by Len Maynard
“Bad night at the Seymour Hall,” Lesser said. “Lincoln put me in with a kid from Stepney whose only wrestling experience was in the booth at Southend. The bloody fool tried a dropkick. He’d never done one before and thought it was easy, but he missed my chest completely and the heel of his boot broke my nose. Blood everywhere. The referee had no choice but to stop the match and award it to the kid on a technical knockout. Technical knockout, my arse! Technical cock up, more like. You wait ’til I see Paul bloody Lincoln. Putting me in with amateurs!”
“At least you kept your mask on,” Harry Grant said. “He didn’t blow your cover.”
Lesser had been moonlighting as a professional wrestler for the last five years, fighting under a mask and a nom de guerre, as the Black Phantom. So far most of his superior officers, apart from the ever-astute DCI Callum, seemed unaware of his extra-curricular activities, but that situation could be about to change, all thanks to a spotty teenager from Stepney who thought he was going to be the next big thing. If he ever had the misfortune to fight him again Lesser would show the boy the error of his ways.
“Wasn’t Lincoln watching last night?” Grant said.
Lesser shook his head. “No, he was probably at the 2 I’s. That bloody Soho coffee bar seems to take up all his time since he bought the lease from the Irani brothers back in ’56. That, and bloody rock and roll. Wrestling is taking a back seat with him at the moment. I can’t remember when Dr Death last fought.” Dr Death was wrestling promoter Paul Lincoln’s alter ego, another masked man, and one much more successful than Lesser’s Black Phantom.
“Can you still work?” Fuller said.
“I’ll be out of the ring for the next three weeks, until this nose mends.”
“I was talking about police work.”
“Oh, yes. I can still do that.”
“Well cast your eyes over this.” Fuller handed Lesser the list Jack had given him. “The guv wants us to check out the names on here in connection with the Tony Turner murder.”
“Where did he get this from? There are some names on here I recognise.”
“From Turner’s old lady. It’s a list of people who might have had it in for him.”
“Fred Tozer’s name is on here. He’s a bloody dancer isn’t he?”
“Not in the same league as Fred Astaire,” Fuller said, “but yes, he’s another hoofer.”
“And Betsy Maclaren? I’ve seen her in a film, a musical I think it was.”
This produced a hoot of laughter from Harry Grant and Trevor Walsh. Even Fuller was smiling.
“What?” Lesser’s voice sounded slightly hurt. “I like musicals.”
“And is the Black Phantom planning a song and dance routine during his next bout?” Walsh said.
Lesser glared at him. “Shut up and get on with your work.”
“Seriously,” Fuller said. “We should divide this list up and work out who is going to check out who.”
Lesser sat forward in his seat. “Bloody hell! Thomas Usher’s name is on here. I heard about him when I was working at Camden, and I don’t fancy going anywhere near him. He’s a mean bastard.”
“Not anymore,” Fuller said. “He had a stroke. I doubt he could even tie his own shoelaces these days, so don’t worry about him. The guv has already discounted him. I meant to cross him off the list.”
“That will make our lives a lot easier, and a lot safer.”
“Yes, it will.” Fuller took back the list and laid it flat on the desk. “Right, let’s start breaking this down.”
“Wasn’t there an inquiry about Usher’s relationship with some Met officers a couple of years ago?” Lesser said. “Your old guvnor Charlie Somers was involved wasn’t he?”
A look of alarm flashed across Fuller’s face. “You knew about that?”
“I remember reading something about it in Police Gazette.”
Fuller started to feel sick. Jack Callum read the Police Gazette, regularly.
“Was that wise?” Myra said as they drove away. “Giving her your home number?”
“She needs someone, Myra.”
“I agree. But why you?”
“Because I owe her. Did you get any information out of Lois before she passed out?”
“Not much. She was pretty incoherent. She confirmed that her husband went out in the afternoon, but she couldn’t say where he went. Apparently she was in bed with a headache. I suspect she was nursing a hangover.”
“Gerry confirms that. According to her he was going out to meet someone, but she didn’t know whom. Did Lois say what car he was driving?”
“A maroon Singer Gazelle Coupe de Ville.”
“So, a convertible. That shouldn’t be too hard to find in Letchworth. Get on to the registration office at the council and see if you can’t get a licence plate number. I’ll put a call out when I get back to the station and get the beat bobbies onto it. I wouldn’t have thought it would be too far away from Norton Common.”
“They’ve found the car,” Eddie Fuller said.
Jack looked up. “That was quick. Where?”
“Letchworth train station.”
“Right. Let’s get over there.”
Thirty minutes later they were driving into the car park of Letchworth station. A lone police constable was standing guard over the pristine maroon convertible. He saluted as Jack approached. “Have you touched it at all?”
“No, sir,” the PC replied. “I was just passing when it caught my eye, sitting over here in the corner. Couldn’t believe my luck really. I’d only been told to keep an eye out for it as I was leaving to go on my beat.”
“Well, good work.” Jack earned himself another salute. He turned to Fuller. “Right, let’s take a look at this. Can we get the boot open?”
“We have the keys we found in Turner’s pocket.”
“Well, what are you waiting for? Get the bloody thing open.”
Fuller put the key in the lock and twisted. There was a satisfying click and the boot lid sprung open a fraction.
Jack looked inside, reached in and took out a wooden box about twelve inches square, with a hinged lid. “Now, what do we have here?” He put the box on the ground and lifted the lid.
“What is it?” Fuller was looking over Jack’s shoulder at the rows of bottles, tubes and boxes stacked neatly in compartments within the box. Jack removed one of the tubes and unscrewed the cap, squeezing the tube slightly and watching a pinkish cream ease out from the open end. “Makeup, of the theatrical kind. This is Turner’s makeup kit.”
The inner tray of the box lifted out. Beneath it were skeins of crepe hair and a tin of mortician’s wax.
“So he comes to the station, parks his car here and, while he waits for the person he’s meeting to arrive, he uses the time to disguise himself with a false nose and moustache, and to darken his skin with greasepaint.” Fuller shook his head. “It seems a bit elaborate to me especially as the disguise wasn’t that convincing.”
Jack nodded in agreement. “The question is who was he here to meet? Check the inside of the car for fingerprints and get them to the lab as quickly as possible. We may just get lucky.”
“Not if it’s anything like the crime scene on the Common. Not a fingerprint or a footprint. Nothing.”
“Then it’s time for our luck to turn.”
“I wish I had your confidence.”
“Call it blind faith,” Jack smiled and walked back to his car.
9 - THURSDAY
When Jack walked into the bedroom that night, Annie was sitting up in bed, her nose buried in a magazine. He took off his dressing gown and climbed into bed beside her with a yawn.
“Long day?” she said.
He glanced round at the alarm clock on the bedside table. The luminous hands were pointing to eleven o’clock. “I’m ready for my bed.” He yawned again. “I’m bushed.”
Annie put down her magazine. “I was speaking with Rosie earlier.”
Jack adjusted his reading glasses and turned
his newspaper to the sports pages. “And?”
“Mrs Painter is looking for someone to work in the baker’s a couple of mornings a week.”
“As well as Rosie?”
Rosie had been working at Painter’s, the baker’s for just over a year now. It was undemanding work but she seemed happy enough with it.
“Yes. Gladys Newton, who’s been with them for years, has handed in her notice. Apparently her husband has just retired and she wants them to spend more time together.”
“How does this affect Rosie?”
“It doesn’t. Not directly.”
“I see,’ Jack said, but clearly didn’t. He went back to his newspaper.
Annie took a sip from her cocoa. “I was thinking of popping along to see Mrs Painter tomorrow and putting my name down.”
Jack glanced round at her. “For what?”
Annie raised her eyes skywards. “Jack, are you being deliberately obtuse? For a job, what else?”
Jack lowered his newspaper. “A job? I thought you were happy at home.”
“I am, Jack…at least I was.”
“What’s changed?
She let out a long sigh. “I’m starting to feel redundant.”
Jack said nothing but continued to stare at her. Eventually he took her hand and said, “Elaborate.”
“Well, for years now I’ve kept house, raised our children I’ve looked after my gorgeous husband, and I’ve been happy to do so. It’s been a labour of love and I’ve enjoyed every minute of it…well, mostly.”
“So what’s changed?”
“Nothing.” She shook her head. “And everything. Eric’s getting older and if he’s not rehearsing with his friends then he’s down at St Mary’s youth club. Rosie is at work all day. I thought that, when Joanie came back to us, I would at least have something to occupy myself with, but now she’s got this job with Avril so it means I’m going to be kicking around the house all day on my own, with no one to talk to until you all get home in the evening. There’s only so much housework a girl can do, you know?”
“Phew! It seems like you’ve given this some thought.”
“You wouldn’t mind would you, Jack? It’s only four mornings a week.”
“You said it was a couple.”
“Well, it’s four…but I wouldn’t be working Saturdays.”
“I should hope not.”
“So may I go along there and put my name down?”
Jack opened his mouth to answer when the telephone in the hall started to ring. “Damn! Who’s calling at this time of night?” Cursing, he threw back the bedclothes. “I’d better get that before it wakes the whole house.” His feet found his slippers and he padded out of the room.
Annie sighed and muttered, “Saved by the bell, Jack.”
“Chief Inspector Callum,” a querulous voice on the other end of the line said.
“Yes?”
“It’s Hester Gough…from Elsinore.”
After she demanded they leave the house Hester Gough was the last person he expected to be calling him. “What can I do for you, Miss Gough?”
It sounded as if she was crying. “I’m sorry to call you so late, but I’m at my wits end.” She drew in a ragged breath. “It’s Geraldine…she’s gone,” she said and Jack could hear her sobbing into the mouthpiece of the telephone.
“All right, calm yourself, Miss Gough. What do you mean, she’s gone?”
“Just that. I took her cocoa up to her about half an hour ago, but she wasn’t in her room. I spent the next twenty minutes searching the house, but there was no sign of her, so I went back to her room and realised that the window was wide open and the bed was still made. I fear something terrible has happened to her.”
“How did you get this number, Miss Gough?” Jack said thoughtfully.
“I found it. There was a card on her dressing table and it had your name and number on it.”
“Right. Don’t touch anything else. Go and make yourself a cup of strong sweet tea. I’ll be with you shortly.”
“Where are you going?” Annie said as Jack rushed into the bedroom, tore off his dressing gown and started pulling on his trousers.
As he dressed he told her briefly what the phone call had been about.
“That’s awful.” Annie bit her lip pensively. “Of course, you must go round there.”
“You try to get to sleep.” He pecked her on the cheek. “I’ll be back just as soon as I can. I’ll try not to wake you when I come in.” He rushed to the door, stopped on the landing and stuck his head back into the room. “We’ll continue our conversation in the morning.” And then he was gone.
Annie listened to the car start up and ease smoothly away from the kerb, and then she picked up her magazine and started leafing blindly through the pages, her mind miles away, thinking about abducted teenage girls. Finally, she reached over, turned out the bedside lamp and stared up at the ceiling until sleep eventually claimed her.
Hester was waiting just outside Elsinore’s front door as Jack pulled up on the drive. She came down the steps to greet him as he stepped out of the car. “Thank you so much for coming. I really didn’t know what else to do.”
“You did the right thing by calling me. Has Mrs Turner been informed?”
Hester shook her head. “Lois took some sleeping tablets at about nine. She’s still fast asleep.”
“Very well. Can you take me up and show me Gerry’s room?”
“This way,” Hester said and led him into the house.
Geraldine’s room was big for a bedroom, with a large oak wardrobe, a glass-topped dressing table and a king-sized bed. Floral curtains billowed fitfully in the breeze that blew in from the open sash window. The other window in the room was shut. On the walls were framed pictures of Geraldine’s heroes. Mozart, Chopin, Artur Rubenstein shared wall space with French jazz pianist, Jacques Loussier. Geraldine obviously had eclectic tastes.
“How did she seem this evening?” Jack said.
“Perfectly fine. I really didn’t see much of her, to be honest. She was practicing in the conservatory until dinner, and then she went up to her room, and I didn’t see her again.”
“She didn’t seem upset or distressed? She has, after all, just lost her father.”
“As I say, she seemed fine, but Geraldine’s a very secretive child. Keeps herself very much to herself.”
Apart from when she’s telling a perfect stranger that she’d killed her brother, Jack thought, but said nothing. “May I use the phone? I should call this through to the station.”
“And now we wait,” Jack said after making the call. “They’re sending a team along. Did you make that tea?”
“Yes.” Hester’s tears had returned and she was dabbing at her eyes with an embroidered handkerchief. “Come through to the kitchen.” She led him through to the back of the house.
A large pine refectory table dominated the room. Against one wall was a huge American-style refrigerator, and set into the chimney wall was a cream Aga. A kettle sat between the two hot plates. Hester moved it onto the boiling plate. “It just has to boil again.”
Jack sat down at the kitchen table. “Geraldine came to speak to me after I gave a talk at her school. She told me that she’d killed her brother.”
Hester clucked her tongue. “Foolish girl,” she said dismissively.
“Only I noticed that you said a similar thing to her yourself when we were here, in reference to Mrs Turner’s miscarriage.”
Hester turned away and made a great play of pouring boiling water into a large brown teapot
“Miss Gough?” Jack said, determined not to let the woman off the hook. “You do realise the damaging effect a comment like the one you made can have on a young mind?”
“Nonsense.” Hester bridled. “That girl’s savvy enough to know I didn’t mean anything by it.”
Jack glared at her. “I think it was a totally irresponsible thing for you to say.”
“When I want advice on how to talk to ch
ildren, Chief Inspector, I ask for it. Until I do I’ll thank you to keep your opinions to yourself.” The frail, tearful Hester Gough had disappeared to be replaced by a hard, no-nonsense woman who was not at all intimidated by his presence. “All I want you to do is to find the girl before her mother wakes up and realises she’s not here.”
So that’s it, Jack thought. She’s more worried about Lois Turner’s disapproval than Gerry’s safety.
“We’ll do all we can to find her.”
“Good” Hester poured the tea. “That’s good.”
Twenty minutes later two police cars pulled up on the drive next to Jack’s and half a dozen policemen stepped out. Two uniformed and four plain clothed officers approached the house to be met at the door by Jack.
“Hello, sir. We got here as soon as we could,” DI Alan Healy said as he shook Jack’s hand. “What’s the story? We were told it’s a missing girl.”
“Geraldine Turner, thirteen. Went missing from her home some time this evening.”
“Abduction or runaway?”
“That’s what you’re here to find out,” Jack said. “I’m hoping it’s the latter. The former doesn’t bear thinking about.”
“Then best we get started straight away. Do you want me to take point on this?”
Jack rubbed his eyes. “I’d rather you did. Your mind will be sharper than mine. I’ve been up since six o’clock this morning. Come inside and I’ll give you what I know.”
It didn’t take long to bring the team up to date. When the rest of them had dispersed to various parts of the house and garden to begin their investigation Healy hung behind in the kitchen. “If I were you, sir,” he said to Jack. “I’d get off home and let us take it from here.”
Jack liked Alan Healy. He was only in his mid-thirties but had proved himself a fine detective, cracking some very high-profile cases wide open with his thoroughness and dogged attention to detail. “If anything turns up then call straight away. If you don’t find anything then call me before you clock off in the morning.”