Death Trap

by Patricia Hall

  Later Mr Robert Manley, who is a friend of my father and a lawyer, come round to see my mother and say that they are questioning my father not just about the parcel, but about the murder of a woman. My mother begins to cry then and I have to tell Mr Manley exactly what happened that morning and he takes it all down and he is very angry and says he will get my father out. And then Mr Abraham Righton come round to the flat and he has heard everything about the morning. He is my father’s friend and he says he will put the cafe back to normal and run it till my father come home. So my mother and my brother and me, we put the flat back to rights and do as Mr Manley say and keep everything that the police have trashed because he says he will make a complaint and we will need all that as evidence. He says it is more than time the police stopped behaving like colonial people and mistreating the black brothers. And all the morning people call to talk with my mother and they are very angry and Mr Righton decide that people will go to the police station to complain about what happened to my father. So at six o’clock I know a lot of people went there. My mother would not let me or my brother go, we was to stay in the flat. But she came back later and say that the police had come out with truncheons and arrested some of the men and the rest had been frightened and gone home. So no one found out anything about my father that night.

  Next day my mother went down again, and I went with her, and Mr Manley was there, and the police told us that he was charged with possession of cannabis and was being questioned about the murder of a white woman. And my mother screamed and cried and said that no way could that be true, he was a godly man and had nothing to do with any women but her, but the policeman who spoke to us laughed and said everyone knew about black men. And Mr Manley brought us home and said I must look after my mother and my brother and that he would do the best he could for my father but I could see that he was worried. And I asked him who the dead woman was and he said she was a prostitute and they were sure a black man killed her, and that if they did not have evidence they would make it up. He asked if my father had annoyed the police and I said they did not like his cafe, they thought it encouraged people who wanted to change things for black people and that I heard a policeman say to him once that he should think himself lucky he wasn’t in Birmingham, Alabama where they knew how to keep black people in their place. So I decided to write down everything that had happened so if anything more happened people would know how it started and who started it. Because it was not Nelson Mackintosh because he is a good man and an innocent man and we will prove it.

  THE END.’

  ‘Whew,’ Kate said. ‘That’s an amazing story.’ She looked at Tess. ‘Do you think it’s true?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m sure it is,’ Tess said. ‘That boy changed over the weekend from a bright, self-confident lad to a nervous wreck. Jean Curtis, my head of department, says there’s not many of the West Indian boys who look like they’re going to do well at school. But Ben was the exception. He had his parents behind him and he’s intelligent and focussed. This looks as though it has been a catastrophe for him.’

  ‘I told you I knew there’d been a murder,’ Kate said. ‘I saw the police when I went up to Portobello Road on Saturday morning. And I saw them at the cafe, too. In fact I took some pictures. I developed them this morning and gave them to Ken, but he wasn’t very impressed. He said the papers wouldn’t give much space to the murder of a prostitute. But maybe they’ll change their mind if this sort of thing is going on down there.’ She looked thoughtful and then shook her head. ‘Or maybe not,’ she said. ‘I don’t think they’re very interested in what goes on with the West Indians unless they’re actually causing trouble on the streets.’

  ‘Perhaps your tame bizzy could find out what’s going on for you, if you really want to know. I can’t get involved, Kate. The school really wouldn’t like it and I’m on probation. I can’t take any chances in my first year.’

  Kate nodded, but she knew that she didn’t want Harry Barnard, who had so firmly warned her of the dangers of the neighbourhood, to know she was still pursuing the fate of Nelson Mackintosh. ‘Maybe I’ll go round to the cafe to see Mrs Mackintosh,’ she said. ‘It would be good to get some pictures of the damage the police did. It sounds to me as if this case might get into the news if what Ben says is all true. It would annoy my boss if the thing blew up and I hadn’t taken my chances to get him some good pics.’

  ‘Are you sure, Kate?’ Tess said doubtfully.

  ‘Quite sure, la,’ Kate said with rather more confidence than she actually felt. ‘It’s my job, isn’t it?’

  After the three flatmates had eaten that evening, Kate put her coat on, put a fresh film in her camera and announced that she was going out to see Mrs Mackintosh. Tess looked appalled.

  ‘You mustn’t Kate,’ she said. ‘Really you mustn’t. It’s not safe.’

  ‘It’s not far to the cafe,’ Kate said. ‘And it’s main roads all the way. I won’t come to any harm. And some pictures of the place might be really useful at work.’ She knew that was not her only motive but she did not plan to tell Tess and Marie that Ben Mackintosh’s story had filled her with the sort of anger that she had not felt since her own brother had run into trouble with the police. She had no faith at all that there were not still officers in the Metropolitan Police who were deeply corrupt. She had met them in Soho and saw no reason to suppose that all was pure as the driven snow in Notting Hill. Harry Barnard had virtually said so.

  She walked quickly along the now familiar route to Portobello Road and turned into the side street where she was surprised to see lights on in the Poor Man’s Corner cafe. She went to the door but found it locked in spite of the lights and signs of activity inside. She hesitated for a moment and then knocked. The door was opened by a tall West Indian man with a beard and a lot of hair who looked her up and down with some suspicion.

  ‘We closed for refurbishment, sister,’ he said.

  Behind him Kate could see several other people with mops and buckets, brushes and pots of paint and large rubbish bins. The police must have done a thorough job of trashing the place, she thought.

  ‘I wanted to visit Mrs Mackintosh,’ Kate said, ‘Is she at home?’

  ‘You know her?’

  ‘I’ve met her husband, and her son Ben,’ Kate said firmly, though she was stretching the truth somewhat. ‘I heard what happened.’

  ‘You met Ben?’ The bearded man hesitated for a moment before opening the door and beckoning her through. ‘Perhaps you best come in. I take you up.’ And he led her quickly through the chaos of cleaning and restoration, through the kitchen behind the cafe itself and up a narrow flight of stairs to the first floor.

  ‘I am Abraham Righton,’ he flung over his shoulder as they reached the top. ‘I am Nelson’s friend from Jamaica and I’m going to run the cafe for him and Mrs Evelina Mackintosh till Nelson come home again.’ He pushed open a door at the top of the stairs.

  ‘Evelina, there someone here to see you. She say she has seen Ben.’

  Kate was surprised to see the eyes of the woman slumped on the sofa light up at this introduction. Whatever the police had done to the flat above the cafe, the place was now neat and tidy and in perfect order. Kate guessed that the people working downstairs had begun by restoring the living quarters upstairs so that the family could get back to some sort of normality. Evelina Mackintosh seized Kate’s arm as she approached and introduced herself.

  ‘You seen him? You seen Benjamin?’ she asked. ‘You seen him where? He hasn’t been home since Saturday night. I thought the police had taken him too but Mr Manley our lawyer say not. He asked at the police station for him and he’s not there. I don’t know where he is or what he’s doing and I am crazy with worry about him.’

  ‘I haven’t seen him myself, but I know he was at school this morning,’ Kate said. ‘His English teacher is a friend of mine, we share a flat, and she says he gave her a sort of essay. I’m sure she didn’t realise that he hadn’t been home or she would have let you
know.’ She had brought Ben’s essay with her and now she pulled it out of her bag and handed it to his mother.

  Evelina glanced at it and nodded. ‘He was in his room on Saturday and just said he was writing. I thought he was doing homework so I was happy. I thought he wanted to please his father when he come home. Then he went out and he’s not been back. I don’t know where he’s staying or who he’s staying with.’

  ‘I don’t think he can concentrate on his school work just now,’ Kate said. ‘He came round to see my friend on Sunday night. He was waiting outside the house for her, and then he gave her this in school this morning. Did he not come home when school finished?’

  Evelina shook her head and glanced briefly at what Ben had written. ‘No,’ she said dully. ‘What did his teacher say to him? I think he thought maybe she would be able to help. I know he likes her.’

  Kate shook her head. ‘I don’t think there’s anything she can do. The school won’t think it right to get involved. It would be better to give that to your lawyer, I think. He’ll know what to do with it.’

  ‘That might help Nelson,’ Evelina said. ‘But it won’t bring Ben back. Where is he? Where is he sleeping? How can he leave me like this? He is a wicked boy.’

  ‘Do you have a photograph of Ben?’ Kate asked. ‘I’m a photographer and I might be able to get his picture into the newspapers so that people round here would look for him. That might help.’

  Evelina shook her head, her eyes full of tears, obviously close to despair. ‘The good Lord has abandoned me,’ she said. ‘They are going to keep Nelson in jail for a week. He went to the court this morning. What have I done to deserve it?’

  Kate sat down beside Evelina on the sofa and put a hand on her arm. ‘I’m sorry for your trouble, Mrs Mackintosh,’ she said.

  Evelina got up slowly, moving like a woman much older than she looked and went to a sideboard on the other side of the room. She rummaged inside for a moment and then came back with a black and white snapshot of the boy Kate had met outside her house.

  ‘That should print quite well,’ she said. ‘And I’ll take some pictures of the cafe and perhaps I could take one of you and Ben’s brother. Is he here?’

  Evelina hesitated for a moment and then went to a door on the other side of the room and opened it. ‘Joseph,’ she said. ‘Come here and have your photograph taken. This is Miss O’Donnell who is going to help find Ben.’

  A boy of about eleven, anxious looking and with dark circles under his eyes came out of the room and stood uncertainly by his mother.

  Kate took several shots of the two of them and then stowed her camera away again. ‘I work for a picture agency in Soho,’ she said. ‘I’ll talk to my boss in the morning about getting something in the evening papers tomorrow if you agree that might help. Have you no idea where Ben might have gone?’

  Evelina shook her head. ‘We have tried to bring our boys up properly,’ she said. ‘My husband is an outspoken man who wants our people to do well in this country and not get involved in the crime that so many do. There is a lot of vice out there on the street and Nelson has spoken out against that. That does not make him popular with a lot of people. There are people who will be pleased to see him in trouble. There are policemen who have been looking to see him in trouble for a long time. Nelson say that there are some police who are more with the criminals than against them. That makes him enemies.’ She shrugged helplessly. ‘If you can help, we will be very grateful,’ she said.

  On her way back through the cafe, where Nelson Mackintosh’s friends were still busily at work under the direction of Abraham Righton, Kate found herself face to face with a newcomer, a West Indian in a smart grey suit, with a self-confident air and a bulging briefcase.

  ‘This is Mr Robert Manley, Nelson’s solicitor,’ Abraham said over his shoulder, barely turning away from the broken chair he was mending.

  Manley looked at Kate quizzically. ‘And you are?’ he asked.

  She explained her reason for coming to see Mrs Mackintosh. ‘It’s possible I can get some publicity to help find Ben,’ she said. ‘He seems to have run away.’

  ‘He was very upset by what happened on Saturday morning,’ Manley said. ‘You say you have some sort of description of the police raid. Could you let me see that? It might be useful when Nelson comes to court.’

  Kate fished Ben’s description out of her bag again and gave it to the lawyer. ‘Is this sort of thing normal round here?’ she asked.

  Manley smiled grimly. ‘Oh yes,’ he said. ‘Quite normal. The police in Notting Hill have been trying to pin something on Nelson for a long time. He’s much too uppity for their liking. They don’t go as far as blowing people up round here, like they do in Alabama, but they certainly believe black folk should know their place. They don’t want a repeat of the riots of fifty-eight, and some of them think the best way to ensure that is to ensure the black residents don’t irritate the white thugs who are still just waiting for an opportunity to go nigger-hunting. It’s a powder keg waiting for a spark, Miss O’Donnell. And if I don’t get Nelson off this ridiculous charge, it may blow up in ways they don’t expect. I hope you can help Evelina find Ben. That is a complication she can well do without.’

  EIGHT

  The following day Kate had strap-hung on a crowded Central Line tube from Tottenham Court Road to Notting Hill Gate after a frustrating day at work. She had been greeted as soon as she went into the office by a slightly flushed Ken Fellows and her first thought was that she had made some mistake she didn’t know about. Fellows was volatile and there had been no sign of the encouragement he had given her only the previous day.

  ‘Have you heard the news?’ he had asked her, beckoning her into his cluttered office.

  Kate must have looked blank because he came back irascibly.

  ‘I thought you were keeping on top of these Liverpool bands,’ he said. ‘The Beatles are topping the bill at the London Palladium next month. They’ll be on TV, the lot. Have you got anywhere with fresh pics? Anything new?’

  Kate had shaken her head. ‘I discovered their publicity man in Monmouth Street, but he says Brian Epstein controls the pictures of the boys. They’re hardly ever available anyway any more. They’ve been touring and recording non-stop all summer. And Cynthia’s in Liverpool with baby Julian. She’s living with John’s auntie because John’s away so much. I could go up there again and see if I could persuade her to let me take pictures of her and the baby, if you like.’

  Fellows had shaken his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Never mind Liverpool. We’ll stick with the band. You were obviously dead right in thinking they were going to be huge. Is there any other group we should be watching as well? What about that boyfriend of yours? Is he going to be massive too?’

  Kate had shrugged and laughed. ‘Dave Donovan’s not my boyfriend. He’d like to think he’s going to hit the big time but I very much doubt it. Anyway you’ve got those pics I took of them in the spring on file if they suddenly do strike it lucky.’

  ‘Well, get onto the TV people and make sure we’re included in any photocalls at the Palladium. There’s bound to be a lot of screaming girls around on the night, too. October thirteenth, so keep it free. It’s all yours.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Kate had said, feeling that after all she had gained a little respect rather than mere toleration from her boss. Perhaps at last her suspicious male colleagues would begin to take her seriously too. Not that they showed much sign of it later that morning as they took themselves off in their usual bunch for what she assumed was a liquid lunch to which she was never invited. Hungry and thirsty she had shrugged herself into her duffel coat and strolled up Frith Street to the Blue Lagoon where she found her flatmate Marie looking hot and harassed and surrounded by steam from the hissing coffee machine as the lunchtime crowd of young people flocked in. Almost inevitably now, the Beatles blared from the jukebox and she smiled faintly in satisfaction. The Mersey Beat, she thought, really was about to sweep all before it and in he
r book that was great news. She had ordered a coffee and a sandwich which Marie handed over with little more than a cursory nod as she brushed her unruly red hair from her eyes and carried them to a seat close by the window from where she could watch the busy street. But almost before she had taken her first bite, her heart thudded slightly as she recognised a familiar figure outside and realised that he had also seen her, hesitated and then turned sharply towards the door.

  Detective Sergeant Harry Barnard, in camel coat and brown trilby jauntily pushed to the back of his head, flashed her a brilliant smile and grabbed a chair from another table so that he could join her.

  ‘How’s things?’ he had asked lazily, irritating Kate without really trying. ‘Do you always have lunch here all on your ownsome?’

  ‘Usually,’ Kate had admitted, not wanting to discuss her non-relationship with her contemptuous colleagues. ‘I like to see Marie when I can.’ She sipped her coffee thoughtfully, wondering how much more she wanted to tell Barnard about Nelson Mackintosh’s situation and then realised that he was taking her silence for something else.

  ‘I’m really sorry about what happened with Devine the other night,’ he had said. ‘I won’t make that mistake again.’

  ‘It wasn’t your fault,’ she said. ‘You couldn’t have known he would react like that.’

  ‘He’s well known for chasing the ladies,’ Barnard said ruefully. ‘I should have guessed he’d like the look of you.’

  Kate couldn’t help smiling. ‘Not the only one, is he?’ she said. ‘I suppose I should be flattered.’ She hesitated again and then decided to take the plunge. ‘Nelson Mackintosh,’ she said. ‘Your colleagues in Notting Hill seem determined to pin this murder on him and they don’t seem to care what methods they use to nail him. His family say he’s been beaten up, and his home and the cafe have certainly been trashed. I’ve seen that for myself. Is that what usually goes on down there? Can they just pick someone up and decide they’re guilty without any evidence at all?’