A Woman Unknown

by Frances Brody

  She sniffed. ‘Of course. I can’t promise mind. I do tell my assistant, don’t touch this, don’t bring out that, but she does. You could put a deposit.’

  ‘I’ll come back. There’s something I have to attend to. Sorry.’

  I joined Sykes in the alley. Moments later, the door blind descended in a very definite manner.

  My first motorbike ride would have to wait.

  ‘Mr Sykes, has that break-in found its way into the murder book? Apparently PC Millen reported it and saw to the change of lock.’

  Sykes shook his head. ‘I didn’t see anything about it. Whoever broke in could have gone through to the hotel.’

  ‘Exactly. They would need to draw two bolts, that’s all. Pulling out a cash drawer made it look like attempted burglary.’

  He stubbed his cigar. ‘How could that have been missed?’

  ‘I don’t know. You’re the special constable with access to Sergeant Wilson and his murder book. You tell me.’

  ‘They’re overwhelmed with paperwork up there. And that’s not counting everything up at CID headquarters, relating to Mr Runcie’s financial affairs at the bank, and all his dubious schemes.’

  We went back into the hotel through the tobacconist’s shop. ‘Mr Sykes, after you’ve spoken to Wilson, let’s try and be one jump ahead on this. See if you can talk to this PC Millen who reported the break-in. Call round this evening and let me know what you find out. It doesn’t matter how late.’

  Sykes nodded. He strode quickly to the wide staircase, and took the steps at a rapid pace.

  It was time for me to tell Anthony Hartigan and Eddie Flanagan that I had found Deirdre. It would not please either of them to know she was now being questioned by the police.

  At Reception, I asked when Mr Hartigan would be leaving. Tomorrow morning, came the reply.

  I asked for paper and an envelope. In the briefest of notes, I told him that his sister was safe and well, and gave him the name of her solicitor.

  The hotel buttons took the letter by hand to Mr Hartigan in his room, no doubt expecting a better tip than my sixpence.

  As the buttons disappeared upstairs, I left the hotel. Having promised Deirdre that I would inform her aunts, I now wished I had told her to send a telegram. Abandoning the idea of a lift on Sykes’s motorbike, I set off walking towards the Bank, to break the good and bad news. Your niece is safe and well. I debated with myself about mentioning the solicitor, the entourage of clergy, and that she was helping police with their enquiries. I did not know where to find faithful Eddie Flanagan, but felt confident that the aunts would get word to him.

  Glad of the lightness of the evening, I tried to remember the labyrinth of streets Deirdre had led me through when I followed her that Thursday morning. Many of the factory chimneys had stopped smoking at noon. The air was clear of the worst of the fog. This part of the town is depressing, but then so much is. People live on nothing, in the most abject surroundings. I kept my eyes front, and marched on towards Cotton Street.

  It was only when I began to lose my bearings that I remembered – the police either give this area a wide berth, or walk in twos. On East Street, passing a crowd of ragged men on the corner, I wanted to turn back. There were small public houses, no bigger than a couple of dwellings knocked together, and men standing outside, drinking and making remarks as I passed. But turning back is not in my nature, especially when I have an audience.

  From nowhere, someone lunged against me, and grabbed my satchel. I yelled and turned to run after him, but the youth suddenly dropped to the ground as he received a punch, then my satchel was being handed back to me, by Eddie, the once upon a time boxer.

  ‘You shouldn’t be round this end on your tod.’

  ‘I know. Stupid of me.’

  ‘I was in the Black Dog. Someone said a posh tart was walking along. I thought it must be you.’

  I put my satchel on my shoulder. ‘Well you were right.’

  ‘You might be clever but you’ve no sense. I’ve no sense left, but I’ve these.’ He clenched and unclenched his fists, looking at them as though they belonged to someone else.

  ‘I was on my way to tell the aunts about Deirdre, and to tell you too, since you asked me to find her.’

  His face clouded with anxiety. ‘Where is she now?’

  ‘She was in a convent, as you probably guessed. I believe you spotted her at the funeral.’

  He nodded.

  ‘She knows about her husband’s death, and she wanted to come home.’

  ‘To Norman View?’

  ‘Yes. But at present, she’s talking to the police.’

  He swayed as if he had taken a hard punch in the solar plexus. He closed his eyes. ‘It had to happen, Mr Flanagan. She has a solicitor, a Mr Cohen, arranged through a chap you probably know, Mr Brasher.’

  He nodded.

  ‘I’ve left a note for her brother at the hotel. He will be signing out tomorrow, and on his way to Southampton. I came to find you, to tell you and the aunts not to worry.’

  ‘What will they do to her?’

  ‘Something tells me Deirdre will come out of this unscathed.’

  He nodded, and even smiled. ‘The aunts can bide awhile. I’ll walk you back.’

  Sykes checked with Wilson. It had taken a week for the information about the hat shop break-in to filter through from uniform, to CID, and from there to the murder enquiry room. Sergeant Wilson went to interview Madam Estelle.

  Sykes would not have the motorbike or his special constable position much longer. Once he had seen Anthony Hartigan safely on the train to Southampton tomorrow, his duties would end. It would be over to the railway police and whoever else the chief inspector had appointed.

  He decided to make the most of his last hours of officialdom. Sykes knew the City Centre beat, and the shifts. PC Millen would be pounding his beat now. The question was, where would he be? Sykes rode to the top end of town, up by the barracks, and along onto North Street. Slowly he rode through the streets of the town, keeping his eyes peeled for the portly constable. He finally caught up with Millen in City Square, under the watchful eye of the Black Prince.

  Sykes hailed him. ‘Mr Millen! Jim Sykes.’

  The men knew each other by sight and nods. Sykes told him to expect a summons. ‘I thought you’d like to be forewarned. Your report on the hat shop break-in has only just come through to the murder enquiry bunch. The sarge will be wanting a word with you.’

  After two minutes with him, Sykes knew exactly how the slow progress of details about the hat shop break-in had come about.

  Millen seethed. If CID chose to recruit smart Alecks who did not know that Estelle’s Hats for the Discerning Lady formed part of the Hotel Metropole premises, then that was their mistake, not his.

  ‘I’ll be blowed if I’ll take the can. If they’d had me in CID instead of doubling my beat and putting it down to economies, it would’ve been my business to make that connection straight off and I would’ve done it.’

  ‘The hat shop owner speaks highly of you. You’re a man who does his job.’

  Informed sympathy came as a balm to PC Millen. The two men withdrew for a brief chat, into the Post Office doorway.

  ‘People on my beat appreciate me. Can’t say the same for the upper echelons.’

  ‘You don’t need to tell me,’ Sykes sighed. ‘My face didn’t fit in the force. I admire you for staying put.’

  ‘Well, I’ve a family to think of.’

  They exchanged a few words about their children.

  ‘I’m just on as a special,’ Sykes said. ‘So I know what it’s like to be kept out of the scheme of things. You did your job beyond the call of duty, according to Miss Estelle.’

  This gratified the constable. ‘She’s a nice lady. She’ll speak up for me. Some young fellers out to make mischief, that’s what I thought. The connecting door into the hotel was bolted. Nothing had been taken, and no damage done.’

  ‘They’ll be asking you next who dos
ses down in which doorways.’

  The constable tapped the side of his nose. ‘I’ll make my own enquiries in that regard.’

  ‘Tell you what,’ Sykes said confidentially. ‘Let me in on your side. A beat your size, you can’t go chasing every vagrant who might have summat to say. If anything comes of it, you’ll hear first.’

  ‘Straight up?’

  Sykes offered his hand.

  The constable took his hand. ‘I dunno though. Chap I have in mind, would have nothing to do with attempted burglary, much less murder. These CID fellers, if they get hold of his name and chuck him in the cell under the Town Hall, it’d finish him.’

  ‘Likely he wasn’t there, but if he was, and he saw something, or someone, that’d go to your credit. It’s up to you where the information goes.’

  Millen thought for a moment.

  ‘There’s two fellers doss down there sometimes. One of them’s in the infirmary on his last legs. The other, I only know a first name. Charley.’

  ‘Age? Appearance?’

  ‘About forty. Tries to keep hisself clean. Has a right bad cough, no lung power to speak of. He’s thin, about same height as you, Mr Sykes, but stooped. Doesn’t talk local. I think he’s from somewhere like Barnsley, bit of a twang.’

  ‘Where am I likely to find him?’

  ‘You could try the Salvation Army, or the hostel on St Peter’s Street.’

  Sykes drew a blank at the hostel on St Peter’s Street. The warden there thought that a man answering Charley’s description slept under the arches, which was what Millen had said. Sykes walked there, and looked about, but it was too early for anyone to have settled down for the night.

  As he walked through the doors of the Salvation Army Hostel, a rhyme they had recited as children chimed in his head.

  The Salvation Army are a good little lot,

  They all went to heaven in a corn beef pot.

  The corn beef pot was far too small,

  The bottom gave way and the devil got ’em all.

  Don’t think of that, Sykes said to himself. They’re a good bunch. Where else would these poor souls be spending the night? Sykes glanced into the communal room where men sat at long tables, each with a bowl of soup and a hunk of bread.

  Sykes knew the warden, Eric Wrigg. It always paid dividends to be nice to people. He had once helped sort out an affray, coming to the aid of an Army trombonist. Ever since then, Eric had always been willing to pass the time of day.

  ‘After some soup, Jim?’

  Sykes would not have minded a bowl of soup, but it didn’t do to take it from the mouths of them as had no wife to go home to.

  ‘No. I’m after talking to a chap called Charley.’

  ‘We’ve a couple by that name.’

  ‘About our height, thin, bad cough, stooped.’

  Sykes could tell by Wrigg’s voice and look that he knew the man. ‘What is it you’re after him for?’

  ‘Just a bit of information. He’s not in any bother.’

  ‘Don’t suppose he would be. He’s a quiet chap.’

  ‘Is he here?’

  It would be too good to be true.

  ‘Aye, he’s here, but he’s turned in for the night. Poor chap was jiggered.’

  ‘Only it’s right important I have a word.’

  ‘I’ll go up and ask. But if he says no, he says no.’

  ‘Right.’

  Sykes waited. In the room where the soup had been dished up, a little half-hearted singing began.

  Eric returned. ‘Look sharp. Speak to him before the others go up. He wouldn’t want to be spotted talking to the law.’

  ‘I’m not the law.’

  ‘You look like the law, you sound like the law, you’re the law. Upstairs, first on your left.’

  Sykes half ran up the stairs, glad that he had been the one to find Charley. The CID men, especially the London lot, would scare him into silence. If they took against him because the enquiry was going nowhere fast, heaven help him.

  It was a room with eight beds, and only one occupied. Charley was sitting up, a folded coat behind him. Sykes guessed he slept that way, so that he could breathe.

  ‘Charley, I’m Jim Sykes. Thanks for talking to me.’

  ‘I’ve said nowt.’

  ‘You sometimes go up by the Hotel Metropole.’

  ‘I’ve done nowt. I go there to flog matches.’

  ‘You haven’t been up there for a few days. Why’s that?’

  ‘No reason.’

  ‘Could it be you were there when someone broke into the hat shop?’

  Charley said nothing.

  ‘I’m hoping you were there. There’s a reward for anyone that can help with enquiries and I’d like it to go to you.’

  ‘I’m no nark.’

  ‘The man who was there, it wasn’t to steal hats. A man was murdered.’

  ‘I heard about that.’

  ‘And you put two and two together didn’t you? Faster than the detectives did.’

  Charley gave a hoarse laugh. ‘I might’ve made three with my two and two. I might’ve made seven.’

  ‘Why haven’t you been up there lately?’

  ‘It’s too far from here. I don’t allus have the puff to drag meself back here for a bed, so I’ve stopped away.’

  ‘On the nights you’re up that end and don’t have the puff, you kip down there, in the alley, or the shop doorway.’

  ‘What if I do?’

  ‘Come on, Charley, have a heart. Eric’s keeping the poor buggers downstairs singing till we’ve had our chat. No one will know, and if they did they wouldn’t blame you. Were you there that night? Did you see anyone?’

  Charley started to cough. It took him a few minutes to recover and get his breath.

  ‘I were there all right. I heard him coming and dodged up t’ alley. I’ve a snout for trouble.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘He rode a motorbike. Wheeled it up, outa sight. He went into t’ doorway. Had summat with him, mebbe a crowbar. He forced shop door. That were it. I were off, out other end of t’ alley. It were too late to find a bed.’

  The man started to wheeze. His breath came in short bursts. Sykes opened the window, to give him a little more air.

  ‘Did you get much of a look at him?’

  Talking seemed too much for the man now. He shook his head and gave a weak but emphatic, ‘No.’

  ‘Pity.’

  The breathing steadied a little. ‘Only that he were a big chap. His motorbike, it were a two-stroke Enfield.’

  ‘Are you sure of that?’

  Charley nodded. It took a great effort for him to speak again. ‘I rode despatch on one.’

  Sykes put his hand in his pocket. He pulled out a packet of cigarettes and a half crown, his week’s spends.

  ‘You should be in the infirmary, old lad.’

  The man gave something like a laugh. ‘You go there to die. I’m not ready yet.’

  He began to cough. He turned red in the face as he tried to shift something that would not come.

  Sykes said, ‘It’s not me who talked to you. It’s Constable Millen, and he’ll look out for you.’

  Charley said, ‘No bugger talked to me. I’ve said nowt.’

  Mr Duffield was at his desk in the newspaper library, giving instructions to a young clerk. When the clerk retreated behind distant shelves, I approached, wondering why he had asked me to call so urgently.

  As usual, his manner was calm and unhurried. Knowing him well, I sensed his deep agitation. His nervousness betrayed itself in the tightness of his smile and the stiffness of his gait as he brought a chair for me.

  We had not seen each other since the day we found Len Diamond’s body. I hoped there would be other, more social, occasions when we would meet, and soon, so as to overlay that dreadful shared experience.

  Mr Duffield took a folder from his drawer. He explained that in the absence of near relations, he had taken on the task of advertising in the Australian newspapers
for Leonard Diamond’s sister, and in papers here, in case other relatives may be traced.

  ‘What is going to happen about a funeral?’ I asked.

  ‘We’re waiting on the coroner. He has not yet ordered release of the body.’

  The body. The words conjured up that dreadful image of the unfortunate Len.

  We sat in silence for a moment.

  Mr Duffield gave a slight gulp and there was reluctance in his voice. ‘I’d like your advice, Mrs Shackleton. It concerns Leonard Diamond’s effects.’ He glanced about, to make sure no one was listening, though the young clerk was at the far end of the library.

  ‘Do you mean the belongings in his lodgings?’

  ‘No. The police have taken charge there. This concerns work matters. The part-time chap, young Tom Ashworth, will be taking over Len’s work. Naturally, Tom wants a locker for his belongings. Because I have been here longest, I have become storage monitor, by default. Len had a basement locker so that seemed the obvious one for Tom. I have a duplicate key.’ Mr Duffield unlocked a large drawer on the bottom left of his desk. ‘I went to check that the locker was clear, and it was not. Take a look at what was in it. I’m not sure what to do.’

  Mr Duffield reached into the big deep drawer. He brought out a hand-knitted scarf, winter gloves, and a brown paper carrier bag with neat twine handles. He placed the scarf and gloves to one side, and set the carrier bag on my side of the table. ‘It’s this.’ He parted the twine handles to reveal an unsealed envelope, containing several five-pound notes that looked, crisp, white and new. ‘I haven’t touched them, but I should say there is a hundred pounds here.’

  ‘Perhaps he did not trust banks.’

  ‘They look too neat. I used tweezers to check the numbers. They are sequential, so not savings, not five pounds at a time into the piggy bank and then into the locker.’

  There were also loose photographs, at least a dozen.

  ‘Do you have those tweezers to hand?’

  He took a pair of tweezers from a cracked coronation mug that held pencils. ‘Here.’

  One by one, I lifted out the photographs. Mr Duffield pushed the blotter towards me. I set them in two rows. A couple sat on a park bench, a man of about sixty with his arm around a slim, fair-haired young woman. Another showed a different couple in a park, the man white-haired, his companion a girl of about fifteen years old. He had his hand up her skirt. There were two photographs of Deirdre. In one, she sat by the riverbank, with Kirkstall Abbey in the background. In the next, she stood with Joseph Barnard, on Leeds Bridge. Here was Philippa Runcie at the shoot. She was with Lord Fotheringham, who had his hand on her bottom, an action he was well-known for. Another photograph showed Gideon King, Philippa’s private secretary, with one of the beaters at the shoot. They appeared to be holding hands.