A Commonplace Killing - Siân Busby

by A Commonplace Killing (epub)

  “Dennis Belcher,” he said, “I’m arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Mrs Lillian Frobisher.”

  The boy was taking a drink of water. He looked up at Cooper with the glass poised halfway towards his lips. As Cooper went through the rest of the formula, he laughed lightly. Then he frowned.

  “You gotta be joking,” he said.

  35

  The picture hadn’t been all that good. Maybe it was the heat, which was awful. She was in a bath of perspiration, and found herself wishing it was over long before the end. It had been a very bad idea to go to the pictures on such a warm evening, but then she hadn’t had any choice in the matter, had she? As people started to leave, she remained seated. The cinema manager knew her and was friendly enough. She wondered if he might like to go for a coffee with her, but dismissed the notion as fanciful almost as soon as it had come to her.

  After a short while she picked up her jacket from the back of the seat, slipped her handbag over her arm and made her way outside. There is no feeling worse than finding yourself alone on a busy street, having left the sheltering fug of a picture-house. She stood on the pavement, looking along the road in the direction of home. Home. That made her laugh. She didn’t have a home. She had a bomb-site and a senile mother and a son who had his own life and didn’t need her any more. That was it, now that she couldn’t any longer say that she had a husband. In spite of the sultry night air, she shuddered, hugged herself and prepared to walk back. She was going to cross the road to catch a bus: it was only a short distance, but there was no street lighting for most of it, and the world was still a dangerous place.

  “Hullo, blondie.”

  She stopped where she was. The thrill, a little burst of triumph, was undeniable. Coo, she thought, what it is to have sex appeal. He was standing a short distance off, lighting a cigarette, his hand cupped over the match. He appeared to be swaying ever so slightly and she guessed he was probably a little bit tipsy, recollecting that they’d had a consignment of gin at the Feathers. It didn’t bother her. Perhaps he’d need a bit of Dutch courage.

  “What was the picture like?” he asked. “Any good?”

  “Not really.”

  “Thought I’d walk you home.”

  She paused; there was a moment, a heartbeat, during the course of which she almost said no to him. But it was only a moment and it passed.

  “That’s very nice of you.”

  They walked together in silence towards Cally Road.

  When they were about to turn the corner into her street, she stopped and placed her hand on his arm.

  “Is that it?” she said. And he pulled her towards her and kissed her full on the mouth. He tasted of alcohol and cigarettes, but the kiss was warming, liberating.

  “It’s been such a long time,” she sighed as they broke apart.

  What follows is the ending of A Commonplace Killing

  transcribed from Siân’s notebook after her death.

  - R.P.

  36

  He had sobered up quite a bit. The kid was skinny in his underpants; he looked scared and vulnerable against the stark prison walls. Pentonville was the most cheerless place on earth. Cooper noted that there were no bruises, scratches, no signs of violent struggle whatever, anywhere on the boy’s body – apart from the tell-tale bruise on his cheek. When they had seen enough, Lucas handed the kid some mismatched clothes taken from his room, and they watched him get dressed.

  “Tell me again, Dennis,” said Cooper. His tone was avuncular, even kindly. It was a ploy he used, ever the gent. “Where’d you get that bruise?”

  The kid shrugged. “Dunno,” he said.

  “Seems to me,” observed Lucas, looking up from the page upon which he was making notes, “you don’t know a lot.”

  “I told you,” Dennis said, “I don’t remember. Really I don’t. I don’t remember anything about Saturday or Sunday after going to the pub.”

  Cooper sighed. “I want to believe you, Dennis,” he said, “really I do; but you must see how queer it looks.”

  The kid sat down in the chair and folded his hands together on the table, resting his head upon them as though he was in prayer. Lucas passed the kid a cigarette, lit it for him and signalled to the uniform to get some tea.

  Dennis drew long and hard on the gasper, his eyes levelled on the table-top. Then he looked up at Cooper: “I can see this looks bad,” he said, “but you gotta believe me, mister. I really don’t remember.”

  Lucas sighed impatiently, retreating behind a cloud of smoke. He found it hard, sometimes, this taking things slowly: Cooper could tell he thought the kid was guilty as sin.

  “The thing is,” the kid was saying, “I got a bash on the nut when I was in the convoys and ever since then it’s like…” He paused, turning the cigarette on the edge of the ashtray. “I dunno, it’s like something’s not quite right.” He tapped the side of his head. “It’s like something’s fallen out, a part of my brain, or something. It’s like something’s missing.”

  He leaned back in the chair and finished the cigarette.

  “I’m pretty sure I’d remember if I killed someone,” he said after a moment’s contemplation. He leaned forward to stub out the fag. “I’m pretty sure I’d remember that.”

  Cooper could sense Lucas bristle in the chair beside him. The uniform came in with a tray of teas. They all took a few sips.

  “Do you know a woman called Lillian Frobisher?” Cooper asked.

  The kid appeared to be thinking hard, his brow furrowed in concentration. He put his hand across his forehead, rubbing his temples hard.

  “Did she say I know her?”

  “She’s dead,” growled Lucas. “She’s the poor cow you choked the life out of on Saturday night.”

  Dennis groaned. He pushed the teacup away.

  “I swear to God, mister, I don’t remember anything about Saturday night. You gotta believe me.”

  Cooper nodded circumspectly. The kid was like most of his generation: aged before his time; an uncomfortable mixture of worldliness and youth – even childishness. A veneer of cynicism masked bewilderment; a practised sneer on full boyish lips that quivered at the slightest provocation.

  “Tell me about the convoys, Dennis,” Cooper said. “Must have been tough.”

  The kid shrugged, pulled the teacup towards him, drinking the contents down in one gulp.

  “What is there to say?” he said sneerlingly. “The constant racket, the horrible food, the lack of sleep, the lousy clothes, the cold and damp. I was seasick for six weeks. Lay on my bunk wishing I was dead. When you’re on a boat in the middle of the ocean there’s fuck-all you can do about it. You can’t go into town for a beer, can you? I used to try and imagine how it would be – drowning. Never thought I’d make it through. Never give it a second thought. Drowning.” He let out a hard, cynical laugh. “Only way out for a matelot.”

  “War’s a terrible thing,” murmured Cooper, instantly despising the platitude. Lucas lit another cigarette and rolled one to the kid, along with a box of matches. Dennis was staring at his hands, splayed upon the table-top. “Makes you realise we’re all just meat,” he said. He seemed lost in thought for a moment or two; then: “Someone shouted torpedo,” he was saying, “and I saw this white line cutting through the water, coming towards the ship. I ran to the other side and there was this terrific bang which rocked the whole craft, so I tried to make my way to the boat deck like they tell you to do in training, but another torpedo came at the other side and all I can remember is flying through the air towards this great wall of flame and looking down beneath me and seeing the sea all on fire, and scattered with arms and legs and heads and pieces of the ship. And that’s when it must have happened.”

  “What?”

  “I told you. That’s when whatever it was was blasted out of me.”

  Cooper took a sip of tea without taking his eyes off the kid.

  “What do you think it was?” he asked.

  Dennis shrugged.
He sighed, leaning back in his chair until it tipped off its two front legs, his hands folded behind his back.

  “Dunno,” he said, “but it was some part of me that I needed – same as if it had been an arm or a leg. Only because nobody can see it’s gone, nobody gives a shit.”

  “Did you talk to the navy doctors about any of this?”

  “Fucking navy couldn’t care less,” the kid sneered. “All they do is tell you about VD and how there are plenty worse off than you are. I got two weeks’ survivor’s leave. The depot they took me to had vermin running up and down the walls. There was one shower for a hundred men.”

  “So you thought you’d come home and strangle women,” said Lucas coolly.

  The kid lit the cigarette and blew a smoke ring towards the ceiling.

  “I already told you,” he said. “I don’t fucking remember anything about Saturday night. I was ginned up. And sometimes when I’ve had too much to drink I lose… It’s like it’s all gone. Gone for good. I don’t even remember coming home and going to bed. I didn’t even know that fucking bitch was in my room and stealing all my stuff.”

  “Yes,” said Lucas; “all your stuff…” He dropped the name of the gentleman who had had his suitcase stolen from King’s Cross; the suitcase with the mackintosh and the green swingback jacket and the items Nesta had fenced. “Know him, do you? Did he give you permission to take his bag home with you?”

  Dennis, amazed, looked back and forth between Lucas and Cooper.

  “What’s that gotta do with any of this?” he asked.

  Cooper rubbed his chin.

  “Never mind that now,” he said. “We’ll take a short break. Finish your cigarette. Want another cup of tea?” He signalled to Lucas to step outside.

  “This is going to take a bloody long time,” he said when they were in the corridor.

  Lucas pursed his lips around his cigarette.

  “A good barrister could make something of that head wound.” The DI looked at him quizzically. It would be a miracle if a good barrister were to be found for the five-pound fee paid out under the terms of the Poor Prisoner Defence Act.

  Lucas issued a long irritated stream of smoke from his nostrils.

  “There’s more than enough evidence, sir,” he said, “and he’s a bad hat alright. I’ve never seen anyone more likely to end up the subject of a short stop-press in the evening edition in all my born days.”

  Cooper nodded distractedly.

  “Maybe,” he said.

  “I wouldn’t believe him if he told me twelve pennies make a shilling.”

  “Let’s leave him alone for a bit and then show him the victim’s photograph. See how he reacts. Meanwhile, ask the lab whether they’ve cross-checked the fibre with the green jacket. And get the lad something to eat. He’s probably starving.”

  Cooper certainly was and he needed some air. He hated the stale air of Pentonville. He took himself across the Cally Road to the station canteen, mildly afraid that Tring might be there. He ate a plate of fried Spam and mashed potato, washed down with a cup of coffee. Then he lit a pipe.

  “Mind if I join you, sir?” she said. She always looked so fresh, no matter what time of day or what had occurred. He shook his head and puffed away, retreating beneath a comfortable shelter of smoke, while she sat down with a cup of tea and a couple of biscuits.

  “I just wanted to say, sir,” she said, “how absolutely marvellous you were.”

  He demurred.

  “Well, thank you for being so calm and helpful. You must have been jolly nervous.”

  She grinned. “I’ve never seen anyone being arrested before, never mind a murderer.”

  “It went well enough.” He lit his pipe again.

  “Are they usually so, well, so calm?”

  “Not often.”

  “It was strange how he reacted. Almost as if he knew it couldn’t possibly have been him. Telling you his name and everything.” She shuddered. “Not a flicker of emotion or guilt or anything.”

  “He doesn’t believe he did it.”

  She dipped one of her biscuits in her tea and bit into it as she thought about what he’d said.

  “But we know he did. He must have done. All the evidence…”

  “Oh, he did it alright. But he doesn’t think he did.” Cooper drew on his pipe. “He’s brain-damaged. War wound.”

  “He isn’t just saying that?”

  Cooper turned down the corners of his mouth.

  “Maybe. Lucas thinks so.”

  “And what do you think?”

  “Quite honestly? I don’t know. I haven’t decided yet. I need to spend a little more time with him. The demeanour of a chap under questioning is the whole matter really,” he said. “It’s not so much what a suspect tells you as the way he tells it – or not.” She nodded thoughtfully.

  “He’d have to be jolly clever to pull off a ruse like that,” she said.

  “Yes. He would.”

  She cradled her teacup in her hands, blowing the heat off its surface.

  “I really admire you, sir. I think you’re one of the finest men I’ve ever known.”

  “Well… hardly…”

  “No. I really mean it. And the respect most of the men have for you…”

  He was wondering whether a girl admiring you in the way that she meant could ever be induced to love you. Marry you. He told himself not to be so ridiculous and puffed heavily on his pipe three or four times in rapid succession until she was almost lost to him in the resulting haze.

  “I love you,” he wanted to say. But he did not. He knew that he never would, the moment having passed for ever.

  “I’m very impressed with the manner in which you’ve conducted yourself the past few days,” he told her instead. “I’d be delighted to give you any sort of reference, recommendation…”

  She beamed at him.

  “I suppose,” she said, “we’ve made a pretty good team, haven’t we?”

  “Yes,” he said, feeling his heart break. “Absolutely. A damn fine team.”

  37

  They stopped on a corner just outside of the lambency of the street lamps. A road stretched out ahead of them, ramshackle, war-scarred. You could just make out the stump of a house in the thin light spilling from the windows of buildings on either side of it. There was a doorway, or the remains of one, stopped up with a piece of rusting corrugated iron, at the bottom of which was a chink the size of a man’s boot. He pulled her towards him again and kissed her hard. He slid his hands over her hips. “You naughty boy,” she said. “You mustn’t do that.”

  “I really like you, blondie,” he murmured into her hair. And for one wild, abandoned moment she thought of taking him back to the house with her, to spite Walter, but she didn’t want to upset Douglas.

  “Don’t you have somewhere we can go?” she said, thinking that a spiv must have a flat or a room somewhere. He didn’t respond. As they stood there, a couple emerged, laughing, from behind the corrugated iron. The woman was smoothing her dress; the man was slicking his hair back out of his eyes. The couple stood for a moment in what had been a front garden, lingering, not wanting the moment to end, before moving off, hand in hand, up the road.

  The spiv took her by the arm and gently pulled her towards the bombed house.

  “C’mon, blondie,” he slurred. He pushed the corrugated iron slightly to one side and gestured for her to go through.

  “Oh,” she said. “I don’t want to ruin my stockings.”

  “You can take them off,” he said. “I can help you if you like.”

  They laughed; he had her by the hand now and was leading her towards a tree. He stumbled. She helped him up. They were laughing a good deal by now, like two kids. She hadn’t laughed like that in a long while.

  “I’m well and truly lit up,” he said. “But I really like you, so it shouldn’t be a problem…”

  It was all a little bit wild, dangerous; she felt heady, like she was drunk too, like she was the sort of woman
who did this sort of thing: went with strange men on bomb-sites. The thought of it gave her a thrill that ran through the whole length of her body. She leaned against the tree and with a sudden abandonment of all reason, all sanity, pulled him towards her and kissed him hard, full on the lips. She didn’t mind the gin and cigarettes. She didn’t care about anything. He wiped off her lipstick with the back of his hand. After a while he took a step back and swaying slightly said:

  “C’mon, blondie. You know you want to.”

  And oh she did. How much she did.

  He put his mackintosh, which he had swung over his shoulder, down on the ground, after kicking a few bits of rubble out of the way. She slowly lifted her skirt and pulled down her drawers. Then they both sat down on the mackintosh beneath the tree and started kissing again, feverishly, like a couple of kids. He reached up under her skirt, over the tops of her stockings. She moaned and slid down beneath his weight and let him take her. It was all she wanted at that moment; it was as if it was all she had ever wanted, and she didn’t care what happened next. She didn’t any longer care about any of it.

  38

  They had left him for a good long while in the bare brown-and-cream painted room, prison sound echoing all around. At least it seemed a good long while. He had no way of knowing for sure, and time had been dragging on, like in a dream, since the detective, the quiet one, the one who was trying to be his pal, had arrested him for the murder of some bint he had never heard of. Now they were back with another cup of tea and a plate of fucking biscuits. If he had any more tea he’d need to take a piss and he wasn’t sure they’d let him, especially not the other copper, the arsehole who hated him. The feeling was mutual.

  “Had time to think, Dennis?” the quiet one was asking him. If he hadn’t known better he might have believed the bastard was actually worried about him. He reminded him of one of the navy chaplains who always had a slightly queasy smile on his fat chops. “Got anything you’d like to tell me?”