Deep Waters

by Patricia Hall

  ‘Were you there long?’

  ‘Two or three weeks. Sandbags became the priority because there was another very high tide due a couple of weeks after the flood and the sea defences were smashed to buggery. I’m not sure how many I filled but it seemed to go on and on from dawn till dark. Then we fell into bed and started again as soon as it was light enough. It’s not something you ever forget. It was a shambles. Repair teams couldn’t get in to restore the phones or the power. No one knew who was alive and who was dead, sometimes for days. I got sent over to Foulness Island a few days later on a small boat. Foulness is right at the end of the peninsula, very remote at the best of times. It’s used by the forces for firing practice, but there are civilians there too, a village, farms, even a church and a pub. No one had heard a word from the four hundred people there, and RAF planes had gone over and seen no sign of life. They assumed they’d all drowned. But when we finally got out there by boat all but two were OK. They just hadn’t been able to make contact with anyone.’

  Kate sighed and shuffled her pictures into a rough-and-ready heap.

  ‘I’ll have to go down there tomorrow to talk to the people who went back for my captions,’ she said. ‘See what they think about the rebuilding. See if they feel safe now.’

  ‘A lot never went back,’ Barnard said. He smiled slightly. ‘The National Service intake before mine got sent to Korea and we thought we were lucky to be stationed at home. But we got the East Coast floods instead. I’m not sure I wouldn’t rather have been fighting the commies. People say they dreamed about the things they saw in the Blitz for years afterwards. I sometimes still dream about what I saw that weekend. You wouldn’t believe water could be so quick and so deadly.’

  Kate stuffed the pictures back into her case.

  ‘Shall we go and eat? I’ll go to Canvey Island tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Southend train to Benfleet,’ Barnard said. ‘You can walk over the famous bridge from there. Tomorrow I’ve got to track down Ray Robertson, who seems to have gone AWOL just when the DCI wants to see him urgently though he won’t tell me exactly why. He just flannels about him needing protection but I’ve no idea from what. So let’s eat and talk about something more cheerful, shall we, sweetie? Eat, drink and be merry, my dad used to say, for tomorrow we die. You never know when the sea is going to come through the window and drown you.’

  ‘We mustn’t forget to watch the new music programme that’s on TV this week,’ she said as they got into the car. ‘What’s it called? “Top of the Pops”? Maybe the Kinks will be on.’

  ‘Maybe even the Beatles if they’re back from the States.’ Kate laughed delightedly.

  ‘Who’d have thought it when we were at art college together, me and John Lennon. He’s a funny lad is John. Maybe it’ll cheer the Yanks up after what happened last year. My mam was made up when they elected one of our own for president. Half of Liverpool was looking for connections to the Kennedys in the old country, and the other half where dead jealous. My sister said my mam cried for a week after he was shot.’

  ‘As I said,’ Barnard said quietly. ‘You never know when the sea will break through the windows.’

  ‘And isn’t that the truth?’ Kate said.

  Harry Barnard left early the following morning, flinging Kate a kiss before he went out. She lay in bed listening to his car door slam, and the growl of the engine as he accelerated down the hill towards Archway with his usual verve.

  Before she set off to catch the train she planned to take from Fenchurch Street to Benfleet, she called Ken Fellows to confirm that he still wanted her to follow up the picture research she’d done the day before. By then Barnard was already in Whitechapel, where the traffic was still light. He knew that Ray Robertson’s gym opened early to cater for anyone who wanted to spend time training before going to work and he reckoned that even if Ray was not there himself – which was only too likely – someone might know where he had gone to ground. It was not like Ray, he thought, to drop out of sight. His whole modus operandi was to make himself conspicuous in his legitimate and illegitimate activities, both his extravagant social events for boxing aficionados and his upfront and apparently untouchable dodgy schemes that dominated Soho and parts of the East End. In spite of all his troubles, Ray still regarded himself as the king of Soho and the fact that he had apparently not been seen for at least a week filled Barnard with anxiety.

  He parked outside the gym and was even more alarmed to see that the street door was closed and that there didn’t seem to be any lights inside. But when he tried the door he found it unlocked. Cautiously he pushed it open and listened to the echoing silence before feeling for the light switch. Even then, at first he could neither see nor hear anything wrong. The boxing ring in the centre of the room lay empty and undisturbed, the punchbags hung unmoving on their chains, the benches and skipping ropes and gloves were tidily put away, Ray’s glassed-off office was unlit, and the usual odour of leather and old sweat hit his nostrils with its familiar tang. But there was something else, something familiar and sweetly menacing from which he physically flinched.

  He pushed his trilby to the back of his head and, breathing hard, headed towards the office. Beyond a curtained alcove that housed a sink, he glanced through the half-open door of the bathroom and found what he more than half expected to find, though it still came as a shock like a blow to the stomach, something you never got used to. Lying in a pool of blood on the bathroom floor was the body not of Ray Robertson, as he had feared, but of his trainer, Rod Miller, who had worked for Robertson ever since he opened his gym fifteen years ago or more. This was the man who had bullied and cajoled a young Barnard to push himself further and further at a time when Robertson had convinced both himself and the seventeen-year-old Harry that he had serious talent with his fists.

  The sergeant took a deep breath, which only confirmed that Miller had been dead for some time. He turned away, leaving the body untouched, and kicked the bathroom door closed before he doused his face in cold water from the tap at the sink in the alcove, drying himself on a grubby towel as years of training and experience slowly kicked in.

  ‘Jesus wept!’ he muttered as he walked back across the gym, closing the street door behind him, and slumped into the driving seat of his red Capri. He took several deep breaths before he picked up the radio and called the nick and asked to be put through to DCI Jackson.

  ‘We’ve got a problem, guv,’ he said when he was connected. ‘I’m at Ray Robertson’s gym. He’s not there, but his trainer is and he’s dead. Looks like a single shot to the head, although there’s a lot of blood. He’s soaked in it. It looks like an execution, but why the hell anyone would want to execute Rod Miller I haven’t the faintest idea. I’ll wait here in case anyone else turns up and tries to get in.’

  ‘Don’t move,’ Jackson snapped. ‘If anyone turns up, ask them to wait. And if they argue, arrest them. I’ll talk to the Yard and then be on my way.’

  Barnard slumped back into the car, lit a cigarette, and turned the radio on. From where he had parked, he could see the whole of the narrow thoroughfare in both directions and he was careful not to allow himself to close his eyes. He needed to tackle anyone who arrived at the door to the gym and in the end his patience was rewarded when a burly man in the stained clothes of a market porter strolled up the street from Whitechapel Road, his rolling gait weary or possibly inebriated. Barnard knew the pubs opened early for the market men. The porter stopped beside the red car, clearly admiring it.

  Barnard opened his door and got out.

  ‘Nice motor, isn’t it?’ he said.

  ‘I thought for a minute it was Ray Robertson’s latest toy,’ the man said. ‘He doesn’t stint himself, does he?’

  ‘Have you seen him lately?’ Barnard asked. ‘I was waiting for him.’

  ‘Nah,’ the man said. ‘I don’t often see him. I go to bed when I get home and start work at four in the effing morning.’

  ‘Anyone else you’ve seen around latel
y?’ Barnard persisted. ‘The place is empty at the moment.’

  ‘It’s been quiet,’ the man said. ‘Though I did see a woman trying the door last week. Dolled up like Lady Muck, she was. When she saw I’d noticed her she scarpered. Got into a car sharpish and drove away.’

  ‘Did you notice what sort of car?’ The man looked at Barnard suspiciously.

  ‘You the old bill or somethink?’ he asked.

  ‘I am, as it goes,’ Barnard admitted. ‘Looks like there’s been some trouble here. Can you describe this woman?’

  ‘Mutton dressed as lamb. Had a hat on, but that’s about all I remember. I didn’t take that much notice.’

  ‘And the car?’

  ‘Green, I think. You don’t see many cars round here, do you? Not as smart as yours, but not a banger either.’ The man hesitated and then pointed to one of the terraced houses across the street.

  ‘Number eighty-two,’ he said reluctantly. ‘Name of Bradley.’

  ‘We may need to talk to you again, Mr Bradley,’ Barnard said. ‘Thanks for your help.’

  ‘Don’t wake me up, son,’ Bradley said. ‘I need my beauty sleep.’

  DCI Keith Jackson arrived with a convoy of marked cars, which also brought uniformed officers, the police doctor and forensic specialists with it. Barnard got out of his own car and was greeted with an icy glare from his boss, who opened the door of the gym and beckoned him inside ahead of the pack.

  ‘Show me,’ he said and Barnard guided him past the dim alcove to the bathroom where Miller lay. He switched on the light and let the DCI into the narrow space ahead of him. Jackson stood for a moment looking at the body with an expression of deep distaste.

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘We’ll let the doctor do what he has to do. You can come with me, out of the way, and tell me all you know about the victim and his relationship with Ray Robertson.’ He marched Barnard to some chairs close to the door and waved him into one. ‘Everything,’ he said.

  ‘Rod Miller’s worked for Ray Robertson for years, guv,’ he said. ‘Ever since the gym opened in these premises, I think. Though I went away to do my National Service soon after Ray decided to give boxing a serious go and began to look for somewhere to set up a gym. So I’m not entirely sure when they got together. Anyway, Ray must have opened up here in 1952, or maybe 1953. Before that, he did a bit of training in a church hall in Bethnal Green that had a boys’ club running. That’s where he tried to get me up to scratch as a fighter, before I went into the army. Rod Miller turned up before I went away. He was a damned good trainer, though in the end he told Ray I wasn’t as good as he thought I was. I can’t say I was very surprised.’

  Jackson raised a sceptical eyebrow but said nothing. Barnard shrugged and carried on.

  ‘Anyway, by all accounts the gym flourished from the start. I should think every lad who was keen on the fight game would have known Rod Miller as well as he knew Ray Robertson. And Ray – or more likely Rod – seemed to find the knack of producing winners. I think Robertson’s been losing interest recently. He’s more interested in his boxing galas and his posh friends than contenders. But Rod is – was – a fixture.’

  ‘What was he like, this Miller?’ the DCI asked. Barnard thought for a moment. It was unusual to be faced with a murder victim he knew as well as he had known Rod Miller and it threw him slightly.

  ‘As far as I was concerned he was a quiet bloke, unassuming, devoted to Ray but determined that the kids who came here did well. He didn’t let them get away with much. I guess it was the first time a lot of them had found something they might succeed at. Rod pushed them hard but I don’t think many of them ever complained.’

  ‘So he’s not likely to have been knocked off by one of the lads who’s got a grudge?’

  ‘God no! I wouldn’t think so, guv. You never know what the kids get up to round here, but Rod didn’t seem the sort of person to make enemies.’

  ‘Did he have form?’ Jackson asked, but Barnard shrugged again.

  ‘Not that I’m aware of,’ he said. ‘I’ve never worked this manor. I’ve never heard that he did time, though. The local nick should know.’

  ‘Or the Yard,’ Jackson said. ‘We’re only here, in another division, on their say-so. They’re the ones who want to offer Robertson some protection, though it may be that this will make them think twice about that. I always thought it was a damn silly idea.’

  ‘You don’t think Robertson could have killed Rod Miller do you?’ Barnard asked, trying hard to hide the fact that he was appalled at the suggestion.

  ‘In the light of the Yard’s worries, I think we need to look at two possibilities,’ Jackson said flatly. ‘Either Robertson is missing because he shot Miller, or Miller was shot by someone trying to find Robertson to do him some harm. Either way, it makes tracking down your friend Robertson more urgent than ever. We either nick him for murder or we offer him protection. Let’s see what the doctor has to say about what’s happened here and then you can step up your efforts.’

  They went back to where the police surgeon was still crouching awkwardly over the body. He looked up as the two officers approached.

  ‘If you want the time of death, you’ll be more likely to get it from the post-mortem than here. He could have been lying here for days. It’s very chilly on the tiles, so the body temperature isn’t much help. The cause of death is obvious – a bullet to the head that blew his brains out. But there is more, which the pathologist will no doubt expand on. He’d been severely beaten up before he was shot.’ The doctor turned Miller’s head into the light.

  ‘You can see there’s severe bruising on the face and his hands have been smashed. And no doubt there’ll be more bruising on the rest of the body when they get his clothes off. I’d say he might even have been dead or dying before he was shot. You’re looking for an extremely violent man – or men – here. There’s absolutely no doubt about that.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound much like Ray Robertson, guv. He’s not like his brother, if that’s what you’re thinking,’ Barnard said as they made their way back into the main part of the gym.

  ‘He didn’t have to pull the trigger himself if he wanted Miller dead for some reason,’ Jackson snapped and stopped by the empty ring as a uniformed officer approached.

  ‘There are lads outside wanting to come in and train, sir,’ he said.

  ‘Right, that’s good,’ Jackson said. ‘We’ll take witness statements from all of them, see if we can find out exactly what’s been going on here in the last few days, shall we? Sergeant, wait until the body’s been taken to the morgue and then set yourself up in the office and question them all. I’ll get uniform to take names and addresses if they don’t want to wait. We need to know everyone who uses this place. I want to know when Robertson was last here, what was going on between him and Miller, and whether anyone has any idea of where he might be now. You can see if there’s anything of interest in the paperwork in there, while you’re about it. Anything else I need to know?’

  ‘There’s a market porter, an old bloke called Bradley I spoke to briefly on his way home to bed. Lives at number eighty-two. He reckons he saw a woman trying to get in here last week when the place was locked up. Dolled up, he said. Mutton dressed as lamb, as he put it. He’d be worth a visit. It could be Ray Robertson’s wife again. She seemed very keen to find him when I saw her at the Delilah.’

  ‘Right,’ Jackson said. ‘I’ll put someone on to that.’

  ‘And do you still want me to talk to Robertson’s mother?’

  ‘Yes, I do,’ Jackson said. ‘I’ll send you a DC from the nick who can take over the witnesses, and then you can talk to Mrs Robertson. I know there’s no love lost between her and Ray, but she may have some idea where he would hide out. She might even be pleased to tell you.’

  ‘Unlikely,’ Barnard muttered under his breath.

  ‘OK, guv,’ he said aloud. ‘I’ll wait for reinforcements here and then chase up Ma Robertson. See what she has to say.’ The DCI nodded a
nd turned on his heel to brief the uniformed officers who were managing a small crowd of people who had gathered outside the door of the gym. Barnard watched him go and then went into Robertson’s office and closed the door on the rest of the murder team, who were beginning to search the premises. He sat at Ray’s desk for a minute before beginning to open the drawers and flick through the paperwork, but he could see nothing but details of gym sessions and boxing tournaments and the hopeful contenders who had trained here. He noticed that there were two distinct sets of handwriting on the documents and by far the most usual belonged to Rod Miller rather than Ray Robertson. As far as he could tell, the trainer had been virtually running the gym single-handed for the last few months. That fact did not surprise him. Increasingly Ray had been preoccupied with other problems in Soho and elsewhere as his hold on his more illicit empire had begun to slip. For that reason alone, Barnard thought Jackson was mistaken to think that Robertson could or would have killed Miller. It was much more likely that Miller had died at the hand of one of Robertson’s rivals. But why that might be remained a mystery.

  THREE

  Kate O’Donnell pushed open the door to the lounge bar of the Red Cow on Canvey Island and peered inside. The air reeked of beer and cigarette smoke but at least it was warm. Outside, as she had been frustrated to discover when she got off the train and walked slowly over the bridge on to the island, a chilly clinging mist from the Thames estuary wreathed the island, making the task of taking photographs difficult if not impossible. She persevered for a while, knowing that whatever was printed might show little more than Dickensian gloom rather than the tidy streets of restored homes which here and there even ten years after the flood revealed gaps like missing teeth. In the clinging mist, turning now and again to drizzle, there were few people about and even fewer who had been willing to talk to her and fewer still who thought that having their picture taken was a good idea.