There Is No Going Home

by Madalyn Morgan

  ‘Did you tell him Sid had given us the name Collins?’

  Artie shoved his plate of food into the middle of the table, placed his elbows where the plate had been and put his head in his hands.

  ‘Well? Did you?’

  ‘I might have said something. Truth is, I don’t know.’

  ‘Tell me what you do know.’

  ‘I met O’Shaughnessy on my way home the night I heard Sid had been killed. I was in a bit of a state and called into the Salisbury for a drink. I only intended to stay for one, but I started talking to this chap. Or rather he came over to the bar and started talking to me. He bought me a drink and told me his name was Shaun O’Shaughnessy. He made small talk, said no one ever believed that was his real name, that he was an actor and had been booked for the end of the pier revue in Brighton next summer. He entertained me with anecdotes of the famous actors he’d worked with. He was a real wag, and at first his stories took my mind off Sid dying. I laughed, but then I felt guilty. I thanked him for the drink and said I was going because I’d lost a friend that day and felt sad.

  ‘He said a problem shared and all that - and insisted I had another drink. I’d only had two, but they must have gone straight to my head, because I felt dizzy. I couldn’t see straight. Anyway I told him my friend Sid had died in the early hours of that day and he gasped.

  ‘He said his friend Sid had died that day too. He said it was too much of a coincidence to think two men named Sid had died on the same day and he asked me if my friend’s surname was Parfitt.’

  ‘And you said it was.’

  ‘Well, yes. I didn’t see anything wrong in it. He already knew Sid’s surname.’ Artie looked around and, although no one was close enough to overhear what he was saying, he put his hand up to the side of his mouth and whispered, ‘He said Sid had been murdered. Well, I knew that, but it wasn’t common knowledge. As far as the public was concerned a man had jumped off Waterloo Bridge, not been pushed off it. Anyway, because I was upset he bought me another drink and said he was sorry for telling me in such an offhand way.

  ‘We raised our glasses to Sid, and he said, “I’ll find out who killed our old friend, Artie, that’s a promise. And when I do I’ll sling him off Waterloo Bridge.” He said we must put our heads together, pool our information.

  ‘He said Sid had gone to meet a woman on the night he was killed. He said it could have been a woman called Frieda Voight. He said Sid had told him about Frieda. Or, he said, it could have been the married women Sid was seeing. Apparently Sid told him the woman’s husband had found out about Sid and was gunning for him.’

  From what Sid had written in his letter, Ena found it hard to believe Sid would meet Frieda on his own anywhere, let alone on a bridge in the early hours of the morning. And as for seeing a married woman, that was not Sid’s style. ‘How did the name Collins come up in the conversation?’ Ena asked.

  ‘O’Shaughnessy said Sid had told him the name of the bloke whose wife he was seeing. He couldn’t remember but said it was on the tip of his tongue.’

  ‘So you asked him if it was Collins?’

  Artie whispered, ‘Yes. He said we should find out who this Collins chap is and go round and sort him out on behalf of Sid. He asked me if I knew him. I didn’t, so I couldn’t tell him anything else. You don’t know who Collins is, do you Ena?’

  ‘No,’ Ena lied. Thank God she hadn’t worked out the reference to Collins before Artie left the office that day. She shuddered. The various and anonymous ways in which someone could be killed and their bodies never found, were endless. It didn’t do to dwell on the subject.

  ‘How did you leave it with O’Shaughnessy?’

  Artie looked downcast. ‘He said we should keep in touch and let each other know if we find out anything that would help us to get this chap Collins, Sid’s killer.’ He looked up, caught Ena’s eye and looked away. ‘The truth is, I can’t remember. I was so drunk when I left the Salisbury I fell into the back of a taxi. The bloody thing started to spin so I shut my eyes. The next thing I remember the taxi driver was shaking me and shouting at me to wake up. That was outside my flat. I stumbled out, fished in my jacket pocket for money to pay the fare, but the taxi driver said O’Shaughnessy had already paid it. Well, he said, a woman had given O’Shaughnessy the money which he then gave to the taxi driver.’

  ‘A woman? Did you see the woman who paid for your taxi?’

  Artie slowly shook his head. ‘I don’t remember anything, really, except what the taxi driver told me.’

  ‘Have you heard from O’Shaughnessy since?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you give him the office telephone number?’

  Tears welled up in Arties eye. When he nodded the action sent them spilling onto his cheeks. ‘I’m so sorry, Ena.’

  She reached out and put her hand on his arm. ‘Got a hankie?’

  He shook his head.

  Ena took a handkerchief from her handbag. ‘Here. Dry your eyes.’ When Artie had recovered, she said, ‘Fancy a drink? Something stronger than coffee?’

  Artie grimaced. ‘Not at the Salisbury?’

  ‘Yes, at the Salisbury. You might remember something about the woman with O’Shaughnessy. She might have been in the Salisbury while you were in there. Come on, something might jog your memory.’

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Dragging his heels, Artie ambled along at Ena’s side. From the Strand they cut through Bedford Street and turned left onto New Row where, at St. Martin’s Lane, they crossed to the Salisbury. With wall to ceiling mahogany panelling, large etched mirrors behind the mahogany bar - and plush seating in dimly lit corners where men and women wanting to be discrete could sit in relative privacy - the Salisbury was the epitome of opulence.

  ‘I’m going to have a scotch and water. What do you want, Artie?’ Ena asked, as they entered the luxurious old Victorian pub.

  ‘Same for me. Make mine a large,’ he said, in a huff because he didn’t want to be there.

  Ena ordered their drinks; a single Teachers for herself and a double for Artie. When she had paid for them, she added a splash of water to her scotch. ‘Water?’ she asked, the water-jug still in her hand. Artie shrugged, so Ena added the same quantity of water as there was whisky and gave it to him. ‘Where were you standing?’

  Glass in hand, he promenaded to the end of the bar and stood next to a bust of Oscar Wilde. Ena followed.

  ‘Now what?’

  ‘Now, tell me again what happened when you first saw O’Shaughnessy.’ Ena tapped Artie on the shoulder. ‘You can’t do that if you’re leaning on the bar with your back to the door.’ She was losing her patience. ‘Come on, Artie. You must have been facing into the room to see him come in from the street.’

  Artie swung round, his right hand raised with his glass in it, his left elbow on the bar. And in an exaggerated gesture of campery, put his glass up to his lips. He didn’t take a drink. ‘Oh, my God!’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘A woman,’ he said, without taking his eyes off the door. He took a swig of scotch and continued speaking as if he was narrating a film. ‘O’Shaughnessy entered, looked around, saw me and smiled. He lifted his right hand and waved. I think it was his right. Yes, it was, because a woman came in behind him and tapped him on his left arm.’

  ‘What did she look like?’

  ‘I didn’t see her face. She stood sideways onto him. She said something–’ Artie stopped and looked at Ena. ‘It could have been something as simple as “Excuse me” because O’Shaughnessy nodded and made a beeline for me.’

  ‘And the woman?’

  ‘She sat at the first table inside the door. I wasn’t paying attention to her, but I think she had her back to the room. Anyway, O’Shaughnessy swaggered over and you know the rest.’

  Artie knocked his drink back in one. He put his empty glass down on the bar with a thump, which caught the barman’s attention.

  ‘Same again?’

  ‘Singles, please,�
� Ena said, her glass still half full. She needed a clear head, not one foggy with alcohol. She didn’t want Artie drunk either. She wanted him to recall what happened outside the pub, when O’Shaughnessy put him in the taxi.

  ‘Tell me again, what happened when you left that night,’ Ena said, when the barman had poured the drinks and was out of earshot serving someone else.

  ‘I told you, O’Shaughnessy put me in a taxi.’

  ‘Before that. When you were leaving, you must have passed the woman who came in at the same time as O’Shaughnessy.’

  ‘If I did I didn’t see her.’

  ‘Okay. So, you went outside?’

  ‘And O’Shaughnessy threw me into the back of a cab. He was a rough bugger, come to think of it.’ Artie shuddered, flicked his head back and finished his whiskey. ‘Aren’t you going to drink that?’ he said, eyes widening at the sight of Ena’s untouched second scotch.

  She shook her head. ‘But first,’ she said, her hand on top of Artie’s as he seized the glass, ‘I need to know what the woman with O’Shaughnessy looked like.’

  With an exaggerated pained expression, Artie turned and slouched on the bar.

  Ena finally ran out of patience. ‘Do you know how deeply you’re in the shit, Artie?’ He didn’t reply. ‘I need something, anything, that will help me to dig you out of it. Come on!’

  ‘The HO will give me the chop anyway, so what does it matter?’ He held his empty glass up and shook it at the barman.

  Ena grabbed his arm, yanked it down, and gave the barman a disparaging look. ‘It matters to me, and it should matter to you.’ Ena saw tears in Artie’s eyes. She didn’t care. She had been too easy on him. ‘Don’t you want to know who murdered Sid?’

  Ena watched the moist sadness in Artie’s eyes turn to flashing anger. She thought he would explode in a fit of rage. Instead he turned his back on her and quietly sobbed. Ena put her hand up to his shoulder. He shrugged it off. ‘I do care, Ena, I do.’ Turning to face her, he cuffed the tears from his face.

  ‘I know you do. And I know you’re sorry that you got involved with O’Shaughnessy.’

  ‘You’ll never know how sorry.’ Artie wiped the palm of his hand across his face.

  ‘But, now you have a chance to turn the tables on him. I know he was involved in Sid’s murder, but I can’t prove it.’ Just thinking about O’Shaughnessy left a bad taste in Ena’s mouth. ‘He’s a nasty piece of work. I wouldn’t be surprised if he enjoys hurting people.’

  Artie took a sharp breath and put his fist up to his mouth.

  ‘He followed you here and he got you drunk to get information out of you.’

  ‘And I gave it to him.’

  ‘That wasn’t what I meant. Artie, O’Shaughnessy played you.’

  Artie looked as if he was going to cry again. Ena couldn’t have that, she needed him to listen to her not wallow in self-pity. ‘It’s good you told him about Collins.’ Artie’s head shot up. ‘If you hadn’t given him something you too could have ended up–’

  Ena left the unspoken word hanging in the air and changed direction. ‘You broke the Official Secrets Act when you talked to O’Shaughnessy about the work we do, but, as I said, you have the chance to make amends.’

  Artie closed his eyes, squeezed them tight, and then shook his head. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t remember seeing the woman again after she came into the pub.’

  It was no good pushing Artie any further, he was spent. Ena handed him her untouched whiskey. ‘Drink it. It’s time to go.’

  Artie downed it in one. ‘I’m going to stay for another.’

  ‘No you are not!’ Ena looked at her watch. ‘For the next four hours at least you are being paid by the HO. And, as your boss, I am ordering you to go home and make yourself something to eat. Do you have any food in?’ Artie looked up at the ceiling. ‘Silly question. Here,’ Ena took her purse from her handbag and took another pound note from it. ‘I can’t keep doing this, Artie,’ she said, slapping the note into the palm of his hand. ‘You are going to clean up your act, or you will find yourself out of a job. Stop on the way home and buy some food, cook it, eat it, and then take a bath and have a shave. And stay in. Have an early night. I don’t want you to leave your flat until tomorrow morning. Got it?’

  ‘Got it,’ he whispered. ‘Thank you. How shall I ever repay you?’

  ‘By doing as I ask. I’ll see you in the morning. We’re due at King Charles Street at nine. Now,’ she said, ‘let’s get you a cab.’

  Ena hailed a black cab and asked the driver to take her friend to Clapham. She gave him an extra five shillings and asked if he would drop Artie off at the Co-operative Store on the way, wait for him, and then drive him home. He said he would and the taxi pulled away from the kerb with a miserable looking Artie slumped in the back seat.

  ‘Wait!’ Artie shouted, hanging out of the window. The taxi screeched to a standstill. ‘I do remember something,’ he said excitedly when Ena caught up with the cab. ‘The woman who came into the Salisbury behind O’Shaughnessy was standing in the doorway when the swine shoved me into the taxi. I did see her.’

  Ena opened her mouth to ask what the woman looked like, but Artie put up his hand.

  ‘She was older than O’Shaughnessy, and shorter by four or five inches.’ He looked back at the door of the Salisbury and squinted. ‘And she had short fair hair with grey in it.’

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Ena lifted the telephone handset from its cradle, fed three pennies into the coin slot at the top of the box, and dialled the number for Bow Street police station. As soon as the call was answered she pressed button A.

  ‘I need to speak to Detective Inspector Powell.’

  ‘Who shall I say–’

  ‘Ena Green.’

  The telephone went from background chatter to silence. She was about to put the receiver back on its cradle when she heard the voice of Inspector Powell. ‘I was wondering when you were going to call.’

  ‘Sorry I haven’t been in touch, but things have been a bit hectic.’

  ‘So I hear. How are you?’

  ‘Shook up, as you can imagine, but at least I’m alive. I was wondering if I could see you today?’

  ‘Of course. I’ll come over to Mercer Street.’

  ‘No. The office is closed… I’d rather not discuss it on the telephone. Could I come into the station?’

  ‘Yes. What time shall I expect you?’

  ‘Now. I’m in the telephone box across the street.’

  Ena heard the inspector laugh.

  ‘I’ll get someone to make a pot of tea.’

  WPC Jarvis, the policewoman who had been with the inspector the day Ena was questioned about Sid’s death, was waiting for her in the entrance foyer of Bow Street police station.

  Constable Jarvis gave Ena a welcoming smile. ‘The telephone rang as the DI was leaving his office. It was a call he had to take, or he would have come to meet you himself.’

  Ena followed the WPC to the inspector’s office. She knocked the door and waited until the inspector called, ‘Come in.’

  WPC Jarvis opened the door, stood back to let Ena enter and closed the door behind her.

  ‘How are you really feeling, Ena?’ Inspector Powell asked, getting up and pulling out the chair under his desk for Ena to sit on. Returning to his own seat, he said, ‘Well?’

  ‘As I said, I’m shook up but I’ll be fine.’ The truth was, Ena felt sick with worry, exhausted trying to make sense of what had happened the night before with Frieda, and frightened of what might have happened to Artie. Thank goodness she had sent him home in a cab. But then, if O’Shaughnessy already had her young colleague in his sights, he would probably know where he lived. Ena hoped he didn’t. She must talk to Artie, make him see the danger in picking up strangers in pubs.

  But first, she needed to speak to Helen Crowther. Ena was even more convinced now that O’Shaughnessy turning up when he did on the pretext of renewing his acquaintance with Helen was because
Ena was there and to find out what she knew about Collins.

  O’Shaughnessy had bought Artie drinks to get to know him, and bought Helen flowers to get to know her. Ena caught her breath. She was the common denominator between Sid, Mac Robinson, Artie and Helen. It was too late for Sid and Mac, but she could keep Artie and Helen safe by shutting down the Voight case.

  ‘Ena?’

  Bringing her focus back to the inspector she made fists of her hands to stop them trembling.

  DI Powell leaned on the desk and smiled sympathetically. ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’

  ‘No, actually I’m not. I’m drowning in worry, sickened by Frieda’s suicide last night, and scared that whoever murdered Sid and McKenzie Robinson will come after me again - and next time it won’t be to warn me off - or he’ll get to my colleague, my husband, or my friend in Brighton.’

  ‘You could drop the case, leave us to find Mr Parfitt’s killer.’

  ‘What about Mac Robinson? If it was Frieda Voight who murdered him, his wife should be told. It would give her closure.’

  ‘My colleague in Brighton and his team are working round the clock to find his killer.’

  There was a knock at the door and WPC Jarvis brought in a tray of tea and biscuits and set them down on the inspector’s desk. ‘Is there anything else, sir?’

  ‘No thank you, Jarvis.’ When the constable left, the inspector picked up his cup. Ena followed his lead and, refusing a biscuit, drank her tea.

  DI Powell gave Ena a wry smile. ‘It would be flattering to think a lovely young woman had come to the station just to have tea with me. Alas,’ he said, getting up from his chair and going over to the safe, ‘I suspect it’s the briefcase you’ve come to see, not me?’

  Ena laughed despite feeling upset. ‘How did you guess?’

  ‘Guess? Detective Inspector’s do not guess, they deduce.’

  Ena liked the inspector and laughed again. ‘Of course they do, sir. The truth is, I didn’t want to mention the briefcase on the telephone. You never know who’s listening to your calls.’