The Riot

by Laura Wilson

  ‘It shouldn’t have happened,’ said Stratton. ‘I wasn’t quick enough.’

  ‘Etheridge didn’t mean to shoot. The gun went off by accident.’

  ‘I know. But he was trying to attack you at the time, and he had threatened all of us. I should have handled it better.’

  Laskier shook his head. ‘You couldn’t. Etheridge acted like a fool, but I can’t blame him. When people are trapped … All that about Danny – and he thought that somehow I had managed to contact you. It was ridiculous, impossible … but things weren’t going as he wanted. He didn’t expect to see Irene, or Walker. He ordered Walker to leave, but he wouldn’t – and he thought everyone was lying to him. He said that you wanted to charge him with killing Mrs Rutherford. Are you going to?’

  ‘He might be guilty,’ said Stratton.

  ‘It’s possible, I suppose. Poor man.’

  ‘Etheridge or Walker?’

  ‘Both.’ Once more, he transferred his gaze to somewhere above Stratton’s head.

  ‘To return to what you were saying,’ said Stratton. ‘What happened when you arrived here?’

  ‘Well, as I said, I didn’t want to go home, so I stayed here. I wasn’t doing anything – just sitting and thinking – and then Maxine called to tell me that Danny had died.’

  ‘How did she know you were here?’

  ‘She didn’t. She had telephoned to where she thought I might be – my house, the office, the Condor—’

  ‘Condor? What’s that?’

  ‘Danny’s club in Earl’s Court. It’s run by a man called Cyril Nash.’

  ‘I see. And who was here with you?’

  ‘Irene and Roy. They were upstairs.’

  ‘Roy?’

  ‘Roy Walker.’

  ‘He was here with Irene, was he?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘When we spoke on Saturday you mentioned a manageress who lives on the premises.’

  ‘Mrs Crocetti. She always goes to see her daughter on Sunday evening and comes back on Monday morning.’

  ‘How did Etheridge get in here?’

  ‘The side door – I forgot to lock it.’

  ‘And when did Irene and Walker appear?’

  ‘They must have heard the noise. Etheridge was shouting.’

  ‘We can go into the details later,’ said Stratton. ‘For now, there are several other questions I need to ask you. Have you seen Rutherford at any time today?’

  ‘He came to the office this afternoon. I wasn’t there, but he told Jan that he wanted to collect some papers.’ Laskier held up a defensive hand. ‘I have no idea what they were.’

  ‘I imagine,’ said Stratton, ‘that they were the papers he burnt later in the grate at Lower Belgrave Street.’

  He’d expected Laskier to refute this, or at least to be shocked, but his expression didn’t change. ‘Perhaps. I don’t know. It’s possible that he took some papers from here too, because he came later, with Jan. Some of the things Danny had asked for, I couldn’t find them.’

  ‘Were you here when they arrived?’

  Laskier shook his head. ‘Mrs Crocetti told me. He took some flowers and chocolates. I imagine those were for Miss Scott.’

  ‘Do you know April Scott?’

  ‘Yes. She comes here often.’

  ‘What made you think they were for her?’

  ‘A guess. From what I saw between them.’

  ‘Did you ever mention your suspicions to Danny?’

  ‘No. I wasn’t sure, and it would have upset him. Especially Rutherford – that would be like a kick in the teeth—’

  ‘Because they were doing business together?’

  Laskier’s eyes narrowed. ‘Rutherford was important to Danny. He introduced him to the kind of people he wanted to know … to be friends with. I want … wanted … to protect Danny. You know, five, six years ago, I became a British citizen. I didn’t tell him – he found out a few months ago – but I hadn’t spoken of it because I knew it would upset him that I had this and he didn’t … Actually, April Scott telephoned me yesterday, Inspector. Danny hadn’t called her and she wanted to know where he was. I told her he’d gone away for a few days on business. I didn’t want her to go running to the hospital. She’d have been over there like a shot if she’d thought he was dying.’

  ‘Mercenary, is she?’

  ‘Ach, she’s not a bad girl. I like her. She’s beautiful, she’s smart, she’s good company and she makes – made – Danny happy. But she’s young, you know? And like a lot of people she thought he was rich, that he would keep her in luxury, maybe marry her.’

  ‘Wasn’t he?’

  ‘Rich?’ Laskier shook his head. ‘Danny didn’t own anything, Inspector. It was all mortgaged and remortgaged. What I said about the money in there is true – that’s all there is.’

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  ‘It was like conjuring,’ said Laskier. ‘Juggling. Keep it in the air, borrow from one to pay off another … But all the time he is doing these deals, he’s spending the money too. This afternoon, when I was in the office, I discovered there was more debt than I had realised. I found some papers I’d never seen before. Danny must have brought them in from his house. He didn’t tell me about them – perhaps he didn’t want Maxine to know, or … I don’t know, but he took a second mortgage on his house, and one on the flat in Bryanston Mews. And then the Rolls-Royce: four payments behind on the hire purchase.’

  ‘So even the car didn’t belong to him?’ Stratton was incredulous.

  ‘The never-never. And he was still spending. Two months ago he had a Cadillac delivered from the States. You know what they call that in America?’ he asked, deadpan. ‘A Jew buggy. And last week he was telling me about a Sheraton cabinet he bought from Sotheby’s. He was having it converted for the television, to put it inside.’

  ‘When I saw Mr Perlmann in hospital, he said to me that you “didn’t know”. Was he talking about that, or something else?’

  Laskier frowned. ‘There are things I don’t know – maybe in the sense of having no knowledge, or maybe because I chose not to ask questions.’

  ‘So what you told Etheridge was true, was it?’

  ‘Yes. There’ll be a lot of people wanting money, and nothing to give them. They won’t believe it, of course, but there it is. There’s no point trying to pretend.’

  ‘What about what Etheridge said about Perlmann promising him those houses? Do you know anything about that?’

  ‘No, but I can believe he offered him a house – to set him up, you know?’

  ‘Why would he help Etheridge? After all, he isn’t Polish, and there’s no reason. Unless you know of one, of course.’

  ‘You mean for doing his dirty work?’

  ‘I mean for getting rid of Herbert Hampton.’

  ‘No,’ said Laskier, flatly. ‘Danny hated violence.’

  ‘Mr Laskier,’ said Stratton. ‘I know you want to protect Mr Perlmann, but people don’t just give away houses out of the kindness of their heart.’

  ‘But he wasn’t giving him a house.’

  ‘But you just told me that you believed—’

  ‘What I meant was, it wasn’t as simple as saying, “Here’s a house, it’s yours, now you can make money.” It’s as I told you: Danny didn’t own anything. Those houses in Powis Terrace are like all the others – mortgaged far beyond their value. After you’d paid for that, you’d make … oh, maybe £200 a year from one of those if you were lucky.’

  ‘You’re going to have to explain,’ said Stratton, lighting another cigarette and pushing the packet towards Laskier. ‘Why would Perlmann go to all the bother of setting this up for only £200 per year per house? And why would you go to the bother of helping him?’

  Laskier took a cigarette. ‘How much do you know about building societies, Inspector?’

  ‘As much as the next man, I should think. But I thought you told me that you and Perlmann found some solicitor who lent you money from trust funds.’
r />   ‘It wasn’t as simple as that. You know that – in theory, anyway – anyone can set up a building society? Get some fancy names for the notepaper and then people decide they trust you and they start lending you their money, so you have plenty of cheap money to buy property yourself and to lend to other people at higher rates – and everybody’s happy, yes? Except maybe the Association of British Building Societies – but that’s too bad because it’s not illegal, and people like the small places because they offer a one hundred per cent mortgage, which they can’t get anywhere else.’

  ‘So?’ said Stratton. ‘It’s a racket, but as you said, it’s not illegal, and I still don’t see—’

  Laskier held up his hand for quiet. ‘What you probably don’t know is that mortgages of over £5,000 have to be shown in the building society’s annual return. So, what happens is this: Danny buys a property for … oh, £4,000 with a loan from the bank. Say it’s a house with five storeys. He divides it up – in a manner of speaking – into five separate flats and then he gets five separate mortgages for £2,000 each from one of these small building societies. Say he gets £1,000 per annum in rent – that looks after the mortgage payments, with a little bit left over, as I said – and Danny takes the difference.’

  ‘You mean he’d pocket £6,000?’

  Laskier nodded. ‘Dozens of times. Sets up different companies to stop the same name recurring too many times …’

  ‘And he gets – got – £6,000 for each house?’

  ‘At least.’

  ‘Whose idea was this?’

  ‘Danny’s.’

  ‘It sounds to me,’ said Stratton, ‘as if there was one particular society which was lending all this money. Rutherford was involved in it, wasn’t he?’

  Laskier sighed. ‘Yes, he was.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Initially as an estate agent, and then with the Porchester Building Society.’

  ‘What was his involvement in that?’

  ‘It was not … official. A man called Stephen Hamilton started it. He also started the Hythe and Hamilton Property Group. Mr Hythe is a solicitor.’

  ‘And this is where the trust funds come in?’

  ‘Yes, Inspector. I think you saw Mr Hamilton here, when you came. Big man, loud voice.’ Stratton had a mental flash of a florid, jowly face and a plummy, booming accent – one of the men who’d been talking to Perlmann that night, he thought. ‘Rutherford helped him to set it up – he found the names.’

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘About five years ago, I think. It’s written on the paper – the letterhead. I can fetch it for you.’

  *

  The office was now almost empty. PC Brodie put down the cardboard box he was humping into the corridor. ‘Done everything but the desk, sir.’

  ‘Would there be something in there?’ Stratton asked Laskier.

  ‘It’s possible.’ Laskier began opening drawers and pulling out handfuls of paper. He started to sort through them, tossing aside receipts, bank statements and scraps covered in hastily scribbled columns of figures. ‘Here’s one.’

  Smoothing out the crumpled sheet of paper, Stratton saw the words Porchester Building Society written across the top in elaborate cursive script and beneath them a fanciful drawing of a portcullis flanked by two heraldic beasts wearing crowns and surrounded by swirling chains. Est. 1953, he read. At the bottom of the blank page was an address in Piccadilly and underneath that, a list of directors: Wing Commander Victor Glendinning DSO, Stephen Hamilton, Gerald Hythe LL.B., The Viscount Purbeck.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  ‘There was nobody at Perlmann’s office,’ said Matheson, when Stratton had finished his account of what happened at Maxine’s. ‘And precious few papers either. Somebody’d had a clear-out.’

  ‘I don’t think it was Laskier.’ Stratton was perched on the corner of a desk in the CID office at West End Central, surrounded by overflowing boxes of stuff they’d removed from the nightclub. ‘He said he’d taken two boxes, and from what I saw in the Westbourne Grove office, there was a great deal more than that. He told me that Rutherford had been there before him, and he’d taken some stuff too – which I’m assuming he burnt at Lower Belgrave Street – but he didn’t say anything about the place being cleared out. Perhaps Rutherford went back to the office for the rest of the papers after Laskier left, sir.’

  ‘If he did, he didn’t take them back home. DI Hanford reported that there was no one there except the housekeeper, and she said she hadn’t seen Rutherford since you left this afternoon.’

  ‘I’m just wondering,’ said Stratton, ‘if he might have gone to Perlmann’s house. I didn’t get the impression that Rutherford and Laskier were in cahoots, but I’ve instructed the duty sergeant here to keep him hanging around incommunicado for as long as possible before a formal statement is taken, just to be on the safe side. I think there might be further documents at Perlmann’s house, and if Rutherford’s trying to cover up the misuse of his wife’s money … It’s possible that he’s aware of Perlmann’s death by now, but even if he isn’t, he’d expect to find him at home if he’d drawn a blank everywhere else. Incidentally, sir, it might be worth having a word with Cyril Nash, who manages Perlmann’s other club. That’s the Condor, in Earl’s Court. Rumours of unlicensed gambling, according to PC Jellicoe. Laskier says Perlmann’s got a lot of creditors, and if Mrs Perlmann told Nash about his death, it’s possible that he’s been pretty busy on the blower already.’

  ‘We’ll do that right away, and we’d better get on to the other chaps whose names are on that letterhead too. Where does Perlmann live?’

  Stratton peered at his notebook again. ‘Winnington Road in Hampstead.’

  ‘Very nice. Why don’t you get over there now and see what’s happening? Take Brodie and the others with you.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Just before I do – about the girl. There’s no reason to keep her here once her statement’s been taken, but she’s very young and very upset and there won’t be anyone to look out for her at home.’

  ‘Fair enough. A social worker?’

  ‘There’s someone I can ring, sir.’

  ‘Do that, then – but you’d better make it quick.’

  *

  It was just about light as they drove in convoy – West End Central had provided another car for backup – down the length of Winnington Road. It was, as Matheson had said, very nice, with large detached houses, each with a sizeable front garden. Most had semicircular driveways with two sets of double gates. He’d been pleased that Matheson had been prepared to trust him about Irene without asking questions. Lamb, he reflected, would probably have insisted on contacting the girl’s parents whether she liked or not. Fenella’s voice had been thick and sleepy when she’d answered the phone, but once he’d apologised for the early hour and explained things a bit, she’d seemed quite happy to have been asked to help. He’d given her a brief résumé of events, and she’d agreed to come and collect Irene from West End Central and take her home for what remained of the night. He wondered if the girl might talk to Fenella about who or what had frightened her so much on the night that Johnson had been killed. He’d not discussed it with her, but sometimes shock had the effect of making people open up …

  ‘It’s this one, sir,’ said the driver, pulling up outside a tall hedge with a pair of elaborate wrought iron gates on either side. The far ones were open and the nearest ones slightly ajar. Through them, Stratton had a reasonably clear view of the front of the house, which was a grand affair with a portico, built in a mock-Georgian style. It was silent, all the blinds and curtains closed, but everything about it shouted wealth. There was a double garage beside the house. The door was open, and Stratton could see a wide powder-blue bonnet with a grinning radiator grille and huge, pointed chrome decorations that he supposed must be the Cadillac Laskier had mentioned. He could also see the boot of the navy blue Roller, which was parked outside the front door, but everything else was hidden by the hedge. A few hundre
d yards further down the road a white Jaguar sports car, its top down, had been clumsily parked, one front wheel up on the grass verge. It was the only car he’d seen parked in the entire road.

  ‘Right. I don’t know what’s going to happen, if anything – but you’d best park in front of these gates and be prepared to stop anyone who tries to leave. Tell the others to do the same on the other side. Brodie and Coxon, you follow me.’

  Going through the gates and into the garden, the first thing Stratton noticed was that there was no sign of the Bentley. The second thing he noticed was a small blonde figure, head down and hunched over the steering wheel of the Rolls-Royce.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  Telling Brodie and Coxon to position themselves at the front and side of the house to keep an eye in case Rutherford was inside, Stratton marched round to the driver’s side of the Roller and knocked sharply on the window. April Scott raised her head and looked at him blankly through eyes slicked with smears of powder and mascara. Stratton pointed downwards to indicate that she should open the window. April complied, apparently in a trance.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ asked Stratton.

  ‘Danny …’ Her face broke up in sobs. ‘He’s dead.’

  Looking into the car, Stratton saw that she had a pair of leather driving gloves and the butt of a cigar clutched in her lap. She’d been holding the cigar so tightly that flakes of tobacco were scattered across the tight skirt of her pale blue silk dress and the leather upholstery. ‘Who told you?’ he asked.

  ‘Giles Rutherford.’

  ‘Did he bring you here too?’

  April shook her head. ‘I drove myself.’

  ‘That’s your car outside, is it? The Jag?’

  ‘Yes.’ Stratton saw, behind her mascara-streaked face, a glimpse of her former hauteur. ‘Danny bought it for me.’ On hire purchase, presumably, thought Stratton, thinking of the missed instalments on the Rolls.