A Dangerous Life (DCI Jack Callum Mysteries Book 2)

by Len Maynard

  Lesser nodded. “Yes, you could say that.” The nether regions of theatres held no mystery for him. Many of his bouts were held in run-down provincial theatres. To him it was just a place to pick up another wage packet.

  Lesser excused himself and headed off to another theatre, this one in Shaftesbury Avenue, where Betsy Maclaren was appearing in a Noel Coward play.

  17 - SATURDAY

  An hour later he was sitting in another dressing room. This one was cramped and cluttered and lacking a star on the door. Betsy Maclaren’s star had been fading of late, along with her ingénue status and her girl-next-door looks.

  She sat opposite Lesser, a pink Sobranie cocktail cigarette clutched between nicotine-stained fingers. “Polly Turner was my best friend,” she said. “We trained at Webber Douglas and graduated together. I was bridesmaid at her and Turner’s wedding, for Christ’s sake.”

  “So you must have taken her death very badly.”

  “I cried for weeks.” Betsy paused. “But I was crying for Polly for a long time before her death, once I learned what that piece of scum Turner was doing. Polly was a lovely girl, one of life’s little gems. We shared a flat in Ladbroke Grove when we were first starting out. She was twice the actress I am, but so modest and self-effacing. For that bastard to betray their marriage vows and start sleeping with that…that bitch, Lois Franklin, was one of the cruellest things I have ever witnessed.”

  Lesser could see that the affair had hit Betsy Maclaren hard. Tears were welling in her eyes and she was torturing a silk handkerchief, twisting it tightly around her fingers. “I had no idea that Polly Turner was an actress too.”

  “That was how they met. She was Eliza to his Professor Higgins in Bristol rep. He was far too young for the part, of course, but Polly’s interpretation of Eliza secured glowing praise from the critics and made the play a success. It was the worst part she could have taken.”

  “Oh?”

  “She fell in love with her leading man,” She sighed and wearily ran a hand through her hair. “The worst of all theatrical clichés really, and after that, convinced he was going to be the major star, she put her own career on the back burner, especially after Geraldine was born, focussing all her efforts into making her conviction come to fruition.” She took a savage draw on the Sobranie and ground it out in an already overflowing ashtray.

  “You seem very bitter about it.”

  “You could say that. To think what Polly sacrificed for that pig.” She shuddered. “I hope one day the gods catch up with him and condemn him to the hell he so richly deserves.”

  “You haven’t heard?”

  “Heard what?”

  “Tony Turner was murdered last Tuesday evening.”

  The news seemed to jolt her in her seat.

  “Murdered? Tony?”

  Lesser nodded. Betsy reached for another Sobranie, powder blue this time, and stuck it between her lips, lighting it with a match from a box on the dressing table. She drew a lungful of the smoke in one long pull, and blew it out through clenched teeth.

  “Good. Murdered you say? I hope the little worm suffered.”

  “Where were you Tuesday afternoon?”

  Betsy Maclaren’s mouth dropped open and the cigarette fell from her lips, hitting the floor and rolling underneath her chair. “You don’t think I killed him, do you?”

  “You seem to have had a lot of animosity towards him.”

  “I did. I think you could almost say that I hated his guts, and I’m delighted, absolutely delighted, he’s dead, but no, not last Tuesday. I was here all afternoon rehearsing. Twenty or so people saw me and will back me up.” Her chin tilted up defiantly, as if daring Lesser to doubt her. “Do I look like a murderer to you?”

  “Crippen didn’t look much like a murderer, but he was.”

  Betsy glared at him. “Don’t take offence, Sergeant, but I’m going to tell you to piss off now.”

  Lesser stared back at the diminutive Betsy Maclaren, with her blonde curls and blue, doe-eyes, mildly shocked by the coarseness of her language. He got to his feet. “I’ll check your alibi before I go.”

  “Yes, do that,” she said coldly, and turned her back on him, smoking furiously.

  “Bloody theatricals!” Frank Lesser said as he walked into Jack’s office later that afternoon.

  “What are you moaning about, Frank? You’re almost one of them yourself,” Fuller said from his desk.

  “Watch it, son. I’m a sportsman and an athlete.”

  Fuller gave a fake yawn. “If you say so, Frank.”

  “I bloody do.” Lesser moved towards Fuller with his fingers balling into fists.

  “That’s enough, you two!” Jack said loudly. “Save your squabbles for the bloody playground. Sergeant Lesser, would you mind sitting down and telling me what you found out today?”

  Still shooting daggers at Eddie Fuller with his eyes. Lesser pulled a chair up to Jack’s desk and sat down.

  “Two suspects questioned, both with alibis for Tuesday afternoon.”

  “So, a trip to London’s West End wasted?”

  “Not really, sir. I found out that Tony Turner was a bit of a shit.”

  “We knew that already,” Fuller said.

  Jack glared at him. “Be quiet, Eddie. And let Frank continue.”

  “Thank you, sir. As I was saying, Tony Turner was a…’

  “Yes. I think that’s well established now.” Jack cut him off. “And you don’t think either Fred Tozer or Betsy Maclaren could be responsible for the murder?”

  “Of the two of them, only Tozer would have the strength to pull it off. He’s a trained dancer, athletic and well-muscled. But his alibi is rock solid. Betsy Maclaren is about five foot four and probably only seven-stone soaking wet. Again, a strong alibi, and she was unaware Turner was dead. It came as quite a shock to her.”

  “She’s a bloody actress, Frank,” Fuller said. “She could have been putting on a performance for your benefit.”

  “Sir?” Lesser turned to Jack.

  Jack glared at Fuller again. “Button it, Eddie. I think Frank’s more than capable of recognising when someone is telling the truth.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Lesser smiled slyly at Fuller.

  “Type out your report and have it on my desk by three o’clock,” Jack said to him. “Eddie, how are you getting on tracking the name’s on your list?” he said as Lesser went back to his own office, to the laborious task of typing up his notes.

  “I’ve got an appointment with Michael Lewin later this afternoon.”

  “Who’s Lewin?”

  “He’s the last name on the list. An architect. How he connects to Turner I’ve yet to find out.”

  “Well, let me know as soon as you do. Are you coming round to give Eric his guitar lesson later?”

  Fuller shook his head. “No. He got Bert Weedon’s Play in a Day book from the library last week.”

  “Bert Weedon’s written a book?”

  “Have you heard of him?”

  Jack chuckled. “I remember him when he used to play with Ted Heath and Mantovani. Well, I suppose Eric can’t go far wrong if he’s leaning that kind of music.”

  “Well, just to warn you, he’s discovering rock and roll as well. He’ll be asking for an electric guitar and an amplifier soon.”

  “Good God, he’s only just got your old one.”

  Fuller shrugged. “That’s how these things work. My first instrument was a banjo and I’d graduated to the guitar within six months, and got a better one two weeks later. Anyway, Eric reckons he doesn’t need me anymore. Still, I suppose it will save you five bob a week.”

  “More for you to lose on your snooker matches with Charlie Somers.”

  “You have to be kidding. I learned a hard lesson playing that old devil. He’s good.”

  “Southern area champion for three years running, from what I hear.”

  “You knew that?”

  “I knew it, like I knew it was Somers you went to for informa
tion, when I specifically told you to contact Division,” Jack said with a wry smile.

  Fuller blushed. “You knew that too?”

  Jack nodded. “Oh, yes.”

  “And you don’t mind?”

  “Only that you didn’t tell me what you were up to. I need to be able to trust my sergeants, Eddie.”

  “You can trust me, Jack.”

  “Actually, I applaud your use of initiative. I would have done the same thing.”

  “So you’re not annoyed?”

  “Bloody furious, but only because I didn’t think of it first. Just keep me in the picture in future, yes?”

  “Yes,” Fuller said.

  “You found Talbot, the photographer, in Islington, right?”

  “On the Holloway Road.”

  “Then that’s where I’ll be this afternoon. I’m going to pay him a visit myself.”

  “Is there any point?”

  “You used your initiative, Eddie, this is me using mine.”

  It wasn’t easy to park on the Holloway Road. Saturday shoppers were out in force, and those that had driven into town had parked their cars close to the shops, but Jack squeezed his Morris Oxford into a space between a blue Hillman Minx and a Bedford van.

  The old man behind the counter looked up as Jack entered the shop, glanced at him briefly and then went back to polishing a camera lens with a soft cloth. He looked up again as Jack spoke. “Mr. Talbot?”

  “Jacob Talbot, yes,” he said.

  Jack introduced himself. “You spoke with my sergeant yesterday,” he said. “I was sorry to learn about your son.”

  Talbot said nothing but put down the camera on the glass-topped counter.

  “I was wondering about his camera,” Jack said.

  “What about it?”

  “What happened to it, after the accident?”

  “The bus ran over that too. Shame. It was a Leica M3. It cost him an arm and a leg, and ended up costing him a whole lot more.”

  “Yes.” Jack looked at the old man sympathetically. “Was the film recovered?”

  Talbot shook his head. “The camera was crushed, the film ruined. I’ve got the bits if you want to see them. The police gave me a brown paper bag with Benny’s effects in it. Want to see?”

  Jack shook his head. “That won’t be necessary.”

  “Then why are you asking?”

  “I was just wondering who he was taking photos of when he died. You told my sergeant the accident happened outside The Purple Flamingo nightclub.”

  “That’s right, on the Tottenham Court Road. Benny was always hanging around there in the evenings when he wasn’t at the boxing, though what he was trying to achieve I’ll never know. Getting snaps of people coming and going. I suppose there’s a market for that sort of thing in some of the murkier sections of the press, but I don’t think he ever made much out of it.”

  Jack went across and looked through the grubby glass counter at the array of cameras and lenses that were steadily gathering dust of the shelves. “I don’t suppose Benny kept hold of the photos he took?”

  Jacob Talbot laughed. “Are you kidding me? Benny never threw anything away. He called them his legacy, though who he was preserving them for I’ll never know. Certainly not for me.”

  “You still have them?”

  The old man nodded. “Didn’t seem right somehow to just throw them away. I suppose I’ll have to one day. I’m selling the shop and whoever takes it over isn’t going to want them.”

  “Could I see them?”

  “All of them?” the old man said incredulously. “There’re hundreds of them.”

  “Well, maybe the ones taken in his last six months or so. I take it he had some kind of filing system.”

  “Oh yes, he had that all right.” Talbot came around the counter and walked to the front door, locking it and flipping the sign over from open to closed.

  “I don’t want to interfere with your business.”

  Talbot gave a bitter laugh. “What bloody business? You’re the first person to come in here today.” He shuffled back behind the counter and pushed a curtain to one side, revealing a wooden staircase. He beckoned Jack forwards. “Come through. He kept them up here.”

  Jack followed him up the stairs. At the top there was a landing with several doors leading from it. Talbot opened the third one along. “In here.” He pushed the door wide to allow Jack to enter.

  As he followed Jack into the room Talbot leaned in through the doorway and flicked down a Bakelite switch.

  “My son’s legacy.” The light from a single bulb hanging from a twisted flex in the middle of the room cast a milky glow over the boxes arranged on shelves that covered three of the walls from floor to ceiling. In the centre of the room stood a drop-leaf table and a wheel-backed chair. On the table was a desk lamp with an articulated neck and lying on the lamp’s heavy base was a four-inch magnifying glass with a brass handle. “He spent a lot of his time up here. Either in here or the darkroom next door, when he should have been downstairs with me in the shop.”

  Jack stared at the stacks of boxes. Each box had a date of the year they were taken neatly printed on them in heavy black ink.

  Talbot, in turn, was staring at him. “The last year is on the shelf to your right.”

  Jack crossed to the shelf, located a box labelled 1958, slid it out and took it back to the table.

  “Switch on the lamp. You’ll strain your eyes otherwise.”

  “Yes, of course.” Jack pressed the switch on the lamp and opened the box, groaning inwardly when he saw the hundreds of photographs contained within. He sat down on the hard wooden chair and began to take the photos out, spreading them on the table.

  “I’ll leave you to it then. You obviously know what you’re looking for.”

  Jack glanced around at him. “Yes, fine. I’ll come down when I’ve finished.”

  The old man inclined his head and pulled the door shut. Jack listened to Talbot’s heavy tread on the stairs as he went back downstairs. This could take hours, he thought. He picked up the magnifying glass and began the search for familiar faces among the many hundreds Benny Talbot had snapped.

  18 - SATURDAY

  Lewin and Stern, Architects, occupied a modern office in the centre of Welwyn Garden City. Eddie Fuller walked in through the glass door and found himself in a spacious foyer dominated by a large model of a modern town centre rendered in white cardboard. Fuller stared at it for a long moment before deciding that it was not a place he’d like to live. “Bloody rabbit warren,” he muttered under his breath.

  “May I help you?” a female voice sounded at his elbow. He turned at the sound of the voice and found himself face to face with a young and very attractive blonde woman. Dressed in an elegant navy-blue suit over a crisp white blouse, secured at the collar by a delicate cameo brooch she looked as if she had just stepped from the pages of Vogue magazine. Her hair was cut in a chic pageboy, curling under just above her collar and finished with a blunt fringe that hovered half an inch above clear blue smiling eyes.

  “Yes,” Fuller said, returning the smile. “Detective Sergeant Fuller. I telephoned and made an appointment to see Mr. Lewin.”

  The young woman checked her wristwatch. “You’re very prompt, Sergeant Fuller.”

  “I try to be.”

  She pointed to a pair of leather and chrome easy chairs set either side of a large potted plant. “Take a seat. I’ll tell Michael you’re here.” She flashed him another smile and disappeared through one of the two oak-panelled doors leading off from the foyer.

  Fuller had barely settled himself in the comfortable chair before she was back.

  “He’ll see you now.” The smile had gone from her eyes and her demeanour had chilled slightly. She said nothing more as Fuller got to his feet and crossed the carpeted floor to the door she had left open.

  Michael Lewin was a rakish-looking man in his mid-thirties who was seated on a high stool at a large, modern drawing board. His hair was curly a
nd flopped over one eye. He brushed it back impatiently with his hand and fixed Fuller with an appraising stare. “You’re not what I was expecting.” His face was thin and pointed, and had a couple of days’ worth of stubble darkening his chin, giving him an unkempt appearance.

  “Really?” Fuller said, uncertain how to respond.

  “I thought you’d be older, dressed in tweeds with size twelve brogues. You look more like a teddy boy, not like a policeman at all.”

  Lewin had an arrogant, slightly sarcastic tone in his public-school voice that Fuller found hard to warm to. He smiled at the architect blandly. “We come in all shapes and sizes.”

  Lewin slid off the high stool, walked across to a desk and sat down behind it. “Pull up a chair, and then you can tell me why you want to see me. I hope this won’t take long. I’m rather busy.”

  Fuller dragged a chair from the wall and sat facing Lewin across the desk. “Anthony Turner. I believe you were acquainted with him.”

  “Were? You said were acquainted with him. Has something happened to him?”

  “He was killed Tuesday evening, sir.” Fuller watched Lewin closely, trying to gauge his reaction.

  The shock that registered on Michael Lewin’s face seemed genuine enough. “Tony’s dead?” he gasped incredulously.

  Fuller nodded.

  “Good God! How?”

  “He was murdered.”

  “Oh my Christ!”

  “Did you know him well, sir?”

  Lewin averted his eyes, swallowed loudly and nodded his head.

  “How well?”

  “We shared digs when we were at Birmingham rep when we were in our late teens.” Lewin kept swallowing loudly, struggling to get his emotions under control.

  “So you two were friends.”

  “Very good friends.” Lewin opened the desk drawer and took out a packet of cigarettes. He took one from the pack and stuck it between his lips, lighting it with a match, striking the red-tipped Swan Vesta on the desk. His hands were shaking as he took the cigarette from his mouth and blew smoke in a thin stream into the air.