by Colin Murray
Peggy Lee stopped singing, and I sipped my tea while Jerry lovingly extracted a recording from its brown cardboard sleeve with his fingertips, blew dust from the surface, carefully positioned the shining black disc on the turntable and then delicately lowered the needle into the run-in grooves. There was a hiss and then the haunting, achingly melancholic sound of Sidney Bechet’s ‘Petite Fleur’ filled the room.
Jerry nodded approvingly, smiled and went to his little kitchen area. The gas ignited with a pop and then bacon started to sizzle.
This was more like it: Bechet and bacon for breakfast.
I dressed, visited the WC and then splashed water on my face and rinsed out my mouth at Jerry’s kitchen sink.
We sat down to eat, listening to some early Armstrong recordings, and I tried to explain to Jerry that Robert was not someone who took kindly to another man taking his wife to Maurice Chevalier concerts. And that Ghislaine, although a very nice woman, was not quite as innocent as she liked to appear. He didn’t listen to me.
Even so, awash with gallons of strong, brown tea, full of salty bacon and crisp toast, basking in the sounds of good jazz, I felt like I was ready for whatever the day could throw at me.
There were still no sounds from my flat so I assumed that they were all still sleeping after talking long into the night.
I went into the shop to survey the damage in the light of day. In fact, it wasn’t so bad. A sizeable piece of plaster had fallen down, but it hadn’t landed on any records. There was dust and debris to clear up, but that wouldn’t take very long.
I’d just finished sweeping when there was a loud banging at the front door and I discovered that I was less prepared for what the day had to offer than I’d thought.
I opened the door to two burly, uniformed policemen. One of them, a battle-weary sergeant with heavy features and sad, rheumy eyes, ascertained that I was Tony Gérard and then asked if I would be so kind as to accompany them to the station in order to help them out with their enquiries.
When I asked, he reluctantly admitted that I didn’t have a lot of choice.
EIGHTEEN
Good Friday is always odd: a Bank Holiday that doesn’t feel quite right. Respectable people treat the day a bit like Christmas, so there were no more than half a dozen kids rioting outside the cinema and only a couple of them boisterously, and noisily, smacking a rubber ball against the low brick wall that separated one side of the London Electrical Wire Company from the street. They quietened down when they saw the policemen.
The Caribonum workers were still safely tucked up in bed, and there weren’t any shoppers about, as the only shop that was open was the baker’s. Costello’s was shut, and there was no sign of the lugubrious Enzo. There were so few buses about that, although there was probably a Sunday service operating, there might not have been.
Of course, walking along the streets as the meat in a particularly hefty bobby sandwich made this a stranger than usual Good Friday.
We strolled at the leisurely regulation pace, past the firmly locked library and the empty windows of the Co-op, up Lea Bridge Road in the direction of the Bakers’ Alms, before turning sharp right. The coppers had presumably decided to walk a part of their beat on the way as this wasn’t the most direct route to any local nick that I could think of.
I tried to chat amiably to my two large companions, in the hope that anyone seeing us would not automatically assume that I was under arrest, but they were having none of it and were monosyllabic at best. At worst, they were downright rude.
It’s not a long walk to the police station in Francis Road, in spite of the slightly circuitous route that we took, and we were there by a quarter to ten. I had a sense of real foreboding as we climbed up the four steps that led to the big door.
I had the uneasy feeling that I should have told Jerry where I was going, but it hadn’t seemed like a good idea to hang around, just in case the policemen got nosey and discovered bloodstains on the stairs, a couple of bullet holes and a houseful of armed Frenchmen. That might have aroused their suspicions. However, as we crossed the threshold of the cop shop and the duty sergeant booked me in, I realized that I would have felt more comfortable knowing that someone had an inkling of where I was.
I was told to sit on an almost black wooden bench, which had been polished to a dull gleam by the worn trouser seats of a couple of generations of felons, tearaways and drunks, until ‘they’ were ready to see me, and then left with only one of my new-found policeman friends for company – the other headed off to the canteen for a ‘cuppa’. Apart from a few throat-clearing sounds and a gurgling stomach, my policeman companion was as uncommunicative as ever. He sprawled back against the bench, his arms and legs spread wide, looking bored and tired. I examined the scuffed and scratched oak floor, feeling decidedly uneasy.
Very respectable people may not have gone out much on Good Friday, except to buy hot cross buns from the baker, but policemen and the more disreputable elements of Leyton society seemed just as busy as usual.
A couple of unsavoury-looking types, dishevelled, unshaven and rumpled, emerged from somewhere in the building, each accompanied by his own policeman, and were duly signed out. One of them had a couple of bruises on his forehead and some dried, flaking blood around his mouth. A couple of drunks disturbing the peace, I assumed. A night in the cells seemed to have done the trick. They didn’t look like they were up to disturbing anyone’s peace for another hour or two.
Nobby Clarke, the street bookie, was brought in, wearing his regulation shiny bronze-coloured suit with the worn pigskin money bag still around his waist, his aromatic cigar held delicately between his thumb and forefinger. The overhead light glinted on his shiny, pink, hairless scalp and on the thick gold ring on his pinky.
‘You know the form, Nobby,’ the sergeant behind the desk said as he slid something across the counter.
‘I do,’ Nobby said, taking an expensive-looking pen out of his inside pocket. ‘How’s the missus?’
‘She’s well, Nobby, thanks. I’ll tell her you was asking. Just stick your moniker on that and we’ll skip the formalities.’
‘Thank you, I appreciate that,’ Nobby said, signing the proffered paper with a flourish. He then took a crisp ten-bob note out of his satchel, snapped it a couple of times and slapped it down on the counter. ‘Here,’ he said, ‘buy some sweeties for the nippers.’
He turned, nodded at me and winked and then left, presumably to return to his pitch down by the Osborne Arms on the corner of Crescent Road and be arrested again later, in the afternoon, when everyone had had time to drink a beer or two, study form, discuss it with their mates and put their bets on.
Nobby and his distant relationship to the gee-gees reminded me of sporting matters, and I suddenly realized that this was the make or break weekend for Orient’s hopes of promotion. Three matches in four days usually decided things one way or another.
I wondered what the police wanted. Images of the nearly decapitated corpse came and went. And the reek of that room filled my nostrils again. I felt mildly sick. I had the feeling I was missing something.
Then it nearly came to me. Jenkins had absolutely no reason to want poor Richard dead, and if Jan or Alfred were responsible then it couldn’t even be a case of mistaken identity because they wouldn’t kill Jonathan until they had their diamonds back.
Unfortunately, I didn’t have time to pursue the thought. The Laurel and Hardy double act from Scotland Yard marched into the reception area and peremptorily summoned me.
We walked in single file, me in the middle, along a little corridor, turned right along another one and then entered a shabby little room at the back of the building. Its only claim to being an office was a battered desk with a wonky leg. It really seemed to be a storeroom for chairs. There were at least a dozen of them pushed up against the walls. They were all cheap dark-brown wood, with round backs. And every one of them was broken. I didn’t care to speculate how they had come to be in that state, but I reassured
myself by reflecting that Inspector Rose didn’t look like a violent man.
We stood around while the inspector, who was today sporting an emerald-green bow-tie, took an old briar pipe and a tobacco pouch from his baggy jacket pocket and proceeded to fill the bowl of the pipe with shreds of golden-brown tobacco, the colour and consistency of soggy shredded wheat, tamping them down carefully with his finger. He then returned the tobacco pouch to the pocket of his brown jacket and pulled out a box of Swan Vestas matches. He gripped the stem of the pipe firmly between his teeth and then struck a match. When the tobacco was burning to his satisfaction and the elaborate ritual was at an end, he nodded at the large police constable who had accompanied us.
The constable looked at Sergeant Radcliffe, who jerked a thumb towards the door. ‘Outside,’ Radcliffe said, and the constable lumbered off.
Rose took the pipe out of his mouth and pointed the stem, shiny with saliva, at me. ‘You been cautioned?’ he said.
‘I don’t think so,’ I said, shaking my head.
‘Well, consider yourself duly cautioned,’ he said.
‘All right,’ I said. ‘What’s that mean?’
‘It means,’ said the sergeant, moving in very close to me and whispering in what I took to be a menacing manner, ‘that you tell us the truth. Or else.’
‘As if I’d do anything else, Sergeant,’ I said innocently.
‘Don’t get clever,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t suit you.’ He then took a step away, so that he was standing just behind me.
Rose looked weary. He closed his eyes and squeezed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and his forefinger. ‘You told us the other day,’ he said patiently, his eyes still shut, ‘that you were looking for Jonathan Harrison.’
‘That’s right,’ I said.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘we have it on good authority that you found him.’
‘I did come across him, briefly, yesterday,’ I said.
‘That’s what we understand,’ Rose said.
Sergeant Radcliffe moved in close again. I could smell something unpleasant on his breath. ‘So, where is he?’ he said.
‘I don’t know,’ I said. It wasn’t really a lie. I didn’t actually know where he was. I knew who he’d been with the day before, but I had no idea where she lived.
‘That’s a pity,’ Sergeant Radcliffe said, ‘because that would have solved a few problems.’
‘What problems?’ I said.
‘Well,’ Inspector Rose said mildly, sucking on his pipe, ‘if you’d been able to tell us where he is, and he turned out to be there, happy and content, then we could drop any enquiries we have relating to you abducting and falsely imprisoning him.’
‘What?’ I said. I was genuinely outraged. ‘Is that ungrateful little toe-rag going around saying that I kidnapped him? I haven’t seen him since I got him out of a tricky situation and he legged it at Liverpool Street Station. He was certainly healthy enough and free enough then.’
‘What tricky situation was that?’ Rose said quietly.
‘Oh, nothing much,’ I said, deciding to lie again. ‘He just owes someone some money, and they were getting a bit heavy-handed with him.’
Rose nodded and sucked hard on his pipe. It had gone out, and a flicker of ill humour passed across his face before he struck another match. He puffed again and, when a cloud of sweet-smelling smoke drifted up towards the ceiling, he smiled at me. ‘Who is this someone?’ he said.
‘I don’t really know,’ I said.
‘You don’t know very much, do you?’ Sergeant Radcliffe said.
‘I guess not,’ I said. Though I did know that Jonathan Harrison had given me nothing but grief since I first heard of him. ‘Listen, what I told you yesterday is true. Beverley Beaumont claimed to be worried about her brother, and the studio asked me to see if I could find him. I went to the room he was renting and found the body of his friend. You know all that. Then it turns out that he was driven to my flat, looking for me. I looked into who had driven him there, and it turns out it was his landlady. I found out where she was and went to see what she could tell me about where he was. As it happens, by a stroke of luck, I found him there. I got him out, but before I could ask him what was going on, he’d done a runner. So that’s why I don’t know anything. As for where he is now . . . That’s anyone’s guess.’
That was easily the longest speech I’d made since I’d nervously introduced myself to Robert in France all those years ago. It left me breathless. Something about it seemed to amuse Rose. Either that or his pipe was giving him more pleasure than usual, because he was definitely smiling.
‘Mr Gérard,’ he said, favouring the usual English pronunciation. His lips made a little popping sound as he puffed out some smoke without removing the chewed stem of his pipe from his mouth. ‘Tony, I must say that if that outrage was faked then you ought to be on the stage, and I hope you won’t think that I’m casting aspersions on your reliability as a witness if I say that it would be nice if I could speak to young Mr Harrison so that he can confirm your account of things.’ He paused and drew contentedly on his pipe. The studied smoking ritual was beginning to annoy me. But then I imagined it was supposed to. ‘So,’ he finally said, ‘you found him yesterday, so perhaps you could find him again today and bring him in to see me.’
‘How am I supposed to do that?’ I said. ‘If you can’t find him, how can I?’
‘Well,’ he said, ‘I don’t know the answer to that. But we couldn’t find him yesterday either, and you did. Maybe you were just born lucky.’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘that would explain why I’m standing in a police station on Good Friday being accused of something I haven’t done.’
‘There’s no call for sarcasm, Tony,’ he said mildly. ‘I just thought you might prefer to go looking for the young man rather than being arrested on suspicion of something. After all, we have a very good set of your fingerprints on a piece of silver that doesn’t belong to you and does have some connection to Jonathan Harrison. And we have two very respectable witnesses who say that you abducted Jonathan Harrison from a house yesterday afternoon, and, as far as we can tell, he hasn’t been seen since.’
I knew when I was beaten – and, I realized, in his own way, he was giving me the benefit of the doubt. I nodded. ‘All right,’ I said, ‘I’ll try, but I’m not going to promise anything.’
‘Just as long as you bring him in by close of business today, you don’t have to promise me a thing,’ he said.
‘And if I fail?’
A little flicker of amusement lifted the corners of his mouth and emphasized the network of wrinkles around his eyes. ‘Do you know the old Eddie Cantor song?’ he said. ‘“Budge, right into jail.”’
I nodded. Actually, I was of the opinion that Eddie Cantor sang ‘Bud’ rather than ‘Budge’, but I wasn’t going to argue the toss. The meaning was ominously clear.
‘Good,’ he said. ‘Now, I imagine you’re anxious to start, so don’t let me detain you.’
I stood there for a moment.
Rose smiled at his fat sergeant. ‘Sergeant Radcliffe,’ he said, ‘I wonder if you’d be kind enough to escort Tony to the front desk and sign him out.’
‘Wait a minute,’ I said. ‘Jonathan Harrison could be a witness in a murder enquiry. He might even be a suspect for all I know. And you aren’t out scouring the city for him?’
‘What gives you that impression?’ he said. ‘Of course we’re looking for him. But, for your information, while he is someone we’re anxious to interview about the murder of his friend, he isn’t, at the moment, a suspect. He has been given a watertight alibi. He was in Cambridge at the time of the murder. With Mrs Elvin, who left him there.’
‘Oh,’ I said.
‘Oh, indeed. Now, run along with the nice sergeant.’
Sergeant Radcliffe guided me along the corridors back to the grim reception area where I was duly signed out. He then walked me to the door.
‘He’s winding me up, isn’t he
?’ I said.
Radcliffe’s heavy, dark jowls shuddered a little as he shook his head in a non-committal gesture.
‘The inspector,’ I said, ‘he’s playing games with me. He wouldn’t really arrest me.’
‘I would,’ he said. ‘Like the inspector says: we’ve got two very respectable and credible witnesses who say you abducted the lad, we’ve got a very nice set of your dabs on an expensive silver cigarette case found at the scene and we’ve got no lad.’ He paused and looked up at the smoke-stained ceiling. ‘I’d lock you up.’
‘Oh, come on,’ I said. ‘As soon as Jonathan Harrison turns up, I’m in the clear.’
‘Exactly,’ he said. ‘I’d be grateful, if I were you, that the inspector’s giving you the chance to produce the body.’
‘What?’ I said.
‘Habeus corpus,’ he said. ‘Show us the body. Or something like that.’
‘Ars gratia artis,’ I said, which was the only phrase of Latin that I knew.
‘What’s that mean?’ he said.
‘You’re talking out of your backside,’ I said.
‘No need to be offensive,’ he said. ‘Now, on your way and bring little Jonny in to see us sometime this afternoon.’ He beamed at me cherubically. It was odd. There was this heavyset, sweating man, his breath smelling of onions, with a five o’clock shadow at ten in the morning, showing his crooked, yellow teeth in a big, wide, childlike smile, and it came across as charming and winsome.
It was infectious and I couldn’t resist smiling back.
‘I’ll do my best,’ I said. ‘In fact, succeed or fail, I’ll be there by six.’
‘Succeed would be best,’ he said and turned away to walk back to his boss.
I stood on the step outside. It was half past ten in the morning. It was warm and sunny. I was free to go about my business. There was quite a lot about what the inspector had said that hadn’t sounded right, but there was something specific in there that was nagging at me.