It was one of those telephone calls that begin with “Mr Cooper, I have something for you…” or words to that effect; the sort of call that he had taken countless times, as has every detective in the world. This particular one led him, a mere forty-five minutes later, to a bombed-out building behind a packaging factory in Tottenham Hale: paneless windows, their relinquished glass crunching underfoot; stairs gone for a Burton; floors suspended flying-buttress-like from debilitated walls. Against one such, rolls and rolls of fabric and boxes and boxes of nylons and silk undies, worth thousands, were stacked ten feet high, twenty feet wide.
He had just had the measure of the haul in the wavering beam of his torch before three villains rushed at him and the uniform who had accompanied him. He managed to land a punch in the face of one of them, a satisfying, pulpy crack greeting his fist; he could hear the panting and scuffling of the struggle between the flatfoot and one of the other villains, who was knocked backwards, colliding with him. He punched him hard on the side of his head, this time hearing the sickening crack of his own knuckles, and the fellow fell to his knees. In the meanwhile he had dropped his torch, which rolled across the floor, illuminating, in intermittent swathes of light, the third crook in the act of attempting to escape. The uniform lunged at him, grabbing him in a rugby tackle and pulling him to the ground. Cooper seized him by the lapels and secured him in this manner while he was cuffed. The first crook was groaning on the floor, holding his battered face as he rolled back and forth; the second was already on his knees as they prepared to put on the bracelets, his hand up, imploring for mercy.
Cooper’s collar was flapping, his hair hanging over his eye. He sucked the blood from his knuckles, as the back-up squad hauled the villains into the back of a motor and took them to the station. He knew them, of course: they were old hands at thieving, blacketeering, and doubtless working for Johnny Bristow; if so, they’d be better off in custody. Johnny wouldn’t be pleased with them: they had allowed themselves to be caught with the goods, taken entirely by surprise, with no weapons on them. Johnny would draw the conclusion that one of them might well have supplied the tip-off; it was a possibility that Cooper himself was considering. In the space that the Johnny Bristows of the world inhabited there was no such thing as loyalty; it was all treachery and suspicion, which is all you can expect if you hang about with men who would sell their own grandmothers for a ten-bob note.
When he went to see him in the interview room, the oldest of the crooks, the one who had begged, entertained him with the usual whine.
“You know me, Mr Cooper: I want to go straight, honest, but it’s hard without the dibs.”
“Shut up.” Cooper was in no mood for it. “I’ve had a long day, and I’m tired of listening to rubbish. Just tell me who’s behind it. You haven’t the brains to pull a stunt like this, or the readies.” You need capital to buy vans, bribe dockers and employ idiots; you need brains to plan a job; you need buyers lined up. “How much has he paid you? A pony? Fifty? A hundred? Whatever it was, it isn’t enough. You’re looking at a long stretch this time.” Cooper’s fist was aching, so was his head. He leaned across the table. “I want names,” he said.
In point of fact, he wanted one name in particular: one snitch was all it would take to bring him in. The crook appealed to his better nature, mutely, with a sort of sad, broken expression.
“I can’t tell you that, Mr Cooper. You know how it is,” he said. “I got a family.” The crook had a long scar down one side of his face which he was fingering now. “I got responsibilities.”
“This could be your chance to get out. You’re too old for all this.”
The crook shook his head, slowly, almost regretfully.
“It’s going to go badly for you,” Cooper warned. “Assaulting police officers, resisting arrest – and that’s before we move on to the receiving stolen property charge…”
There was a brief flicker in the fellow’s eyes, and catching it, Cooper leaned back in his chair and waited. Afterwards he reckoned that he had been on the brink of hearing the name “Johnny Bristow” fall from a villain’s lips, when the wretched desk sergeant appeared at the door of the interview room.
“Damn and blast to hell,” Cooper muttered under his breath. “What the blazes is it now?”
It was only the serious expression on the desk sergeant’s face which prevented Cooper from telling him to go away in far from polite terms.
“I think you had better come and see this, sir,” said the sergeant, and Cooper could tell at once that he really had to do as he was bid.
The contents of the pockets of all three villains were in the process of being locked away, their owners having signed the inventories. The desk sergeant pointed at a clothing coupons-book that was nestling among the detritus.
“It was only as I was putting it away that I looked at it more closely. I should have done it at the time, only I thought it was his, you see.”
Cooper turned the book towards him. It was written there quite clearly. A blind idiot could have seen it. On the front of the book where it said “Name” was written in a perfectly legible hand: Douglas Frobisher; and in the space following the word “Address” was the last-known residence of the strangled woman.
29
It was almost half past seven the next morning by the time he had finished in the interview rooms. The day had broken in a haze of fierce, shimmering light, but he had no idea about that as he went in search of breakfast. Douglas Frobisher’s clothing coupons had come to the villain by way of Manny Cohen, a fence who operated from out of the back of a barber shop over on Fonthill Road. They would take Manny Cohen by surprise in a couple of hours’ time, just as he opened for business. It was unlikely that he had had anything to do with the murder of Lillian Frobisher, but he had taken possession of her son’s coupon book from someone, and that someone could very likely lead them directly to the strangler.
As he entered the station canteen, Cooper was feeling none of the excitement that a detective on the verge of his biggest break in a murder case might be expected to feel. Far from it: he was feeling more battered and crumpled than ever. He thought of himself, cutting a sad figure, as he plodded hopelessly from one interview to the next – it came to all detectives sooner or later, the awareness that this was their sorry lot in life – and even though he always felt better about himself after a well-deserved bashing, he was presently too tired to feel anything other than exhaustion. Policewoman Tring was sitting at a table with DS Quennell, the young idiot who had been spat at by Little Jimmy Dashett on Sunday night, which seemed an eternity away. Quennell had lost his boyish demeanour in the presence of the policewoman: he had turned his chair around and sprawled his legs either side of it; he was smoking a cigarette and holding forth about something or other. It was gratifying to see that Tring was regarding the whelp with something like amused detachment – not that this deterred Quennell, who was too young, too inexperienced, too cocksure of his powers of attraction, and not yet a good enough detective to notice.
Cooper hoped to pay for his cup of tea and cheese roll before retreating back to his office without her seeing him, but she must have sensed that she was being looked at, and glanced in his direction; and before he could look away and pretend he hadn’t seen her, she was smiling and waving at him, Quennell evidently signalling his dismay, as Cooper saw her pull a face and shake her head discouragingly at the young DS before standing up and inviting him to join them.
“My goodness, sir, whatever happened to you?” Her lovely face was creased with concern, and the sight of it made him suffer pangs of embarrassment on account of his appearance, and desire.
“Rough night was it, sir?” observed Quennell in an offhand way.
“Rather.”
“You poor thing – you look as if you need a good night’s sleep.”
He grinned sheepishly at her and set his roll and tea upon the table.
“Never more so.”
“And look at your poor hand
!” The blood that had seeped through the handkerchief he had tied around his busted knuckles had dried in ragged-edged rusty circles. “And, goodness, your eye!”
Quennell knocked the ash from his cigarette into his saucer and looked sourly in his guv’nor’s direction. He was young and relatively good-looking, but he knew when he was beaten.
“What time are you supposed to be on duty, Quennell?” inquired Cooper mildly, checking his watch. He was enjoying himself. It was good to be the object of her pity: at any rate, it was better than nothing.
Quennell took the hint. He stubbed out his cigarette on the saucer and picked up his hat from the table. “Let me know about later on,” he said to Policewoman Tring.
“I’ll have to see – it depends on how busy it gets today,” she said. She cast the briefest of glances in the boy detective’s direction before returning all of her attention to Cooper. “Why don’t I drive you back to your flat, sir, so you can have a wash and brush-up? It will make you feel so much better. You can’t work through the rest of the day in that state.”
Quennell lingered for a moment and Cooper almost felt sorry for him. He knew how it felt to yearn.
“Cheerio then,” the kid was saying.
“Cheerio,” she said, without looking at him.
“Cheerio,” said Cooper. He slurped his tea and chomped contentedly on the roll as Quennell lurched off, disappointment dogging every step. “Actually,” he said to Tring, “that’s not a bad idea – provided DI Lucas doesn’t need you for anything.” He was suppressing all thoughts of effecting a seduction in the confines of his bachelor rooms.
“Oh, I’m not supposed to be here for another two hours. I came in early to get going on the paperwork; I can easily catch up. It’s much more important that we have the guv’nor in good working order!”
“My char will be there,” he said.
She looked at him curiously, and he worried that he might have seemed presumptuous. “Oh,” she said, “that’s good.”
On the drive to Stoke Newington he told her all about the call in the middle of the night, the silk, the fight, the interviews, the clothing coupons, and the impending visit to Manny Cohen’s.
“You were jolly lucky that they weren’t armed.”
“They weren’t expecting us. It was a tip-off. Someone like Johnny Bristow makes a lot of enemies. Other crooks who don’t care for him queering their patch. They like to slash each other with razors, or snitch to the police.”
“Horrid,” she shuddered. “Weren’t you worried you’d be attacked?”
In all truth, he never thought about the danger when finding himself in these situations, as he did with tedious regularity. One day, he supposed, his luck would run out; but in general, when faced with a gun or ducking a cut-throat razor, he rarely felt a shred of fear. This, he reasoned, had less to do with courage than determined world-weariness.
“No, not really,” he said.
It was bliss to be driven by her, to have the opportunity to listen to her prattle on about how much she was learning and how she had had no idea how much there was to learn and how grateful she was to him for giving her the opportunity, which she was determined not to waste, by the way; how she was more set on a career in CID than ever before. He received all of this in what he supposed was a glow of paternalistic indulgence.
“Of course, it’s early days, I know that,” she was saying. “But I can already tell I’m going to love it. It’s wonderful to be part of something so – so essential. I haven’t felt this excited about anything since I was in Nairobi with the ATS.”
“I do hope that the men are behaving themselves,” he said. “You mustn’t stand for any nonsense, you know.”
She laughed.
“Oh, I won’t, don’t you worry about that!”
“You’re to let me know if any of them try and take liberties.”
“That’s very kind of you, sir; but I can take care of myself.”
“It’s just that I couldn’t help but notice young Quennell there in the canteen…”
“He’s alright; quite amusing, really. I came up against much worse in the services.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
“I’m not without experience…”
He shifted in his seat. The conversation was taking an inappropriate turn. He looked out of the dusty window, feeling uncomfortable, yet, at the same time, wanting her to continue with the revelation, the intimacy.
“I suppose you could say I’m a sadder but wiser girl,” she said in a wistful tone which he found irresistible. She laughed lightly, swinging the car expertly into his street. “There was this chap when I was in the ATS, but… well, you know how it is… War time and all that…”
“I’m so sorry…”
She laughed again.
“Oh golly, no – I didn’t mean – that is – he made it through, and went home to his wife… Not that I knew he was married, of course…” Cooper swallowed hard and frowned at the rubble-strewn scene beyond the window. Stoke Newington had never before held such a fascination for him. “Oh, but I’m embarrassing you!” she exclaimed. “I am sorry, sir; it’s just that you’re so easy to talk to – such a good listener. Most men only want to talk about themselves. Oh, there I go again!”
“This is me,” he said, as they pulled up in front of his building. She parked the car and pulled on the handbrake. “You needn’t wait. I can make my own way back.” He clutched his hat and raincoat to his chest as he opened the door and prepared to step on to the road.
“Oh no,” she protested. “I’ll come up with you. You need someone to dress your hand.”
“There’s really no need…” He sounded feeble. “My char is there…”
He was feeling slightly on edge as she followed him up the stairs to his flat; he made sure that he called out to Mrs Oscar as he unlocked the door. Tring followed him inside.
“Whatever happened to you?” said Mrs Oscar, who was dusting the gramophone. “You look as if you’ve spent the night on the tiles.” She looked Tring up and down as Cooper introduced them to one another, sniffing dismissively before returning to her polish. Tring grinned at him.
“As ever, Mrs Oscar,” he said, “you’re quite right about everything.” He was trying to untie the makeshift bandage with his teeth.
“Let me do that, sir,” said Tring. Mrs Oscar sniffed again. “You need to clean it, otherwise it will turn septic.”
“You’ll find a tin of Germolene in the bathroom cabinet,” said the char.
He had a quick wash and a shave and changed into a clean shirt, and then settled down to let Tring smear his busted knuckles with the antiseptic lotion. Then she expertly bandaged his hand with clean strips of an old pillowslip supplied by Mrs Oscar.
“Terrible waste of a good piece of linen,” the char grumbled. “Would have done for dusters.”
He didn’t dare look up at Tring while she saw to his injuries; he kept his eyes resolutely on the back of his hand and contented himself with marking her breathing and the clean fresh scent of her hair.
“You should have been a nurse,” he mumbled shyly.
“It’s a shame steak is so hard to come by,” she remarked briskly. “We could have seen to that shiner as well.”
He was feeling light-headed with tiredness, but somehow more at ease with the world. There was a faint warming, something uplifting about his heart. Let’s not go back to work, he wanted to say to her; let’s spend the day together, get to know one another. Tell me your first name. We could have lunch somewhere decent; go to the pictures; a walk in the park. Anything: only don’t leave; please don’t leave. It was all madness, of course. He was brought to his senses by the telephone, jangling on its table in the hall. Mrs Oscar put down the empty fruit-bowl that she was dusting and shuffled off to answer it.
“Are you here?” she cried. “Only Inspector Lucas wants to know.”
Oh hell, he thought, the dismal reality of his life returning to him. All colour, all warmth was
draining from his soul. What the blazes is it now?
And hearing the DI’s flat affectless tones on the other end of the line, he was aware of a slow flush spreading across his cheeks; was seized with an irrational anxiety that somehow the entire division would be able to tell that Policewoman Tring was here, in his flat, with him. He told himself not to be such an ass, thanking God that Mrs Oscar had answered the telephone.
“Do you need me to go down to Manny Cohen’s, sir?” Lucas was saying, “Only something has come up here. I can send someone else, but thought I’d better check with you first.”
“No, no, I’ll take it,” Cooper said, “I’m on my way there now.”
He put down the telephone. It was an opportunity, he supposed; a little longer in her company. He knew that he would do nothing whatever with the opportunity, but he could always kid himself that he might, if it made him happy.
“We need to get going,” he told her. “Duty calls.”
She had been chatting to Mrs Oscar about the gramophone collection; now she turned around to face him, and she was smiling.
A Commonplace Killing - Siân Busby Page 19