Death Scene

by Jane A. Adams

  ‘Quite likely, but it’s confirmation rather than confession we want at this stage. If she carried stolen goods to the capital and took drugs back, then the question is, did she also do this on her own account, or was it for someone else?’

  ‘As a small-time dealer she’d have made a little side money,’ Mickey said. ‘There’d be few doctors willing to over-prescribe in sufficient quantity for anyone to get rich from it. Word soon gets around.’

  ‘It does indeed. Cynthia spoke of several doctors that might be persuaded. If she knows, then others who actively seek such knowledge would have little trouble in identifying them. Mickey, what do you think about this neighbour?’

  ‘Well, the description Philippe gave was vague, but my money is on Fred Owens.’

  ‘Mine too. We know that Mrs Owens thinks nothing of neighbouring. Perhaps her husband is as relaxed about such things. Mickey, I want an extensive background investigation done on both of the Owenses. It might just have been a case of a concerned neighbour hearing raised voices, but I have a feeling that this is more.’

  Mickey nodded, then remembered that his boss couldn’t see his nod. ‘That everything is local,’ he said. ‘Including the bastard that knocked you on the head.’

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Wednesday morning’s papers were full of the news that the murder of celebrated actress Cissie Rowe was in some way linked to the police raid on a notorious pawnbroker, Edward Grieves. Many of the sidebars also carried the news that the famed murder detective investigating the case had been attacked and left for dead, close by where Miss Rowe had met her end.

  ‘Celebrated,’ Cynthia said, ‘notorious, famous. Darling, the press do love their adjectives, don’t they? Will this interfere with your work?’

  ‘Possibly,’ Henry said. ‘Though it was inevitable and I’m actually astonished that Miss Rowe’s death did not make a bigger splash before. It’s possible, of course, that it might aid the investigation. Those involved will imagine we are making progress where we are not and might act in such a way that they are tripped up. It’s impossible to know how this will resolve itself.’

  ‘At least you’re looking better. You gave us all a scare, Henry.’

  ‘I feel fine, Cyn. And I have work to do. Mickey is coming back to Shoreham and he’ll collect your car and pick me up later.’

  ‘Henry, are you sure? The doctor said you should rest.’

  ‘And I have rested. But I’ve had enough of rest and want to be doing. I can’t abide inaction, you know that.’

  ‘Know it and sometimes fret about it. You’ll be coming back here tonight?’

  ‘Probably, but things will move faster now, I feel. We may have to return to London.’

  Cynthia picked up another of the newspapers and skimmed the story. She smiled suddenly. ‘Your little photographer has another credit to her name,’ she said.

  ‘My little photographer? Oh, Miss Mars. Let me see.’

  Cynthia handed him the newspaper. Another picture of Cissie Rowe, in conversation with a group of young men, graced page two. Opposite was a picture of Henry himself, taken on Shoreham Beach. He was striding purposefully, unaware that his picture had been snapped.

  ‘Well, at least she’ll be making a little money out of this,’ Cynthia said. ‘And she is rather good, isn’t she?’

  Henry could see that his sister’s mouth twitched with laughter and her eyes sparkled. ‘Making fun at my expense, Cyn?’

  ‘Always.’ She clasped his hand, suddenly serious. ‘But please be careful, Henry. Promise me you will.’

  Mickey Hitchens collected Henry in the early afternoon and they drove back to Shoreham. Henry had traded his bandage for a dressing which just covered his stitches. A small patch of hair had been shaved from all around the wound and he felt dreadfully conscious of it. Worse still, it hurt to wear his hat and so he couldn’t even hide the injury away.

  And, though he was loath to admit it, his head still ached abominably.

  ‘Mrs Owens has a record,’ Mickey told him, ‘but it was years ago when she was still a girl. She was charged with petty theft.’

  ‘And nothing since?’

  ‘No, but here’s the thing. She grew up just off Brick Lane, not more than a few streets away from the pawnbroker’s and only a few doors away from Josiah Bailey.’

  ‘So she must have known him.’

  ‘Inevitable. They would have been at school together at the very least.’

  ‘And is Bailey being brought in?’

  ‘Tonight.’

  ‘Why wait until then?’

  ‘Because he’s out of town, not due back until late this afternoon. He’ll be lifted when he gets off the train. Mrs Owens still has a sister living nearby, who’s told us Mrs Owens visits about once a month but her husband goes up more often. Sometimes stays overnight at his sister-in-law’s.’

  ‘Interesting.’

  ‘Isn’t it just? On Bailey’s patch, and with a direct connection to the man himself via Mrs Owens.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Henry said. He felt the need to play devil’s advocate. ‘But many people would have known Bailey when they were children; it doesn’t immediately link them or compel them to a life of crime.’

  ‘No, it doesn’t, but it might if your sister married into the family.’

  Henry turned and stared at his sergeant. ‘Muriel Owens’ sister—’

  ‘Married Josiah Bailey’s cousin. Now we’ve nothing on either the sister or the husband, but …’

  ‘But the prospect of a connection is still very much there.’ Henry nodded and then wished he hadn’t.

  They drove round to Bungalow Town over the road bridge. Just by the Church of the Good Shepherd was a police roadblock and the press and newsreel reporters were out in force. Mickey was evidently expected because the barrier was pulled aside and they drove through without pause though Henry thought it was inevitable that Cynthia’s car would be featuring in the next day’s papers. He didn’t imagine Albert would be particularly amused.

  Mickey stopped the car behind the studio. ‘The Owenses are at work,’ he said. ‘Constable Prentice checked up for me.’

  Gingerly, Henry got out of the car. Once upright, he immediately felt the headache worsen and the nausea return and was aware of Mickey eyeing him warily. ‘I’m all right,’ Henry told him.

  ‘And I’m a Chinaman. You fall over and there’ll be hell to pay with that sister of yours.’

  They walked slowly up to the lean-to building that Mrs Owens had been working in before but were told that she was running an errand and not there. Mr Owens was sent for.

  Mickey related what he had been told by Philippe about the day Cissie had returned from London and Philippe had quarrelled with her.

  ‘He says that a neighbour intervened,’ Mickey told Fred Owens.

  ‘Well, it wasn’t me. I can assure you of that.’

  ‘The description matches you, Mr Owens.’

  ‘Perhaps it does, but I would recall a quarrel between Cissie and a young man. I would remember going into her bungalow under those circumstances, and I can assure you I didn’t.’

  ‘Perhaps you don’t like to admit to doing such a thing in front of your wife,’ Henry said.

  ‘In front of …’ Owens turned. Muriel had just returned and was standing behind him with a quizzical expression on her face.

  ‘Fred? What’s all this about?’

  ‘Two days before your friend was killed,’ Henry said, ‘she had a quarrel with a man named Philippe Boilieu. The quarrel took place in her home. Philippe reports that a neighbour came into the bungalow, having overheard the shouting, and asked Miss Rowe if everything was all right. From the description he gave, I’m very much of the opinion that this neighbour was Mr Owens, but he denies this. Did he mention anything of the kind to you, Mrs Owens?’

  She looked from Henry to her husband and then shook her head. ‘He would have mentioned it,’ she said. ‘I would at once have gone round to comfort poor Cissie. Your y
oung man must be mistaken, Inspector.’

  She paused and looked more closely at Henry. ‘You look very unwell, Inspector. We all heard what happened to you. What an utterly dreadful thing. You really ought to be resting.’

  Mr Owens smiled at his wife. He looks too smug, Henry thought. I know he’s lying. The question is, why? It would be a natural thing to admit to hearing an argument and offering to intervene, to be concerned for a friend and neighbour. Why hide that?

  Unless he had seen something, done something that meant he wanted to distance himself from the scene.

  ‘Did you know that Miss Rowe used cocaine?’ Henry asked, and felt Mickey look at him in surprise.

  ‘Cissie? No, Inspector. In that you are very much mistaken. Cissie would never—’

  ‘She travelled to London regularly, did she not?’

  ‘Any of us might travel to London on a regular basis,’ Mr Owens objected.

  ‘Especially, I suppose, if one has family there,’ Henry agreed.

  Muriel Owens’ cheeks flushed slightly. ‘I have a sister there.’

  ‘And sometimes your husband stays at her home when work takes him to the capital?’

  She looked uncertain then. ‘Sometimes, I suppose. But what does this have to do with Cissie and the dreadful allegations you are making about her?’

  One of the wardrobe girls came in. ‘Mrs Owens, I need—’

  ‘Not now,’ Muriel snapped.

  ‘But Mr Noy sent me. He said—’

  ‘Please,’ Muriel said. ‘Get what you need and then leave us. Can’t you see we are occupied?’

  The girl took something from a drawer and scooted away. The gossip will be all around the studio within the hour, Henry thought, wondering how much she had overheard.

  ‘Miss Rowe travelled to London once or twice a month.’ Henry was guessing here. ‘She took with her an item or two of jewellery which she delivered to a pawn shop.’

  ‘I told you, sometimes she was given gifts. She would tire of them and I suppose raise some little capital for herself.’ Muriel Owens glared at Henry. ‘Surely that isn’t against any law?’

  ‘Not if the items were hers.’

  ‘Of course they were hers. Why else would she be wearing them?’

  Why else indeed, Henry thought. He could think of only two possible reasons. One was that she gained some kind of thrill from wearing items she knew to be stolen. The other was more deliberate. That she might be taunting someone, challenging them. Showing off what someone else knew to be stolen and knowing that they would be threatened or even frightened by it.

  There was also a third, related possibility. That she thought she was being in some way clever and that by taunting that individual she gained some kind of advantage over them.

  ‘She took these items and she pawned them and brought the tickets back to her home. We found two of them: one in Cissie’s bungalow and one in poor Jimmy Cottee’s railway carriage. I suspect that on the night I was attacked, that is what the assailant was after. I got in his way.’ And gained a punishing headache for my troubles. Henry could see Mickey watching him and wondered if he looked as half dead as he felt. From the expression on his sergeant’s face, he guessed that he did.

  ‘And what does this have to do with her using narcotics?’ Mr Owens asked. He glanced at his wristwatch. ‘Inspector, we are wasting time. I have left my work for this. If you’ve done with me, then I’d like to get back to it.’

  ‘She took jewellery up and she fetched narcotics back,’ Henry said. ‘Not a difficult thing.’

  ‘But a nonsensical one,’ Fred Owens said. ‘Gentlemen, I must go. I have work to do.’

  Henry did nothing to stop him. Muriel Owens watched her husband leave. ‘I don’t understand,’ she said. ‘Cissie wasn’t that kind of girl. And what on earth does this have to do with my sister?’

  ‘More to do with your sister’s husband,’ Mickey said. ‘And the family he comes from.’

  She straightened herself up and looked Mickey in the eye. ‘A family they have no dealings with,’ she said. ‘Now, if you will excuse me, I too will have to go.’

  ‘What do we make of all that?’ Mickey asked as they watched her walk away.

  ‘He’s rattled. She’s bemused. I suspect she knows very little – or chooses to know very little. Mr Owens, though. Now I think he’s in this up to his scrawny neck. And now, Mickey, I think I need to go back to the car.’

  TWENTY-FIVE

  ‘If she was selling narcotics at the studio,’ Henry said, ‘someone would have known about it. We’d have heard some hint by now, I think.’

  He closed his eyes and leaned back in the seat, allowing the sound of the engine to soothe and distract him.

  ‘Unless she obtained the drugs for someone else to distribute and just took a fee. We need to chase up our colleagues, see if they’ve found a doctor that admits to having her on their books. And see if any progress has been made with Bailey. His train should be in by now.’

  ‘And apply for a warrant,’ Henry said. ‘Or perhaps for two. I want the Owenses’ house searched and I want Geoffrey Clifton’s place gone over with a fine tooth comb.’

  ‘Not going to be easy,’ Mickey predicted. ‘Oh, it shouldn’t be difficult for the Owens place, them being only theatrical people, though frankly I think it’ll be a wild goose chase. If he is guilty, then he’ll not leave anything that his wife might find. Be harder to obtain an order for the Cliftons, I reckon. Pillars of the community and all that. Probably have the local magistrates along to these parties of theirs.’

  ‘Probably so, but my money’s on Geoffrey Clifton. He drives Cissie up to London to dispose of the stolen goods and then takes her to see the doctor, comes back with a little something extra to make his parties go with a swing.’

  ‘Well, he didn’t take her or fetch her back that last time. You reckon Fred Owens saw the packages? Well, so do I, but my question is, so what? She could have told him it was anything. That she wasn’t sleeping and the doctor had given her powders. But why lie about hearing the argument?’

  Henry was silent for a moment and Mickey glanced sideways at him to see if he’d fallen asleep. But he just looked deep in thought. A moment later he said, ‘Philippe knew what she had. She could have lied to him, but what was the point? He lives on the edge of society, frequenting with criminals and those they exploit, and those who make use of their contacts and abilities. Philippe recognized what she had because he knew that she too lived on the edge of that world. Why else would she be so angry that he had caught her? My thinking is that Fred Owens saw. And that Fred Owens recognized what he was seeing. Because Fred Owens already knew. That’s why he denied being in the bungalow at the time of the argument. He was already guilty so he recognized guilt.’

  ‘All right. I’ll go along with that. But guilty of what, and to what degree? And how do we prove it?’

  Information awaited them at the police station in Shoreham. Josiah Bailey had been taken in for questioning but his legal council had already arrived and no one expected a swift result.

  ‘A familiar story,’ Mickey said.

  But there was more. One of the fingerprints (‘only a partial, mind’) found at Jimmy Cottee’s home had been identified. It belonged to one Billy Crane, a known associate of Bailey’s.

  ‘A thug,’ Henry said. ‘All brawn and very little brain.’

  ‘Bailey doesn’t employ him for his intellect. That’s good, in fact that’s very good. Little cracks appearing, Henry. All we have to do is jemmy them open.’

  Sometimes, as Mickey would say, you just have to be content to let the fruit ripen. There was little more that could be done that day and so Mickey and Henry returned to Cynthia’s house and Henry retired early to bed.

  His head throbbed and he found it hard to keep his thoughts in order.

  Looking around at the room his sister kept for him, Henry found himself comparing his surroundings both to his own flat in London and to the house where he and Cynthia
had been children.

  This bedroom was bright and cheery. Wallpaper flecked with small sprigs of flowers did nothing to make the room look small or cramped. The furniture was of excellent quality and the bed was soft. Cynthia had chosen a light blue rug for in here, laid over a paler carpet. She knew he hated dark colours and dimly lit rooms.

  His own flat was small but had large windows that looked out over the river. Somehow the fact that he could gaze out on to open space and watch the river traffic made the place seem more spacious. His books were all ranged against the back wall and his furniture faced the window, looking into the light.

  Neither place was anything like their father’s home.

  Henry took up his journal and began to write.

  And it was always our father’s home. Never ours or even our mother’s. We were secondary to his whims and his needs. I remember the hours spent in that dark study of his, keeping silent while I studied my schoolbooks. He liked to watch me while I worked, chastise me if I so much as raised my head or stretched my arm. I wished him dead on many an occasion, right from when I was a very little child. Even before I fully understood what ‘dead’ might mean.

  And, I am deeply ashamed to say, I hated my mother for marrying him. Why had she not understood what kind of man he was? She was everything that he was not and it was as though he had captured her like some exotic insect and then trapped her in a killing jar, one to which he had added only enough poison to bring about a long and slow and painful death. Then he had settled down to watch the decline and the decay.

  Yet should you ask anyone it would be ‘Oh, Doctor Johnstone, yes, what an amiable fellow! Sad that his wife is so sickly. Just as well she married a physician.’

  ‘Would you like to have a child?’ Cynthia had asked him when her daughter had been born and Henry had visited the new baby for the first time.

  Henry had cradled Melissa, fascinated by the tiny hands and the snub little nose, and had shaken his head. ‘What if I became like him?’

  ‘You could never be like him.’