A Dangerous Life (DCI Jack Callum Mysteries Book 2)

by Len Maynard

  “So, Mrs Painter wants you back then? That’s lucky.”

  She screwed up her face in an expression he’d always found adorable. “Go and wash your hands, Jack Callum. Dinner will be ready in five minutes.”

  “I’m home!” Myra called out as she let herself into the terraced house in Hitchin she shared with her parents.

  “We’re in here.” Her mother’s voice floated out from the front room. Myra pushed the door and peeked around it. Her parents were sitting in front of the small television, her mother knitting, the clacking of the needles drowning out the sound of the program that was attracting her father’s attention as he leaned forward in his wheelchair trying to hear it.

  “Why don’t you turn it up, Mum? Dad can’t hear it.”

  “He doesn’t deserve to hear it. Not after the way he’s behaved today.”

  Myra rested her head tiredly on the doorframe. Another day, another argument. She sometimes wondered how her parents had stayed married for so long, especially since her father’s accident at the non-ferrous metal factory where he’d worked since he was fourteen-year old apprentice. The accident had left him paralysed from the waist down and confined to a wheelchair.

  “What’s he done today?”

  “That nice Nurse Meadows came to apply the embrocation to his legs and he spent the entire time speaking at her in Welsh. The poor girl didn’t have a clue what he was waffling on about. I wouldn’t mind but he’s lived in Hitchin since he was ten years old and hasn’t been back to the Valleys since the day he left.”

  “Do you think he’s all right?” There was genuine concern in Myra’s voice. “You don’t think he’s going…you know?”

  “Senile? What him? No. He was just being a cantankerous old goat. As usual.” Her mother tore her attention away from her knitting and the clacking stopped.

  “Thank God for that,” Mr. Banks muttered without looking round at his wife.

  On the television a couple in scuba gear were examining the marine life inhabiting an under-sea wreck.

  “Are you really interested in that, Dad? Is there nothing on the other side that mum might like?” Playing the role of peacekeeper in the house had become second nature to her since the accident had thrown her parents together twenty-four hours a day.

  “She’s all right. She’s got her program on later. That’ll do her.”

  “It’s the Ann Shelton Show tonight,” Mrs Banks said excitedly. “I love her voice. Oh, and your dinner’s on the stove keeping warm. I didn’t know when you’d be in, so we’ve had ours. It’s herrings. I hope that’s all right for you.”

  “Thanks, Mum.” Myra grimaced and pulled the door shut, leaving them to their rancorous evening, and went out to the kitchen where a large aluminium saucepan simmered on the gas stove. Two plates sat on top of the steaming saucepan, the herring trapped in between them.

  Judging from the condensation streaming down the windows and the disgusting reek of boiled fish that filled the room she guessed that her parents had eaten some time ago. Using a tea towel she lifted the top plate and gagged at the sight of an anaemic herring swimming in a cloudy sea of liquefied mashed potato. Grey peas added a few dots of contrast to the mush.

  I can’t eat this, she thought. She turned off the gas, took the plates from the saucepan and tipped the sorry mess into the sink. Turning on the tap she washed the liquid potato and peas down the drain, lifted out the drowned herring and threw it out into the back garden for next door’s cat. Then, washing her hands to get rid of the fishy smell she went up to her room.

  Her parents had lived downstairs since the accident so she had the entire top floor of the house to herself. It was only two rooms. Her bedroom, and the old master bedroom she had converted into a sitting room, with a second-hand sofa, a small drop-leaf table and dining chair, and a Utility style sideboard. On top of the sideboard rested her one item of luxury, a Dansette record player with an autochanger. A small pile of records was positioned on the autochanger’s post. She switched it on and waited for the first disc to drop onto the turntable. As the mellow voice of Pat Boone filled the room with April Love, she flopped down onto the sofa, opened her handbag and took out a packet of crisps. She opened the blue waxed-paper twist and sprinkled salt over the crisps. These and a chocolate bar would be her dinner tonight. What did I do to deserve such luxury? Well, at least hunger would take her mind off Jack Callum and the unfortunate rumours circulating at work.

  She decided she would have an early night in readiness for tomorrow’s jaunt up to London on the train.

  Jack sat at the dining table, half a dozen photographs lain out before him. He had turned on the overhead light and in the bright 100 watt glow he stared at each of the prints in turn, looking for connections between them, and anything that struck him as odd.

  In the centre of the group was the boxing photograph Charlie Somers had sent him, and he picked up each of the others in turn, looking to see if any of the patrons of The Purple Flamingo also attended the fight apart from the three he had already identified. He was reminded of the card game Pelmanism he used to play as a child where he would spread the cards face down on the floor and pick two at random trying to match a pair. As a game it took all his concentration to remember where he had replaced the cards on the floor. The game was markedly different to what he was attempting here, but the level of concentration was pretty much the same.

  His neck ached from being hunched over the table, and his head was developing a nagging ache.

  “Do we have any aspirin in the house?” he said to Joan as she came in to fetch another magazine from the rack at the side of the settee.

  “I think so. There’s probably a bottle in the bathroom cabinet. Do you want me to look?”

  “Would you?”

  “I’ll be back in a tick.”

  She returned a few moments later clutching a small brown bottle and a tumbler of water. She set them down beside him on the table.

  “Thanks.” He unscrewed the cap on the bottle, pulled out the cotton wool wadding and shook three white tablets into his palm. He tossed the pills into his mouth and took a gulp of water.

  “Are you doing anything interesting?” Joan peered over his shoulder.

  “Just work. Quite boring really.”

  “Hey, that’s Tony Turner.” Joan recognised the actor sitting in the front row at the boxing match. “Have you got any more like these? I’d bet the News of the World would pay for this, and any more you have of him.”

  “It’s not for sale.”

  She reached across him and picked up the photo from the table. “Who’s in the rest of the row?” She lowered the print for Jack to see, and he pointed to each face in turn.

  “That’s Charlie Somers, Eddie’s old boss, and that,” he jabbed at Thomas Usher, “is one of the most vicious criminals South of the river.”

  Joan seemed enthralled. “Imagine, policemen and criminals enjoying a night at the fights together Oh, I know it goes on. Fraternization, isn’t that what they call it? I used to see policemen mixing with all types of dodgy characters when I worked at the pub. I used to call them Heroes and Villains nights. Have you got any more shots of the criminal? Oh, wait, there he is.”

  She swooped on the photograph of Lois Turner draped on Usher’s arm. She stared at it for a few seconds. “False alarm. I thought it was the bloke in the boxing photo, but it’s not.”

  Jack turned and stared at her questioningly. “But it is. That’s Tommy Usher, leaving his club with Tony Turner’s wife, Lois, and that’s him at the boxing, chomping on a cigar.”

  “Sorry, Dad. You’re wrong. I mean they look very similar, and they could be mistaken for twins, in a darkened room, but two different men, definitely.”

  He snatched the photograph out of her hand and peered at it through the magnifying glass. “It beats me how you can say that. It’s obviously the same man. Thomas Usher.”

  Joan shrugged. “Have it your way, Dad.” She moved as if to go back to her room.<
br />
  “Wait!” He grabbed her sleeve. “Pull up a chair and tell me how you reached your decision.”

  Joan smiled brightly and sat down next to him.

  “When I was a kid,” she began, “my favourite thing in my comic was the spot the difference game. You know the one, where they print two pictures side by side that look identical, but actually have ten or twelve subtle differences. Do you want to play?”

  “I’m game.”

  “Right, put the photographs down side by side on the table.”

  He laid them down next to each other and offered her the magnifying glass.

  “That’s okay. I don’t need it. Just look at the pictures closely.”

  Jack stared at them, not sure what he was supposed to be seeing.

  Joan leaned in and with her index finger tapped on the nightclub photograph three times. “There, there and there. Look at the ears. He’s got longer earlobes than him and there, if you look closely you can see that the one in the boxing photo has the tip of his little finger missing. You have to look hard because it’s almost hidden by the fold in his jacket, and the chap leaving the nightclub has all his fingers intact, but the main difference is the nose. The man leaving the club has a slightly different shape of bridge to his nose than the man at the boxing match. Again it’s subtle, but once you realise there are differences you start really looking.” Joan sat back in her seat, a satisfied smile on her face.

  Jack continued to stare at the photographs until the differences between the two men became so apparent he was stunned that he hadn’t seen them before. “We could use you on the force.”

  “Why? Could your chief superintendent do with a shampoo and set?”

  “Ha!” He spun in his seat and hugged her. “Thank you, Joanie, You might just have cracked this case.”

  “How’s the headache?”

  “What headache.” He kissed her cheek. “Would you like a cup of tea to celebrate?”

  “I’d prefer champagne.”

  “I’m sure you would. I’ll put the kettle on. I’ll go and see if your mother wants one.”

  “She’ll be easy to find. She’s in the kitchen, doing the ironing.”

  26 - TUESDAY MARCH 24TH 1959

  “I want another meeting with Charlie Somers,” Jack said as Eddie Fuller came into the office. He had spent a largely sleepless night turning over the implications and possible ramifications of the discovery made by Joan yesterday evening. “What station does he work out of these days?”

  “Kings Cross.”

  “Make the arrangements for us to go and pay him a visit.”

  “I don’t think he’ll be very happy with that, us turning up at Kings Cross nick for a chat.”

  “I couldn’t give a tinker’s cuss whether he’s happy with it or not. He involved himself in our investigation. It’s on his head if our lines of inquiry don’t sit conveniently with him.”

  Fuller shrugged. He had seen his boss in this kind of mood before. Like a terrier with a ferret, he’d shake the idea to death before releasing it. “I’ll call him.”

  “Good.”

  Ten minutes later, and one fractious telephone call later, Fuller came over and sat at Jack’s desk. “He’s agreed to see us but he wants us to meet him at a local pub, The Carpenters in the Kings Cross Road at midday.”

  “That suits me. We’ll take a car. I want to go on somewhere else afterwards, while we’re up in London.”

  With her uniform freshly pressed and her wavy hair swept neatly into a smooth French pleat by means of vigorous brushing and a liberal application of hair lacquer, Myra stepped out of the Holborn underground station and made her way smartly to the Zoom offices.

  Despite its grand name the Zoom Advertising Agency offices were on the first floor of an undistinguished redbrick building above a cobbler’s shop. The doorway was at the side of the shop and an enamelled arrow affixed to the wall pointed the way up a narrow, carpeted flight of stairs. At the top of the stairs was a half-glazed door with the legend ZOOM picked out in gold capital letters on the glass.

  Myra tapped on the door, pushed it open, and her earlier confidence about her appearance evaporated like dew in the morning sunshine. She was in a small wood-panelled room, its walls adorned with framed colour photographs of some of the most beautiful and glamorous women she had ever seen. She felt her head sink down into her shoulders as a door in the room opened and an equally glamorous young woman walked in. About thirty, with short dark hair and an hourglass figure encased in a crisp beige silk suit, she was smiling and stretching out her hand. Her lips were red and the perfect teeth seemed to be lit from within. “Hello.” She pumped Myra’s hand. “I’m Marion, Cedric’s secretary.”

  “WPC Banks.”

  “Yes, of course you are. I mean, who else could you be? It’s not as if we have the police coming to our door every day.” The secretary gave a girlish giggle. For all her apparent sophistication and movie star appearance, Marion didn’t seem very bright. Myra chided herself silently for making such a premature assessment of the woman based only on an initial impression.

  “Mr. Bannister is expecting me?”

  “Indeed he is. If you could just take a seat.” Marion pointed to a small hard chair in the corner of the room. “Cedric’s in a meeting with a client, so Larry has agreed to see you.”

  “Larry?”

  “Larry Barker. He and Wendy Worthing are Cedric’s business partners. He’ll be with you presently.”

  Myra thanked her and took the seat, crossing her ankles demurely, and Marion glided back out of the room on her four-inch stilettos.

  Myra sat drumming her fingers on her knee, as the beauties adorning the wall continued to mock and intimidate her. A few minutes later the door opened again and a short man with brilliantined hair and a pencil-thin moustache hurried through the room and out of the offices. As he passed he gave her a furtive glance but, other than that, ignored her.

  The door to the main office stayed open and seconds later another man entered the room. Young, tall and good-looking in an Errol Flynn type of way with thick wavy hair and a wolfish grin, Larry Barker stood just inside the doorway saying nothing, but watched Myra as she got to her feet.

  “WPC Myra Banks,” Myra offered in the hope of provoking some response.

  Barker narrowed his eyes and looked her up and down. “Good figure. Nice pins. Pretty face though the eyebrows could use some work. Lovely eyes though. It’s just a shame about the constipated hair. Is it straight or wavy? I can’t tell with that style.”

  “Mr. Barker. I really don’t see that my appearance has anything to do with the reason I’m here.”

  He put his fingers to his lips in a gesture for silence. “Never refuse a compliment. It’s one of the first things I tell the girls. Compliments build confidence. Never forget that.”

  “I really feel we should get to the matter in hand,” Myra said stiffly. She’d met types like Larry Barker before in dancehalls from Hertford to Hackney. They did not impress her, let alone turn her head.

  Barker stared at the resolve etched on her face, in her steely gaze and in the taught line of her mouth. He inclined his head courteously. “As you wish. Come through to the office.”

  He led the way out of the room past a desk where Marion was sitting, her fingers flying dextrously over the keys of an Olympia typewriter. Myra noticed the secretary smile at Bannister adoringly as they passed by. Just another notch on his bedpost, she guessed.

  The office was large and sumptuously furnished and Myra was surprised to see three desks, two of them occupied, one by a woman, possibly in her forties, although the impeccably applied makeup was a mask concealing her real age, and a man dressed in a well-tailored pin-striped suit whose blond hair gleamed under the harsh lights in the room. He was talking on the telephone as they entered the room and Myra recognised the voice of Cedric Bannister. He didn’t look up as they entered. The woman, however, did.

  “Must you bring that in here, Larry? Can’
t you see that we’re working?”

  Myra felt a chill from the icy voice she had encountered yesterday.

  “Now, now, Wendy,” Barker said. “Be polite. WPC Banks here has some questions for us.” He turned to Myra. “Please excuse Wendy. She doesn’t care for disruptions to the office routine.”

  “I promise I’ll be as brief as possible,” Myra said, hoping to mollify the woman and instead earned herself a cool stare from Wendy Worthing.

  “My desk is here,” Barker said. “Please take a seat and make yourself comfortable.”

  Myra did as he requested, sitting down at the desk, taking her notebook from the breast pocket of her tunic.

  “Shall we begin then?” Barker made himself comfortable in a plush office chair across the desk from her.

  Myra crossed her legs and rested the notebook on her knee. “Lois Franklin. What can you tell me about her?”

  “We made her into a star,” Barker said.

  Myra wondered how many other people were going to take the credit for Lois’s success. First Stephen Sullivan at Northrop Chemicals and now Larry Barker. She wondered how many others would crawl out of the woodwork before the end of this investigation.

  “You see at the Zoom Agency we pride ourselves on being able to see the potential in what appears to be unpromising material.” Larry Barker lit a cigarette and leaned back in his chair. “Rather like I did to you outside. When I first saw you, WPC Banks, I saw a young woman, confined by her uniform, destined to play an unglamorous role in life. One of the grey people who slip through the decades unnoticed, anonymous. Instead you should think of yourself as a lump of clay, raw material waiting to be sculpted and moulded into someone special, someone unique. Someone the camera loves; a sow’s ear transformed into a silk purse. It’s why we called the agency Zoom. Because we can take someone like you, someone who has good, but basic, raw materials that, with some slight alterations, a few tweaks, can then go, zoom! Up through the roof. A face and body that can sell anything from, plum puddings to platinum jewellery, from dumplings to diamonds. Zoom!” He raised his hand, his index finger pointing at the ceiling.