by Len Maynard
Annie gripped her daughter’s hand. “Why do I feel so nervous? It’s a part-time job at the local baker’s. It’s not as if I’m running for government or something, but I’ve got butterflies.”
“Just go in and see her, Mum. She doesn’t bite.”
Annie patted down a flyaway strand of hair and took a deep breath. “Right.” She walked towards the door. “Wish me luck. Here goes nothing.”
“Do you still see Charlie Somers?” Jack said
Fuller took a breath. He was wishing now he had come clean with Jack in the first place. Covering up was becoming awkward and he hated the deceit. “On occasion.”
“Well, make a point of catching up with him. Find out what he knows about Turner and Usher.”
“Yes, guv. Will do.”
“And do it sooner rather than later.”
“I’ll see if he’s free tonight. I can pop over and see him.”
“I thought you told me that he’d moved to London.”
“He joined the Met, but he still lives in Stevenage. It won’t take long to drive out to see him.”
“Well do that if he’s free to see you.” Jack slipped the photo out again. “Simon Docherty. Do we know anything about him?”
“I don’t recognise him, and the name means nothing,” Fuller said, truthfully this time.
“I’ll pop down and check with Bob Lock, see if he has anything on him. While I’m doing that, track down the photographer, Talbot, or his son for that matter, and find out where and when this photograph was taken.”
Sergeant Bob Lock had run the Welwyn and Hatfield collator’s office years before Jack transferred to Hertfordshire, and was the best collator he had ever worked with. His office was lined almost from floor to ceiling with wooden filing cabinets crammed with files covering crimes in the area for over four decades, and other assorted information that made the detectives’ work easier. Lock had an almost photographic memory and an uncanny ability to recall case details, often without needing to check through the files.
He was sitting at his desk in the crowded office, eating a cheese and pickle sandwich. He put down the sandwich and dabbed his lips with a handkerchief. “Chief Inspector. What brings you down to my dungeon?”
Lock was getting close to retirement age but with his pale skin, almost white hair and rheumy eyes he looked a lot older, but, as Jack knew only too well, looks could be deceptive. Bob Lock’s mind was as sharp and as incisive as a surgeon’s scalpel.
“Simon Docherty, Bob. Does the name mean anything to you?”
Lock closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair as he rolled the name around in his mind. “Simon Docherty. American lawyer. Harvard educated and as crooked as they come.”
“You know him, just like that?”
“Know thine enemy, Chief Inspector. I shouldn’t need to tell you that.”
“You’ve come across him before then.”
Lock sat forward in his seat. “His name has floated across my desk from time to time. The Met have a file on him that makes for some interesting reading.”
Jack sat down at the desk. “Anything you’d like to share?”
“Nothing specific. I could go through the files, but that would take some time. From what I remember he first appeared on our shores just after the war, got his qualifications to practice law over here a few years later, and started to build a reputation as brief to some of the underworld’s biggest movers and shakers.”
“Was Thomas Usher on his client list?”
Lock’s eyes narrowed. “Usher? Taking a trip down memory lane, sir. Only Thomas Usher has been off the scene for a while.”
“I heard he’d had a stroke.”
Lock chuckled. “Yes, I heard that one too.”
“So it’s not true?”
Lock shrugged. “It could be, for all I know. There were so many stories circulating about that one back then it’s hard to know where fiction ends and fact takes over.”
“You have your doubts about the stroke then?”
“All I know for sure is that Usher disappeared from public life a while back and, so far, hasn’t resurfaced. It was about the time when Scotland Yard were turning their attention to Soho’s gangland, so, personally, I don’t think it was a coincidence.”
“Do you know if Usher was one of Docherty’s clients?”
“That’s one I can’t answer with any degree of certainty, but I wouldn’t be at all surprised.”
“I have a photograph of the two of them together at a boxing match, look.” Jack handed him the photo.
Lock stared at it for a moment and then flipped it over to read the names on the back. “Well, it speaks volumes, but proves nothing, I’m afraid.”
“Well? How did you get on?” Rosie said to her mother.
“She said I’d been out of the circulation, stuck at home, for too long to have the job.”
Rosie grabbed her mother’s arm. “Mum, you’re kidding. That’s outrageous. The old…”
Annie laughed. “No, I am kidding. I start Monday.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes, seriously. Barbara’s lovely. We were chatting for ages, and not just about the job. Did you know she was a fan of Frank Sinatra?”
“No, but I knew you were.”
“Well, so is she. She went to see him at the London Palladium when he came over here in 1950. And he sang Nancy. That’s always been one of my favourites. Dad was going to take me to that one, but something came up at work so we never made it. I was so disappointed.”
“Ancient history.”
“Don’t.” Annie chided her. “Imagine it was one of the boys you like to listen to, that Cliff Richards for instance.”
“His name’s Cliff Richard and it’s totally different. Cliff’s dreamy.”
“And so is Frank, in my eyes anyway. So it’s just the same for me as it is for you.”
“I suppose,” Rosie said. “I don’t think dad would agree though.”
“Your dad’s got different tastes in music to me. It wouldn’t do if we all liked the same thing.”
Rosie quickly bored of the musical comparisons. She and her mother would never agree. Sometimes her mother could be so square. “So, are you going to walk to work with me on Monday?”
“If you don’t mind. I’m sure Joanie can get Eric his breakfast.”
“Eric can get his own breakfast, the lazy little bugger.”
“Rosie! Language!”
“Get used to it, Mum. We’re work colleagues now.”
Annie rolled her eyes. “Perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea after all.”
Rosie grinned at her. “Don’t be daft. We’ll have fun. Besides, you ought to hear Mrs Painter if her sausage rolls don’t turn out just so. She could make a navvy blush.”
“Are you telling tales, Rosie Callum?” Barbara Painter emerged from the back room to check the till. “See you Monday, Annie. Bright and early.”
Annie smiled at her. “Yes, see you then, Barbara.” The butterflies had gone now, to be replaced by a flutter of excitement. New beginnings, she thought.
12 - FRIDAY
Frank Lesser pulled up outside the Turner’s bungalow.
“Is your husband in?” he said to the frail, grey-haired woman who answered the door.
She peered up at him through a pair of rimless spectacles, drinking in Lesser’s battered face and not liking what she saw. She took a step back, her hand on the door, ready to pull it shut. “Who wants to know?” she said.
Lesser produced his warrant card and held it out for her to see. “Detective Sergeant Lesser, Welwyn and Hatfield CID,” he said.
“Oh, you’re a policeman.” The woman stared at his bandaged broken nose. “You don’t look much like one.”
“Your husband?” Lesser persisted.
“My husband is out. I’m Jean Turner. How may I help you?”
“May I come in?”
“I suppose so.” She opened the door a little wider to allow him to enter.
“Yes, I do.”
“Have you had any contact with her in the last twenty-four hours?”
“I haven’t had any contact with her in the last twenty-four months, Sergeant,” Jean Turner said pointedly. “Not since my son…” Her voice trailed off and tears filled her eyes. She took a handkerchief from the pocket of her housecoat and wiped them away, “I’m sorry.” She blew her nose. “It’s been so difficult since I learned of Anthony’s…” The tears started to flow freely.
An elderly man walked into the room from the back of the house. “What’s the meaning of this? Who are you, coming here and upsetting my wife?”
Lesser got to his feet. “I’m sorry, sir. I take it you’re Laurence Turner. Only your wife said you were out.”
Turner glared at him. “And so I was. Out, in the garden.”
“DS Lesser.” Frank Lesser held out his hand. “I actually came to see you, sir. It’s about your granddaughter.”
Turner ignored the proffered hand. “What, about my granddaughter?”
“She’s missing, sir. Disappeared from her home last night. We have teams out searching for her.”
“Geraldine? Missing?” The old man narrowed his eyes suspiciously.
“I was wondering if she’d contacted you recently.”
Laurence Turner sat down on the settee next to his wife, resting a comforting hand on her knee. “Go and lie down, Jean. I’ll take it from here.”
Jean Turner stood up, smiled at her husband tearfully, and gripped his hand in both of hers. “Would you, dear? I don’t think I can cope with any more bad news.” Dabbing at her eyes, she left the room.
Lesser listened to her heavy tread as she walked up the stairs. “I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to upset her.”
Turner wheeled on him. “Understand this, Sergeant. The last few days have been very difficult for us. Difficult and deeply upsetting, especially for my wife. She’s not a strong woman. You march in here in your size twelve’s, looking like something out of an Edward G Robinson gangster film, scaring her half to death. I’m not surprised she’s upset.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I had to come, to ask you if you’d seen or heard from your granddaughter.”
Turner glared at him. “Well, the answer to your question, Sergeant, is no. Geraldine hasn’t been in touch with us for months.”
“Aren’t you concerned, sir, that something might have happened to her?”
“Damn your impertinence, man!” Turner said hotly. “Of course I’m concerned about my granddaughter, but if she’s gone missing then surely it’s up to you and your men to find her. You should be out there now, looking for her, not harassing an elderly couple in their own home.”
Lesser looked down at his feet. “Yes, sir. I’m sorry. Perhaps I’d better leave.”
“Perhaps you had. And be good enough to contact me as soon as you find her.”
“Yes, of course.” Lesser headed to the door.
Once back in his car he sat back in his seat and blew through his teeth. For an old man, Laurence Turner was a formidable opponent. He’d rather face six rounds with Dr Death than go through that again.
Standing outside the headmistress’s door, waiting to see Cynthia Arnold, brought back some uncomfortable memories for Myra Banks. She had managed to clash with the woman the very first day she started at Hatfield County and the ensuing years had done nothing to build bridges. Detentions were an almost weekly event and the headmistress had made it very clear that she could see no bright lights in Myra’s future. It was going to be odd now, going back to see her old nemesis, knowing that despite the woman’s gloomy predictions, she had managed to make something of herself.
Cynthia Arnold sat up straight in her chair as Myra entered the office. “Ah, it is you. I did wonder, when Sandra announced that WPC Myra Banks was here to see me, if it was the same Myra Banks who led me such a merry dance a few years ago. I had heard that you’d joined the police force and I must say I was sceptical, but now I see I was mistaken. How is that line of work progressing for you?”
Myra caught the sneering tone in the woman’s voice and bridled, but sat there clenching her fist, her fingernails digging into the fleshy part of her hand.
“It’s progressing well, Mrs Arnold,” Myra said tightly. “It’s been suggested that I join the CID,” she added for effect, not elaborating about her application being turned down.
“Yes. I always saw you connected to the criminal world in some way or the other.”
Bitch! Myra thought, but smiled.
“I’m here to ask for your help, Mrs Arnold. My boss, DCI Callum…”
“Oh, a charming man,” Cynthia interrupted. “And so helpful.”
“Yes. Well, DCI Callum suggested I come to speak with you about Geraldine Turner.”
“Her again.” Cynthia rubbed her forehead wearily. “You realise she hasn’t come in to school today?”
“No. Ma’am. Geraldine is missing. We think she might have run away from home.”
“But that’s terrible. Her poor father.”
“Her father was killed Tuesday evening.” Myra watched with guilty satisfaction as shock bleached the older woman’s face.
“Killed?” Cynthia screwed up her eyes and laid her palm across them. “That’s awful. Positively dreadful.” When she took her hand away from her eyes she was glaring at Myra, angry at her for bringing such terrible news to her door.
“Which is why DCI Callum wanted me to come and see you, to see if you could help us in our inquiries.”
Cynthia looked affronted. “I really don’t see how I can help you. You’d be as well to go back to the chief inspector and tell him that I…’
Myra held up a hand to stem her flow. “Just that, you’re her headmistress and you may be able to tell me the names of Geraldine’s friends, here at County.”
Some of the indignation seemed to drain away from Cynthia Arnold and she sagged slightly in her seat as if the fight had suddenly left her. “I know she’s very tight with Sally Wilson,” she said. “They take music together. I think Geraldine’s helping her with her piano studies. There’s Sally, and Phyllis Mayhew. Thick as thieves those three are. I don’t think they have a lot of time for anyone else in the school.”
“And are Sally and Phyllis in school today?”
“I believe I saw them in assembly this morning, but you’ll have to check with their form mistress, Mrs Rosser, to be certain.”
“I remember Mrs Rosser,” Myra said. Another bitch.
“Then you’ll remember where her form room is.”
Myra got to her feet. “Yes, I do. Thank you for your help.”
“She’ll either be there or...” She glanced at her wristwatch. “Or you’ll find her in the domestic science block. Do you even know where that is? From what I remember, you were never a regular attendee of the cookery classes.”
Myra summoned up her most charming smile. “No, I always hated cookery, and I still do, but I remember where the block is though.” Without another word she walked out of the office.
Fuller pulled up outside the shop in the Holloway Road. The sign above the shop read J Talbot and Son, Photographers. In the window were several easels holding framed wedding photographs and formal snaps of contented-looking families, dressed in their Sunday best, wearing tight smiles as they posed for posterity.
As he drew closer to the window he realised the photographs were faded in their frames and dust had gathered around the feet of the easels. The dust extended to the floor of the window display where it formed a grey carpet, dotted with the bodies of dead flies and wasps, their desiccated husks adding a patina of decay and neglect to the ancient display.
He pushed open the door. A dust-covered brass bell above his head alerted the owner to the fact that he might have a customer.
The inside of the shop echoed the window display. Along one wall was a long, dusty, glass-to
pped counter and in the corner was a metal magazine rack containing old, dog-eared copies of amateur photography magazines with browning pages.
The old man who shuffled out from behind a bead curtain at the back of the shop was dressed in stained khaki trousers with threadbare knees, and a dark green cardigan that hung on his thin frame like a mouldy sack. On his feet were a pair of tan carpet slippers with zips up the front of them and holes in the toes. He peered at him through a pair of pebble glasses and rubbed a hand across the stubble on his chin. “Can I help you?” he said in a voice that sounded out of practice.
“Mr Talbot?”
“Eh? You’ll have to speak up. The battery in my hearing aid has gone.”
“Mr Talbot,” Fuller said loudly. “I was wondering if you could take a look at this photo and tell me when it was taken.” He produced the rolled-up envelope from his pocket, tipped out the boxing photograph and laid it out on the counter.
The old man leaned forward and adjusted the glasses on the end of his nose. He stared at the photograph for a few seconds and then shook his head. “Not one of mine.”
“But it has your stamp on the back.”
The old man picked up the photograph with arthritic fingers and turned it over, bringing it up close to his eyes to read the blue lettering of the stamp. “It says J Talbot and Son.”
“Yes,” Fuller said patiently. “That’s why I’m here.”
“Well, I didn’t take it,” the old man said. “This is my son’s work.”
“Ah, I see. Would it be possible to have a word with your son then?”
The look in the old man’s eyes became inscrutable. “Yes, you can speak to him…if you get along to Highgate cemetery and take a medium with you.”
“Your son’s dead?”
The old man nodded sharply. “Eighteen months ago. Walked out in front of a bus, the bloody fool. They had to scrape his body off the road.”
Fuller looked hard at Talbot senior and saw tears misting the old man’s eyes. He softened his voice. “I see. So you’ve no idea when he took this.”