already?’

  ‘The rounds were 0.354 inch calibre. Nine-millimetre.’

  Stark frowned. ‘Nine-millimetre?’ he repeated. ‘Then …’

  ‘It’s most likely a service revolver all right, but not a British one,’ nodded Danvers. He put the sheet of paper down on Stark’s desk. ‘I bet it’s German.’

  ‘There are other makes of nine-millimetre pistols,’ Stark pointed out. ‘Italian …’

  ‘And Japanese,’ added Danvers.

  Stark looked at his sergeant, surprised. ‘Japanese?’ he queried.

  Danvers nodded. ‘I spoke to a cousin of mine who’s an armourer. He told me about the other makes of pistols of this calibre. The Japanese Type 26, the Type 4 automatic, the Italian Glisenti …’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ grunted Stark impatiently. He didn’t need a lecture on guns. He’d seen enoug
h guns during his time in the trenches. More than enough.

  ‘But what’s more likely? That a German pistol was used, or an Italian or Japanese one?’ continued Danvers. ‘Three bullets, all hit their target. That suggests someone who knows guns. Would they be likely to use an Italian pistol? According to my cousin, most Italian nine-millimetre pistols have a major design flaw: the left-hand side is removable so it can be easily cleaned. He says the problem with this is that the entire left-hand side of the pistol is weakened, so the gun often jams. And he’d heard reports of the cleaning access plate actually falling off the pistol.’

  ‘Your cousin is very knowledgeable,’ said Stark quietly.

  Danvers saw the wry look on the DCI’s face and shut up. Oh God, he thought, here I am giving a lecture to a man who spent four years in the trenches of France and Belgium and used a gun every day. ‘Sorry, sir,’ he apologized.

  Stark hesitated, then he said, ‘No need for an apology, Sergeant. I commend your enthusiasm. Well done.’ Then he added warningly, ‘But we shouldn’t jump to any conclusions too early. Yes, plenty of men brought captured weapons back with them from the war. But guns travel. There are all sorts of weapons being used right here in London. German, American …’ He thought it over. A nine-millimetre. The most common nine-millimetre he’d came across during his time in France had been the German Luger. A good, solid, reliable handgun. He’d known some British officers who chose to use a captured Luger in preference to the British army standard-issue Webley. The Webley’s rounds were 0.441 inch, which definitely ruled out the Webley being a murder weapon. Yes, he thought, it’s likely that Danvers is right: the murder weapon was most possibly a Luger. But who had used it? Had it been brought back to England as a trophy; or could the killer be German?

  He was just about to ask that question out loud when there was a tap at his door, and a uniformed sergeant poked his head into the office.

  ‘Beg pardon, sir,’ the sergeant said apologetically. ‘Chief Superintendent Benson wants to see you, Chief Inspector.’