Assassins

by Jim Eldridge

  Henry shook his head. ‘It was all too quick. I heard this crashing about outside and went to see what was going on, and there was this bloke kicking Paul. There was another one there with him, but they ran off when I opened the door.’

  ‘Any description at all, Mr Stark?’ asked Watts, his pencil poised over his open notebook.

  ‘No. It was dark.’ Henry thought it over. ‘One was taller than the other. About my height. Big bloke. Broad shoulders. He was the one doing the kicking. The other one was small and thin-looking.’

  ‘Faces?’

  Henry shook his head. ‘It looked as if they had scarves or something pulled up over their faces. And I’m pretty sure they both had caps on. You know – flat caps.’

  ‘Did you see which way they went when they ran off?’

  ‘Towards Camden Street,’ replied Henry. ‘I think they turned down it, towards Crowndale Road.’

  Watts nodded, put his pencil into his pocket and closed his notebook. ‘Thank you, Mr Stark. That gives us something to go on.’ He put his helmet back on. ‘I’ll get some constables on it, asking questions.’ He looked enquiringly at Stark. ‘Any reason you can think of why they might have attacked you?’

  Stark shook his head. ‘No idea,’ he said. But inside he thought: Plenty. Maybe I’m getting too close to something over these murders.

  After Watts had taken his leave, his father said, ‘That’s what you should have done, Paul. Stayed at the local station, like Charlie Watts there. Good pay. Regular hours. Not far from home. Maybe then you wouldn’t have been done over like you were.’

  ‘Being a local copper is just as dangerous, even more so,’ countered Stark. ‘Charlie’s had his share of injuries on Friday nights, dealing with the drunks.’ But not anyone who was intent on killing him, he thought, remembering the light glinting on the knife blade.

  TWENTY-ONE

  When Stark arrived at Scotland Yard next morning, his first port of call was the mortuary in the basement.

  Dr Kemp was sitting at a desk, going through some papers, and he looked up with a weary sigh as Stark walked in. ‘If you’ve come for the report on Tobias Smith, I sent it up to your office first thing,’ he began, then he stopped when he took in the damage to Stark’s face. ‘My God, what happened to you?’

  ‘I was attacked.’

  ‘That is a serious bruise around your eye. Were you badly hurt?’ Kemp got up and came over to peer closely at Stark’s face. ‘Concussion?’

  ‘That’s what I’d like you to find out. Would you give me a once-over?’

  Kemp shook his head. ‘I don’t do living bodies any more, Chief Inspector. Now, if you were dead, I’d be prepared to take a look at you.’

  ‘Very funny.’

  ‘Why didn’t you go to your doctor? Or go to the hospital?’

  ‘I don’t have time. I’ve got a murderer to find.’

  ‘I can’t treat you.’

  ‘I don’t want you to treat me; I just want you to check me over. Tell me if anything’s broken.’ As Kemp frowned, puzzled, Stark added, ‘I got kicked in the ribs.’

  ‘OK,’ nodded Kemp. ‘Take off your top clothes.’

  As Stark removed his overcoat, jacket, shirt and vest, Kemp said, ‘Who bandaged you up?’

  ‘My mother.’

  Kemp undid the pin holding the bandage in place, and unwrapped it from Stark’s torso, revealing a livid yellow and purple bruise one side. ‘He must have been wearing heavy boots,’ he commented. ‘That is a nasty bruise.’

  Stark sat down on a chair, and Kemp probed and poked around the bruise, gently at first, working his way in to the bruise itself, making Stark wince.

  ‘I don’t think there’s anything broken,’ the doctor said thoughtfully. ‘Nothing that could puncture a lung or anything. But I think one of your ribs might be cracked. It’ll heal, but it’ll take time. And it’s going to hurt when you laugh.’

  ‘I rarely laugh,’ said Stark.

  ‘Yes, that’s true,’ agreed Kemp. The doctor leaned forward and examined the cut above Stark’s eye. ‘Whoever stitched that did a professional job. It’s very neat, and there’s no sign of infection.’ Dr Kemp nodded approvingly. ‘I can still smell traces of iodine.’

  ‘My mother did it,’ said Stark. ‘She also confirmed your diagnosis about my ribs: one might be cracked, but not seriously.’

  Dr Kemp regarded Stark, curious. ‘Did she have medical training? Was she a nurse?’

  ‘No,’ said Stark. ‘She had seven brothers, and two of them were prizefighters. Her father taught her how to sew them up.’

  ‘Tell her if she wants a job, I can find one for her here,’ said Kemp. ‘My current assistant is better suited to working in a butcher’s.’

  ‘You wouldn’t object to having a woman working for you?’ asked Stark.

  ‘Not at all,’ said Kemp. ‘During the war women did most of the work, however heavy it was. Munitions. Driving lorries. I’ve never understood why women are capable of doing all types of labour when war has taken most of the men away, but once the men return they are considered unfit and too genteel.’

  ‘I agree with you,’ said Stark, putting on his clothes. ‘Unfortunately, most don’t. Including my father. And what he says goes. So the likelihood of my mother coming to work here is remote, to say the least.’

  Stark headed up the stairs to his office, leaving the smell of decaying flesh and disinfectant behind in the basement. He found Danvers already there.

  The sergeant leapt up from behind his desk as Stark came in. ‘They said you were attacked, sir!’ he exclaimed, his tone urgent, worried.

  ‘Who said?’ asked Stark.

  Danvers hesitated, then said, ‘I can’t remember, sir.’

  I know, thought Stark. My driver this morning, who would have told one of his colleagues, who would have told the duty desk sergeant, who would have passed it on. The bush telegraph. ‘Yes,’ he said, taking off his overcoat and hanging it up. ‘I’ve just been for a check-up with our good pathologist. He says he’s sent up the report on Tobias Smith.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ nodded Danvers, pointing to an open file on his desk. ‘I was just reading it. It confirms what we thought. One bullet to the head, which went straight through his skull; the other stayed in the heart. Nine-millimetre ammunition, from the same gun as killed Lord Amersham.’ He looked questioningly at Stark. ‘Do you think the attack on you is connected?’

  ‘I don’t know, Sergeant. I can’t think of anyone I’ve offended enough to want to kill me. Mind you, I’ve put a few people away in my career, and had a few hanged for their crimes, so some kind of revenge could always be a possibility.’

  ‘Did you see who attacked you?’

  ‘There were two of them. A big man, tall, muscular. The other was short and thin.’

  ‘A short, thin man. Same description of the man who shot Tobias Smith.’

  ‘I’m afraid there are an awful lot of short, thin working-class men in London,’ said Stark. ‘Malnutrition and poor living conditions don’t help. Also, the man who attacked me had a knife, not a gun. And he wore a flat cap, not a seaman’s woolly hat.’

  ‘So you don’t think it’s connected?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ admitted Stark. ‘They must have been lying in wait for me, so it was deliberate and personally aimed at me, not some random mugging. And, apart from this case, I haven’t exactly been in the public eye.’ And I wouldn’t have been in the public eye over this case if Churchill hadn’t decided to further his own ends by using my name in the papers, he thought bitterly.

  The ringing of the phone on his desk interrupted them.

  ‘Chief Inspector Stark,’ he said.

  ‘Sergeant Watts from Camden Town here, sir,’ said the voice. So, formal again. Both on duty, and there would be people at Camden Town nick listening.

  ‘Good morning, Sergeant,’ said Stark. ‘And I’d like to thank you again for your support last night.’

  ‘Always ready to help if I can
, sir,’ said Watts. ‘I’m phoning because we might have a lead on the men who attacked you.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yes, sir. One of my men spoke to a witness who said two men ran past him last night at about the time you were attacked. He said they came rushing round the corner into Crowndale Road from Camden Street, and nearly knocked him over. The description tallies with what your dad – sorry, sir – Mr Stark reported. Flat caps. Scarves pulled up over the bottom part of their faces. One a big bloke, the other short and thin.’

  ‘Well done, Sergeant. Can he add anything else?’

  ‘Yes, sir. That’s why I’m calling. He said they were Irish.’

  ‘Irish?’ Stark was immediately alert. ‘Is he sure?’

  ‘Yes, sir. He says he heard one of the men shout to the other, “We’ll get the bastard next time”, and the other said, “We will indeed!” and they both had Irish accents. Then they ran off.’

  ‘Which way?’

  ‘Towards St Pancras Station.’

  ‘Do you have the name of this witness?’

  ‘Yes. He’s called Pete Stamp. He lives at the back of Mornington Crescent.’

  ‘Known to the local police?’

  ‘No, sir. Nothing on record, anyway.’

  Stark thought it over. A real lead or a red herring? ‘I’d like to talk to him myself, if that’s all right with you, Sergeant,’ he said. ‘Is there any chance of getting hold of him today?’

  ‘I don’t see why not,’ said Watts. ‘We’ve got his address. I’ll round him up and phone you to let you know when he’s coming in.’

  ‘Thanks, Sergeant,’ said Stark. ‘I appreciate that.’

  He hung up and looked at Danvers, who was waiting expectantly. ‘That was Camden Town nick,’ he said. ‘They turned up a witness who reckons he saw the men who attacked me. According to him, both men had Irish accents.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘Mind, that’s not unusual in Camden Town. About half the population there is Irish, or second generation.’

  The phone rang again.

  ‘We are in demand today,’ commented Stark drily as he picked up the receiver. ‘Chief Inspector Stark.’

  ‘Main reception, sir. We have a Mr Collins who’d like to see you.’

  ‘A Mr Collins?’ repeated Stark, puzzled.

  ‘A Mr Michael Collins.’ There was a pause, then the duty Sergeant added, ‘He’s an Irish gentleman, sir.’

  Stark smiled. ‘Sergeant Danvers will be down right away to collect him and bring him up,’ he said. He hung up and looked at the waiting and curious Danvers.

  ‘The Irish issue intercedes even more today. Not just a report about blaming a pair of Irishmen as my attackers, but now we have none other than Michael Collins himself in reception to see me.’

  ‘The Michael Collins, sir?’

  ‘In person. You are about to meet a legend, Sergeant. I would appreciate it if you would go and bring him up here. And then engage yourself in some activity that will give him and me privacy for our discussion.’

  ‘This isn’t going to please Mr Churchill, sir,’ Danvers warned.

  ‘Very true, but if I am asked about this by Mr Churchill, I will point out that Mr Collins came here to see me, not the other way round, and it could have been detrimental to the talks if I had refused to see him. Not to mention very discourteous.’

  TWENTY-TWO

  Stark was at his desk, pretending to study some reports, when he heard the footsteps stop outside his door. He wanted to appear busy when Collins arrived, but the truth was he felt both bewildered and intrigued. Why had the big Irishman decided to come here – to Scotland Yard of all places – to see him?

  The door opened and Danvers appeared. ‘Mr Michael Collins, sir,’ he announced.

  With that, Danvers stepped back and let Michael Collins enter. If he felt uneasy about being here, the big man didn’t show it. He smiled as he took Stark’s outstretched hand.

  ‘Welcome to my office, Mr Collins,’ Stark said. He turned to Danvers. ‘Thank you, Sergeant.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Danvers, and pulled the door shut.

  Collins studied Stark’s face, then gave a grin. ‘You look like someone’s given you a bit of a pasting, Inspector.’ He settled on a chair and looked round the room, then gave a light laugh. ‘Jaysus, who’d have thought the day would come when Micheál Ó Coileáin would walk voluntarily into this place! It wasn’t so long ago there was a price on my head! Good money would have been paid to get me in here.’

  Stark sat down and nodded, waiting.

  ‘Anyway, I thought I’d call on you here rather than invite you to Cadogan Gardens, or anywhere else. This way we can be assured Ned doesn’t burst in on us.’ The big Irishman smiled. ‘Ned’s a fierce fine patriot, but he’s very strong in his dislikes, and it can sometimes get in the way of clear thinking.’

  ‘I’m guessing your visit isn’t a social occasion,’ said Stark.

  ‘If it was, we’d have a bottle on the table,’ said Collins. He leaned forward and looked at Stark firmly. ‘The word is that you were given a going over by some compatriots of ours.’

  Stark studied Collins suspiciously. ‘Word travels very fast,’ he said. ‘I’ve only just been told they were Irish a few moments ago.’

  ‘We like to keep our ears to the ground,’ said Collins. ‘And, as you know, there are an awful lot of folk from the old country here in London. Yourself included, granting your granny’s permission.’

  ‘I’m sure she’d give it,’ said Stark.

  ‘Did she talk much of Banteer?’ asked Collins.

  Stark shook his head. ‘I think her memories of that time were … difficult.’

  Collins laughed, only this time his laugh was harsher, angrier. ‘Difficult!’ he echoed. ‘The bodies of the starving lying by the roadside. Too many to bury.’

  ‘Thousands,’ nodded Stark.

  ‘Die or leave,’ said Collins. ‘The coffin ships to America. As a result there are more Irish in Boston than in Ireland itself.’

  ‘Not all the fault of the British,’ said Stark carefully. ‘There were Irish landlords who could have done more.’

  ‘Irish!’ spat Collins angrily. ‘West Britons!’ Then he seemed to take control of his rage, because suddenly his angry features changed as if a switch had been thrown, and he gave Stark a rueful smile. ‘But I didn’t come here to talk politics. I have had enough of doing that every day since I’ve been here. I’m here to tell you no one connected with the Irish delegation attacked you. I don’t want what happened to you clouding the issue of the talks.’

  ‘The witness said one of them had an Irish accent.’

  ‘There are lots of Irish in London.’ Bitterly, he added, ‘And not all of them like what we’re doing, or why we’re here.’

  ‘Ulster Protestants.’

  ‘Not just them.’ The big man hesitated, then looked about him as if to check who might be listening, before he leaned forward and said quietly, ‘There are a few of our own kind who think we’re traitors to Ireland by being here.’

  ‘The Oath of Allegiance. Twenty-six counties instead of thirty-two.’

  Collins looked at Stark with a new respect in his eyes. ‘You’ve been doing your homework, Mr Stark.’

  Thanks to the reports about the talks, and those taking part, that Special Branch had given me to read, thought Stark. ‘That’s my job,’ he said.

  ‘Checking up on us?’

  ‘Checking up on everyone who may have had reasons for not liking Lord Amersham or Tobias Smith.’

  ‘I didn’t like either of them, but there was no reason for us to kill them.’ With that, Collins stood up. ‘I’d better be off. I’m expected at the talks.’

  ‘I’ll walk you down to reception,’ said Stark.

  ‘Making sure I leave the building?’ asked Collins mischievously.

  ‘Well, it wouldn’t do if you decided to blow Scotland Yard up while you’re here. That would get me in a whole lot of trouble.’

  Collins
laughed, and walked alongside Stark along the corridor and down the stairs. All the time, Stark was aware of faces of the people in the corridors and on the stairs turned towards them, watching. They’ve come out of their offices to catch a sight of the famous Michael Collins, thought Stark.

  Stark escorted Collins across the main reception area to the double doors to the street. ‘Do you want me arrange a taxi?’ he asked.

  Collins shook his head. ‘Your government’s laid on a car for me. It’s waiting outside.’

  ‘In that case, thank you again for calling,’ said Stark. He held out his hand to Collins, who shook it.

  ‘It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Chief Inspector.’

  ‘And you, Mr Collins.’

  As Collins was about to walk out through the door, Stark added, ‘The last time we met, at your hotel, I felt you knew I was coming. And why.’

  Collins hesitated, his hand on the door handle. ‘That’s an interesting observation,’ he said.

  ‘So either British Special Branch has someone in your group, or you have someone in here,’ said Stark.

  Collins grinned, a genuine, friendly, relaxed grin. ‘Or maybe it’s a bit of both,’ he said. ‘Remember what they say: keep your friends close, but your enemies closer, providing you can tell the difference. I’d say, trust no one.’

  ‘Not even you?’

  Collins gave his relaxed shrug again. ‘That’s up to you, Inspector.’

  Collins left, and Stark headed back upstairs to his office.

  Danvers was waiting for him, agog with expectation. ‘What did he want?’ he asked.

  ‘To let me know that my attacker wasn’t anything to do with the Irish delegation,’ replied Stark.

  ‘Was that all?’ said Danvers, disappointed. ‘That’s a bit odd, isn’t it, coming here just to say that?’

  ‘Yes, it is.’ He frowned. ‘Why would Collins make a special trip here, of all places, just to tell me it wasn’t one of their associates who attacked me?’

  ‘Maybe because it was?’

  Stark sighed and shook his head. ‘I don’t know, Sergeant. But it does look as if every new step seems to point us back to the Irish situation. The talks. The trouble is, all the information we’ve got about them has come from parties with their own special interest to protect. Special Branch. Michael Collins. Sir William Fanshawe represents the official government line. Churchill refuses to admit this has anything to do with the Irish talks at all. We need someone with a neutral view. Someone who’d give us the candid truth.’