Selwyn Croft shook his head. Mickey poured the tea and added extra sugar to the young man’s cup. ‘Get this down you, sweet tea is good for shock. So when did you last see Jimmy Cottee?’
‘I–I don’t know. Two weeks ago perhaps, the last time I saw Cissie. We were all down on the beach together. Jimmy was skimming stones and Cissie tried too.’ Selwyn Croft smiled as though it were a pleasant memory. ‘Jimmy tried to teach her, but she couldn’t seem to get the knack.’ His face crumpled. ‘And now they’re both dead. Why did Jimmy—?’
‘We don’t know for sure,’ Mickey told him. It seemed that Selwyn Croft had made the assumption that Jimmy Cottee’s death had been a suicide.
Henry said nothing to disabuse him. Mickey took that belief for a walk. ‘It could have been grief, I suppose. Would you expect Jimmy to be grieving that hard?’
Selwyn shook his head and then changed his mind and nodded. ‘I liked her a lot,’ he said. ‘But Jimmy, Jimmy thought she was like something from a magical place. Like a fairy, he told me once. He thought she was like a fairy.’
He shook his head and then looked at the policemen as though trying to explain what he had just told them. ‘I’m not saying that Jimmy was simple in the head,’ he said. ‘I don’t want you to get that impression. He wasn’t simple in the head, he was just … simple. The way he saw the world. He just saw it like it was black and white, like Cissie could make everything special, precious. He knew she didn’t love him, not like he loved her.’
‘Did that upset him?’
‘I don’t know. It’s not the kind of thing you ask, is it? But I’m sorry he’s dead. I’m sorry they both are. It isn’t right. Not any of it.’
There was a beat or two of silence and then Henry said, ‘Did she ever speak to you about someone called Philippe? She might have mentioned that he was an old friend, that he’d returned to see her.’
Selwyn shook his head and his eyes seemed unfocused, as though he was searching his memory. ‘There was a photograph,’ he said. ‘It was a photograph on a little table in the corner of her parlour, a photograph of an older couple and a boy of about twelve years of age. She once said that this was her aunt and uncle and her cousin Philippe. But she didn’t like to talk about it. That was before she came to England, and the photograph must’ve been taken before the war. But I don’t know anything more than that. As I say, she didn’t like to speak of it. I think the memories must have been very painful.’
Henry nodded. If Selwyn had not seen her for the last two weeks, it was unlikely he knew about Philippe’s visit.
‘And why have you not seen her since that day on the beach? From what we have been told you and Miss Rowe were in the habit of spending regular time together. Mr Cottee too. Did that change?’
‘It became plain that she preferred this Geoffrey person. A man can only take so much, give so much of himself, when it is clear that the young lady involved does not return his affections.’
‘And yet it seemed you shared her time and friendship with Jimmy Cottee without too much concern.’
Selwyn allowed himself a small smile. ‘Poor Jimmy,’ he said. ‘Inspector, I had next to no chance of capturing the heart of a girl like Cissie Rowe. But if I had next to no chance, then it must be said that Jimmy Cottee had no chance at all. She was kind to him, that was all. It was in her nature to be kind to people and I think Jimmy knew this, in his heart of hearts he must’ve known.’
‘And this Geoffrey, Mr Croft, tell me everything you remember about him and his car. Any tiny thing that Miss Rowe might have told you about him or that you might have inferred. It is impossible to think that a man like you would not question a young lady about a rival in love.’
Selwyn Croft blushed again. ‘I tried, Inspector. I really did. I felt humiliated by the whole deception.’
‘Deception? A strong word, Mr Croft.’
‘I’m sure it is. But I did feel that I had been deceived. That she had led me to believe that there might be some hope when all the time she was entertaining such strong feelings for another man. I told her, I said, “Cissie … Miss Rowe … we are not children. It is time that we thought seriously about the future.”’
‘And she said?’
Selwyn Croft closed his eyes. ‘She said that I was a dear, and that she was truly fond of me but that I could surely not expect her to give up all that she had worked for. All that she had achieved. That she had no wish to marry, to settle down.’
‘And yet you implied, earlier in our conversation, that you considered neither yourself nor Jimmy Cottee as having much chance with her. That you liked – not loved or were over fond – liked the young woman. Now, are you telling us that you proposed to Miss Rowe?’
Miserably, Selwyn Croft nodded and then he shook his head. ‘I mean that I tried,’ he said. ‘But she knew what was coming and she stopped me before I could embarrass myself further. I have not seen her since then. I was mortified, truth be told.’
Silence fell in the small front parlour, broken only by the ticking of the mantel clock. Selwyn Croft looked down at his shoes, examining the toes, shuffling his feet on the hearth rug.
Henry waited for the question he knew Mickey was about to ask.
‘And where were you on the night she died, Mr Croft? Do you have anyone to vouch for you?’
Selwyn Croft looked up sharply, met Mickey’s gaze. ‘I would do nothing to hurt her. Ever. I would never—’
‘We have to ask everyone who knew her,’ Henry told him sternly. ‘There can be no exceptions. So tell us, where were you that night?’
Selwyn Croft’s cheeks had flushed; they paled now as the anger drained away and the grief once more took its place. ‘I was here,’ he said. ‘My mother plays bridge and was short a partner that evening. I played bridge with my mother and two of her friends until gone eleven. I helped to tidy up before bed and then we both retired.’
‘And after that? I take it that you slept?’
‘What else would I be doing! I can assure you, Inspector, that I did not leave the house that night. I had nothing to do with the death of Cissie Rowe but I am telling you, Inspector, if I should find the man who did—’
Henry raised a hand and stopped the young man from uttering the pointless threat. Instead, he took a different tack. ‘Are you familiar with a young woman by the name of Sophie Mars? She takes photographs of the actors and sells them to the local newspapers.’
To his surprise, Selwyn Croft laughed. ‘Oh, I know Sophie Mars,’ he said. ‘Her real name is Sally Morris and she works in her parents’ grocer’s shop. You’ll find her there today, Saturday being a busy time for them.’
Henry nodded. He asked for directions to the shop and then prepared to leave. ‘Thank you for your time, Mr Croft. If you think of anything that you would like to add, then please inform the constable.’
‘Constable?’
‘The constable who will be sent to take your formal statement. We will need a formal statement, you understand that?’
‘Coming here? My mother, my mother will never cope with the shame. A policeman coming to the house. I’ll come to the police station.’
Henry nodded. ‘As you wish, but be sure you do. And think, Mr Croft. Anything that Miss Rowe might have mentioned about this young man with the car.’
‘He wasn’t young,’ Selwyn blurted. ‘I never said he was young.’
No, Henry thought. I just assumed it. ‘I thought you didn’t see him clearly.’
‘I saw enough to understand that he was older than Cissie; older than me. Closer to your age, Inspector. Perhaps closer to forty than to thirty … not that I mean any offence,’ he added anxiously.
It appeared that there was nothing more and Henry and Mickey took their leave.
‘An older man,’ Mickey said thoughtfully. ‘That perhaps puts a different complexion on things. Some rich young dog who fancied a fling with a pretty actress is one thing but the potential of an older, perhaps married man wanting a bit on the side is
another thing entirely.’
‘Perhaps a more apt subject for blackmail.’
‘Perhaps so. And what about this Sophie Mars? That’s the young woman with the Kodak we spotted at the studio. Is she a person of interest?’
‘She’s a person who takes pictures.’ They had reached the car now and Henry showed his sergeant the newspaper that he had brought from his sister’s house. Mickey scanned the page intently.
‘She’s caught you well,’ he said. ‘It’s a fine likeness. Distinguished and purposeful.’
Henry scowled and then realized that Mickey was goading him. ‘I’m more concerned with the candid shot at the top of the page,’ he said. ‘If she took one like this, there may well be more and she may inadvertently have captured this Philippe or even the mysterious – older – Geoffrey.’
Mickey fired the car into life. ‘I like self-starters,’ he commented. ‘Nothing worse than wrestling with a crank handle on a cold morning. Or even on a fine autumnal one like this. So, we go and interview our Miss Sophie Mars and see what else she had captured. Henry, when did men of our age suddenly get to be termed “older”? I don’t recall inviting those comparisons, do you?’
‘I suspect we were born old,’ Henry said. ‘I don’t recall ever feeling young. We talk to Sophie Mars, or Sally Morris as I suppose she will be on a Saturday in the shop, and then I’d like to return to the studio, ask a few more questions. After which—’
‘After which we will find ourselves some lunch.’
‘After which we discover what car dealerships are in the area and what garages specialize in the service and repair of the more exclusive cars. I think that Selwyn Croft would have made a guess as to the make had it been of a common or garden lot.’
‘Agreed. Blue, and possibly with a horse mascot on the bonnet. It sounds distinctive enough to be remembered and there’s also a chance it and its owner visited the studio, I suppose.’
‘It was seen by our Mr Croft driving through Shoreham. I doubt that was a single occurrence. Others will have seen it and remarked upon it. People do seem to notice expensive cars.’
Mickey chuckled softly. ‘Just as well your sister didn’t decide to lend us the Bentley,’ he said. ‘Imagine what a field day the press would have had with a picture of that. Imagine the comparisons with the likes of Lord Peter Wimsey.’
‘I’d rather not imagine. We have been fortunate so far. Most of the interest has been local but I doubt that will last. Our dead actress is far too photogenic for the national press to ignore for long. We can do without the distraction of journalistic interest in ourselves.’
Mickey looked sideways at his boss but did not trouble to comment on how naive that sounded. Many of their colleagues actively courted the press and found it helpful to keep a high profile. It was not something Henry Johnstone was comfortable with but Mickey himself kept good relations with the Fourth Estate – often on Henry’s behalf.
Many of the senior officers in the so-called murder squad were household names; their faces were emblazoned across the nationals under headlines that suggested that even the worst of crimes would now be brought to book once the likes of Fred Wensley or Arthur Neil had become involved, and if any of those officers were paired in the headlines with forensic scientists such as Bernard Spilsbury or Sydney Smith, it guaranteed a sell-out edition.
Mickey pulled the car in to the side of the road outside the Morrises’ grocery store. The shop was large, double fronted with a central door. They could see young Sophie Mars, aka Sally Morris, serving behind the counter. The smart little hat and dark blue jacket she had been wearing when they met at the studio had been replaced by a pale grey, polka dot dress, largely concealed behind a brown canvas apron. Her coppery hair was restrained by a pleated headband. She spotted Henry as he came into the shop and looked swiftly away, her attention focused on the split peas she was weighing for a customer. Henry stood quietly in line, watching as she folded the order into a brown paper cone and then crimped it closed with swift but careful fingers.
‘Gentlemen, what can I do for you?’
Henry turned towards the male voice. A man he guessed must be Sally’s father stood behind the other counter observing Henry and Mickey sceptically. Every other customer in the shop was female and Henry guessed he didn’t look like a man who had come to purchase tea or sugar.
‘If you can spare her for a few moments, I’d like a word with your daughter,’ Henry said, showing the father his identification.
‘You’ll be in town over that woman that got killed, I suppose.’ Mr Morris lowered his voice. ‘I told our Sal, “You keep away from that lot. It will only lead to trouble. They’re not our kind.” But will she listen? Will she heck, off she goes with that camera of hers, and this is what it leads to.’
‘Miss Morris is not in any trouble,’ Mickey intervened. ‘In fact we believe she may be of help to our inquiry. Your daughter and that camera of hers may help to capture a criminal of the worst kind, if you get my meaning.’
Henry watched as a range of emotions chased themselves across Mr Morris’s broad face. Sally Morris kept on glancing their way, her hands occupied with the tasks of weighing and reaching and fetching and packaging, eyes and ears straining to work out what the policemen wanted and whether she should be worried about it.
‘Sally,’ – her father seemed to reach a decision – ‘I’ll take over Mrs Pritchard’s order. You go through in the back and … see to things in there.’
He turned back to Henry and Sergeant Hitchens and spoke swiftly and softly, as though arranging some kind of sinister or distasteful assignation.
‘If you gentlemen will go around the side of the shop, Sally will let you through the rear entrance. I don’t want any daughter of mine seen being interviewed by the police, you understand.’
Henry was of the opinion that there was not a woman in the shop who hadn’t guessed who they were or that Sally Morris, whose antics with her camera were no doubt well known to everyone, was the subject of their visit, but he nodded anyway and he and Mickey left. At the side of the shop ran a narrow alley and behind that a yard. Sally Morris stood with the rear door open, her hand resting on the latch and an anxious look on her face.
‘I meant no harm,’ she said. ‘I told them I’d got a picture of the Chief Inspector that I’d taken at the studio and they said … well, they paid me a bit extra for the pair of pictures. I never meant—’
‘It is of no consequence,’ Henry told her. ‘This is about a related matter. If we may come inside?’
She stood back and let them into the kitchen. Gone was the confident, smiling young journalist they had met the day before. Instead, she looked terribly nervous and kept shooting glances back towards the shop. Her father’s voice could be heard faintly as he chatted to his clientele. ‘He’s going to be so angry,’ she said. ‘He keeps threatening to take my camera away, says it’s not a suitable job for a respectable girl, that I should be learning how to run the shop ready to take over one day.’
‘I’m sure he just worries about you,’ Mickey said. ‘Fathers can be over-protective at times where their daughters are concerned. It can be a dangerous world for a young woman, especially one intent on … shall we say, a less conventional path. Like our poor Miss Rowe.’
‘Oh yes,’ Sally Morris said bitterly, ‘he has plenty of additional ammunition to fire now, doesn’t he? In my father’s view a girl of my age should be safely and respectably married, should have brought a suitable son-in-law into the family business and be too busy producing children to have time or inclination for nonsense like photography. I am only twenty-one, Inspector. I have absolutely no wish to be tied down by so much respectability.’
She tossed her head defiantly, a gesture that somewhat lost impact due to the restraint of the crimped band that flattened her hair.
‘Miss Morris, I think you might be of use to us,’ Mickey said. ‘The photographs you have taken. Did many of them feature Miss Rowe?’
‘Use t
o you?’ She looked troubled by the idea. ‘I’m not sure I understand.’ Then it dawned. ‘Oh, you mean I might have snapped someone who … you mean I might even have caught the murderer with my little camera? Oh.’ She drew out a chair from beneath the kitchen table and sank into it. ‘Oh, it’s just like a film, isn’t it?’
Mickey rolled his eyes and sighed. ‘So if we could see anything you’ve taken in the past, say, three or four weeks now, that would be a great help.’
She got to her feet again. ‘Please, gentlemen, sit down. Would you like some tea? It will only take a moment to make and I’ll go and fetch my boxes. I have my own darkroom – well, it was the cupboard beneath the stairs, but it does, you know? I’ll fetch everything now. This is so exciting, you just can’t believe …’
Mickey took her vacated seat and Henry settled into one opposite. ‘I don’t wonder her father worries,’ Mickey said. ‘I’m often relieved that we had no children. Too much of a worry.’
‘You’d have made an excellent father, I believe,’ Henry told him.
His sergeant laughed. ‘Is that something your Cynthia schooled you to say? On her list of appropriate phrases to say to new fathers or those who might be contemplating that estate?’
‘No, I don’t believe it is,’ Henry protested, though to be fair it probably was. He smiled, recognizing that there was no malice in Mickey’s observation. ‘She used to make lists for me,’ he said softly. ‘Of appropriate things to say. She knew that I’d generally just prefer to be silent. She knew just how much that would irritate our father.’
Mickey nodded, but any response he might have made was interrupted by the return of Sally Morris. She carried three shoe boxes stacked one upon the other and, after setting them on the table, announced, ‘There’s more.’ Then she disappeared again.
Mickey took the lid off one of the boxes. It was crammed full of photographs and negatives, the latter encased in glassine sleeves.
‘More, indeed,’ Mickey said. ‘I think we may be here for quite some time.’
Death Scene Page 12