‘No. I didn’t like to. She was carrying it in the post office when I was sending off the postcards …’
‘Oh yes, we got our cards. Thanks. Mine was a view of Westminster Abbey.’
‘Oh. It must have got in there by mistake. Sorry. But Mrs Dulciman was in the queue and some chap didn’t pick up his change and she was off after him like a shot.’
‘With her white stick.’
‘Yes.’
‘Does she really think somebody did for him?’
‘Her very words. She wants to get it cleared up because there’s money hanging on it and she needs it. He has to be presumed dead.’
They reached the beginning of the motorway and turned towards London. ‘Why do you think she needs the money? If she’s offering to pay you five grand, half up front, then she can’t be all that short.’
‘She’s the sort of lady who has her reasons.’
The eastward course of the motorway altered towards London. They were driving into January cloud. The countryside gave way to industrial estates.
‘How exactly did Mr Dulciman go?’
‘Vernon Dulciman,’ said Davies. His head had descended into his overcoat again. ‘I didn’t want to go into too many details. Not if I’m not going to take it on.’
‘I still think you should. What sort of person was he?’
‘He learned to dance in a submarine,’ replied Davies.
Her profession had afforded her a shield against surprise. ‘Resourceful eh. Was he popular?’
‘With some ladies apparently, although not with Mrs Dulciman.’
‘I see. How did you learn all this?’
‘By accident, mostly. Before she ever asked me to look at the matter. In the Moonlighters Club.’
‘Ah, what’s that like?’
‘On the quiet side,’ he said. ‘You can hear people sipping their sherry. But there’s undercurrents.’
‘And Mr Dulciman was a member.’
‘Has his pictures plastered all over the wall. Mr Dulciman dancing, Mr Dulciman winning the croquet competition, Mr Dulciman on the club outing.’
‘With Mrs Dulciman?’
‘Sometimes. Almost out of sight.’
‘Why would she be so keen?’
He shrugged. ‘I don’t think I’d better talk any more, Jemma,’ he said. ‘The throat. Sing to me if you like.’ His head had almost vanished into his collar. But he said: ‘She thinks she’s going to die soon. She just wants to know.’
For several years Davies and his wife Doris had slept within six inches of each other, competing in midnight snoring contests, but as estranged as any couple would ever be. Their rooms were divided by a flimsy wall, their beds either side of it. When either awoke in the dark hours they could hear the other stirring and wheezing.
Davies felt guilty about his wife and, as he returned to Bali Hi, Willesden, the self-reproach returned. He was unable to explain why neither he nor Doris did not move out: the policeman had no alibi. Each still regarded the tall, dull, red-brick, Victorian house as home. Neither would have admitted it but there remained a certain odd security in the fact that they were both there. If they did not belong to each other, they belonged to Bali Hi.
‘We thought you’d come back all brown and bristling,’ said Mrs Fulljames as she introduced the shepherd’s pie that evening. ‘Nice shepherd’s pie,’ she said.
‘In January,’ said Davies, ‘there are limited opportunities for bronzing in Bournemouth. In fact I spent most of the time in bed with …’ he glanced slyly at Doris at the other end and the far side of the table, ‘… tonsillitis.’
Doris sniffed heavily enough to divert the steam rising from the potatoes that roofed the shepherd’s pie. ‘You should have had them out years ago.’
‘Probably so, Mrs Davies,’ he returned evenly. ‘But in a busy life what time …’
‘You’ve been in hospital often enough,’ put in Mrs Fulljames as she sat down at the head of the table.
Doris nodded forcefully. ‘You should have got them to do something with them while you were there.’
Mod coughed and Minnie glanced at him gratefully. As a single lady she did not like domestic arguments. ‘Children these days’, she said in her timid voice, ‘don’t seem to have their tonsils out. We rarely get absentees from school for that reason.’ She paused. ‘One of the few reasons actually.’
‘Have you still got your tonsils, Mod?’ asked Davies in a chatty way.
‘I don’t know,’ replied Mod. ‘I don’t remember …’ He began to open his mouth towards Minnie. ‘Here, have a look …’ he began.
‘Mr Lewis! Really!’ admonished Mrs Fulljames. ‘Not when you are eating shepherd’s pie.’
‘Oh sorry,’ mumbled Mod. He made a little, seated bow towards Minnie. ‘Forgot.’
‘We have a gardener,’ announced Mrs Fulljames hurriedly. ‘Only part-time but since none of the men in this house ever bothers to do a bit of weeding, I think he will be an asset.’
‘He’ll be a superman, more like it,’ put in Mod. He looked embarrassed again. ‘I mean … there’s a lot of garden out there.’
‘Half an acre, almost,’ Mrs Fulljames answered with prim pride. ‘Although I don’t imagine you have ever ventured to the far end, Mr Lewis.’
Mod nodded over his food. ‘The weather never seems to be good enough.’
Davies said: ‘He’s having a burn-up. I saw the smoke from the fire when I went down to the yard.’
‘This little chap likes making fires,’ continued Mrs Fulljames. ‘It’s the big attraction of gardening for him, I suspect.’ She smirked. ‘He works for various houses along here. That Mrs Firkin, at Valdemosa, you know. Apparently he went into her front hall and took out the day’s papers to light a fire.’ She giggled a little. ‘Nobody had even read them.’
‘What’s his name, the gardener?’ asked Davies suspiciously. ‘Does he know that bonfires are municipally frowned on?’
‘Oh. He’s just a lad. Calls himself Elvis.’
‘Smurfitt,’ recited Davies. ‘Prime suspect in the big newsagent theft case, at Pemberthy’s newsagents. He was using them for fuel. Never proved.’
‘Oh, he’s known to the police!’
‘More to the fire brigade. You’ll need to watch him. Make sure he keeps his fires outdoors.’
‘It doesn’t need a gardener,’ said Mod as they trudged towards the Babe In Arms. ‘It needs a goat.’
‘Elvis will put it to the torch,’ forecast Davies, his head bent against the drizzle. ‘To coin a phrase he’s a couple of matches short of a box. Things tend to ignite when he’s in the vicinity. He was the prime suspect when the bog in Gladstone Park burned down.’
‘It’s hard to start a blaze in a public convenience.’
‘A challenge, I expect.’
They turned the corner at the top of the road. The illuminated sign of the Babe In Arms, showing an orphan in an almshouse, beamed like a beacon. ‘Didn’t think much of her shepherd’s pie,’ sighed Mod.
‘It was a small shepherd,’ agreed Davies.
They reached the public house and opened the figured-glass door which, it was said, had never been broken. They stepped down into the bar. It was warm and rosy, an illustration, if any were needed, that the London pub fulfilled a function, sheltering its regulars from fog, frost and families; a safe place where a man could choose his company.
‘Heard you was dead, Dangerous,’ said Mulcahy the barman. ‘We was going to have a collection.’
‘You can still have it,’ suggested Davies. He ordered two pints and bought the barman a drink for his kindness and concern. He and Mod retreated to their corner table.
‘What am I going to do about the dog?’ sighed Davies.
‘Sausage meat flying everywhere,’ remembered Mod moodily. ‘The man wants five hundred pounds.’
A Scotsman who claimed once to have been a medical orderly came to the table and, without asking, took Davies’ pulse, his own hand shaking as he
did so. ‘It’s irregular, Dangerous,’ he said.
‘I don’t wonder with him taking it,’ said Davies when the man had faltered back to the distant end of the bar.
‘A shame to be taken ill at the seaside,’ mentioned Mod drinking deep into his tankard.
‘A temperature of about a hundred and ten,’ said Davies quite proudly. ‘I was the warmest place on the south coast, believe me.’ He glanced up at Mod. ‘And I turned up a bit of a mystery.’
Mod looked displeased. ‘Oh, not another of your hobby cases,’ he sighed. ‘God help us, you go off on sick leave, you get sick when you’re on sick leave, and you turn up a whodunit.’
‘There it was, lying in wait for me.’
‘But Bournemouth. It’s bad enough around this manor when you’ve sniffed out some old, unsolved business that nobody else wants to know about, but Bournemouth’s miles …’
‘There’s a five-thousand-quid fee.’
‘When do we start?’
Davies said: ‘We’re not.’
‘Not for five grand? What’s the case?’
‘A man went missing, vanished five years ago. He may be dead.’
Mod examined the remaining beer thinly swishing in the bottom of his glass. ‘I could help!’ he said. ‘You know I’m good at routine inquiries.’
Davies ruminated. ‘Anyway, I don’t think so. It looks like a long job and it’s too far away.’
Moodily Mod drained his glass and said: ‘I’ll get them’ collecting Davies’ tankard by the handle.
‘I knew I’d timed it right,’ approved Davies. ‘Coming back on Friday.’
The door opened and a man engulfed by a damp anorak and hood came in. ‘Ah, Dangerous,’ he said with relief. ‘Caught you.’ He nodded around the bar. ‘Thought you’d be at home.’
‘Hello Bunny. You in disguise?’ The man pulled down his anorak showering water. ‘Have a drink.’
‘On duty, mate, so I’ll just have a small scotch.’
‘Mod,’ Davies called towards the bar. ‘Single scotch for Bunny.’
‘Oh, I’ll get it,’ said Bunny. ‘Your mate’s unemployed isn’t he.’
‘His lifelong occupation,’ nodded Davies.
Bunny went towards the bar and Mod’s frown softened to a smile as he said he would pay for the round. Mod returned to the table. ‘what a civilised copper,’ he beamed. ‘And what a sense of timing.’
Bunny returned to the table. Davies formally introduced them. Bunny smiled. ‘Seen you around,’ he said. ‘Didn’t you used to work up at Cricklewood?’
‘Long ago,’ admitted Mod trying to look downcast. ‘In the days of jobs.’
Davies turned to the policeman. ‘What’s your problem, Bunny?’
‘Well, I know you’re not on duty until Monday, Dangerous, but I thought I’d try to catch you.’ He looked concerned. ‘Are you better, by the way?’ He pulled his head back and studied Davies. ‘You look all right.’
‘Sea air,’ explained Davies. ‘What’s going on?’
Burrows appeared pleased. ‘I’m going on a promotion course, Dangerous. Monday. The boss said I had to leave a case with you. Burglary. I put the file on your desk.’
‘Where’s the job?’
‘Power Station Lane.’
‘Much taken?’
Burrows grimaced. ‘Everything that could be shifted. They even nicked the food from the fridge. Half a pound of cheese …’
‘Could be mice.’
They laughed and Davies bought a round. A discontented fat man came in and leaned his stomach against the bar. Mod whispered to Davies: ‘The bloke from the hot-dog stand.’
The man walked heavily towards them: ‘Your dog’s wrecked my life,’ he said. ‘He’s vicious.’
‘Clumsy,’ corrected Davies, ‘Wrecked your life? That’s a bit strong.’
‘Well, all right, my catering business.’
‘Your hot-dog stand.’
‘Yes.’
‘How much?’
‘Five hundred quid.’
Davies reached for his back pocket: ‘Fifty for cash?’
‘All right,’ said the man. He took it. He decided not to stay for a drink.
Davies said: ‘We could go down to the station now, Bunny, if you like.’ He turned to Mod: ‘If Jemma turns up will you entertain her?’
‘With refreshments and wisdom,’ offered Mod.
Davies and Burrows went into the drizzle. ‘Funny business,’ said Burrows from below his anorak hood. ‘Everything went. Except the furniture. Even the ruddy newspapers. The Sun and The Times. Nicked.’
‘Could have been that kid Elvis, you know the one,’ suggested Davies.
‘Why him?’
‘He’s been half-inching newspapers to start bonfires.’ He sniffed against the rain. ‘But I can’t see him stealing cheese. It’s not his sort of crime, Bunny.’
Apart from a swaying drunk singing tenderly and hugging himself and an old muttering woman, the lobby of the police station was empty. The desk sergeant waved to them.
Davies wished the old lady a good evening. She ceased muttering. ‘Hello, Mr Dangerous,’ she said looking pleased. ‘Will you help to find my cat?’
‘Lost it again, have you?’ he said.
‘Stolen more like it. They take him off to mate him because he’s a thoroughbred. When he comes back he looks so shagged out.’
‘It’s got to stop,’ agreed Davies.
‘The sergeant said he’s going to phone up,’ she answered mysteriously. ‘But I think I’ll go home and see if he’s turned up. ’Night, Mr Dangerous.’
Half the known world was quietly batty, thought Davies, not for the first time. He went into the CID office and taking a stray dustpan and brush from his chair, he sat down. Burrows pulled a chair up and they went through the file.
‘There’s blood on the floor,’ observed Davies looking down. ‘Either somebody’s been stabbed or it’s PC Westerman having a nosebleed.’
‘He’s probably put the cell keys down his back again,’ said Burrows.
Two men in suits came through the far door. ‘Harvey and Johnson working overtime,’ suggested Davies in a low voice.
‘Murder inquiry. That Willis girl. They’ve found her.’
‘Hello, Davies. Finished malingering?’ asked Detective Superintendent Harvey. He was not a nice man.
‘Finished on Monday next, sir. Officially.’
Harvey grunted and the pair went into the glass-fronted office at the far end of the room. ‘They’ve found her?’ Davies asked Burrows.
‘What’s left of her. Buried on Wormwood Scrubs.’
‘Somebody who knew the area then.’
Burrows frowned as if he wished he had thought of that. ‘Quarter of a mile from the prison,’ he said.
‘They have exercise runs around the Scrubs,’ said Davies. ‘Locations like that are liable to stick in a con’s memory …’
‘You ought to mention that to Harvey.’
‘I never like to,’ shrugged Davies. ‘He always says he’s already thought of it.’
He picked up the file and they went out into the Saturday night again. The lights from the three public houses in the main street glowed like enticements. There was nothing else in the street but wet pavements, shut shops, a few wandering cars, and people shuffling in oddments under the yellow street lights. Burrows was going home. ‘Must get my packing done. First thing Monday, I’m off.’
‘Good luck, Bunny,’ said Davies. He watched the anorak hurry through the rain and turned to face the wet street. They had even closed the bingo hall. The recession, they said. He shook his head. A country must be in a bad way when they closed its bingo halls.
By midnight he was feeling more contented; he was lying in both Jemma’s bed and her arms and she was singing to him by the light of the bedside lamp. He opened his eyes. ‘What was that?’
‘A cradle song,’ she told him.
‘I don’t know where you get them.’
‘
Mendelssohn,’ she said.
He turned on his back and murmured: ‘Good sing-song in the pub tonight wasn’t it. Don’t get many like that these days.’ He regarded her carefully. ‘I’ve never before associated you with “I’ve got a lovely bunch of coconuts”.’
She laughed and kissed him. ‘I nearly missed it.’
‘What did you have to do?’
‘I was getting little Valentine settled. I hope. He’s gone to his auntie. I’m just praying his crappy mother and crappier father keep out of the way, that’s all.’
Her frown melted in the lamplight. ‘The choir have got a musical evening. Not the usual serious stuff … not Elijah or anything … all sorts. You should come, Dangerous. Valentine is going to sing with me. We’re doing “I can feel it all over”.’
‘They’ve found the body of that girl, Julie Willis. Remember?’ said Davies.
‘I heard. Poor kid. Soliciting in Edgware Road, wasn’t she.’
‘Found her buried on Wormwood Scrubs. What they call a shallow grave.’
She said seriously: ‘You could have your own murder case, Dangerous.’
‘You’ve been talking to Mod,’ he sighed. ‘All he wants is a few days at the seaside. A change of scene and brewery.’
‘And I think he’s right.’
Davies groaned. ‘I can’t, love. I can’t keep going down to Bournemouth and back like a yo-yo. And if the Met found out I’d be thrown out on my ear. After years of endeavour.’
‘You’ll have to go and find out who stole the cheese then,’ she sulked. He eased himself up and kissed her deeply. Her breasts shone in front of him and he touched them with his nose.
‘Oh Dangerous,’ she sighed. ‘What am I going to do with you?’
He grinned quietly at her. ‘Do you want me to give you a list?’ he said.
In Power Station Lane the cooling towers stood behind the low terraced houses like monstrous chessmen. The towers had always held a fascination for Davies. They reared against the flat industrial sky, their white smoke blowing and drifting, mixing with every sort of Willesden weather. He now smiled at them in respectful recognition.
Mr and Mrs Horace Perryman, who had been robbed of everything that moved, lived in a middle-terrace house called Safari Villa. It was built of grey-yellow brick with the lantern jaw of a bay window occupying most of the small garden area facing the street.
The Complete Dangerous Davies Page 54