by Graham Ison
The superintendent waved his hand dismissively. ‘Good heavens, don’t worry about that. After all, you’re looking after one of our girls. We haven’t had policemen on board since the days of the General Strike fourteen years ago. If he speaks to me when he gets here on Thursday afternoon, I’ll issue him with a pass, just in case a jumper gets aboard.’
‘A jumper, Mr Large?’ queried Bradley.
‘An inspector, Sergeant. They board buses at various places to check that fares have been paid.’ Large paused and grinned. ‘And to make sure the conductor’s not on the fiddle.’
‘You said Thursday afternoon, Mr Large.’ Hardcastle took out his pipe, rubbed the bowl on his sleeve and filled it with tobacco. He offered the pouch to Large. ‘Do you?’ he asked.
‘Thank you. That’s very kind.’ Large took a pipe from his inside pocket and began to fill it. ‘Doris is off tomorrow,’ he said, between puffs as he got his pipe well alight. ‘She’s next on duty at one o’clock on Thursday afternoon.’
‘You mentioned the General Strike just now, Mr Large,’ said Bradley. ‘I take it you were involved in that.’
Large bristled. ‘I was management, even back then,’ he said. ‘We didn’t go on strike. When you’ve spent three years driving a bus on the Western Front, you have a different view of what’s important and what isn’t.’
‘You were one of those drivers who took their buses over there, were you?’
‘I was indeed. We were the old London General Omnibus Company in those days, but we were drafted into the Army Service Corps. The King gave the corps the “Royal” prefix after the war was over. What’s more, the King decreed that every year a representative of London Transport should attend the Armistice Day service in Whitehall.’ Large paused, looking into the middle distance as though recalling those shell-torn days of the Great War. ‘Still, I mustn’t keep you gentleman by telling you my war stories,’ he said, briefly touching his Royal Army Service Corps tie.
From the bus depot, Hardcastle and Bradley made their way to New Malden High Street. In the centre of the parade of shops they found the Salon de Jules, ladies’ hair stylists, a four-chair establishment of which, at that time, only one chair was occupied. The client was being attended to by a man who, Hardcastle presumed, was Jules himself. He had a silly little moustache that made him appear more Italian than French, and a spotted bow tie.
The hairdresser paused, scissors in one hand and comb in the other, both held high in the air in a theatrical gesture. ‘We do not cut the ’airs of gentlemens, m’sieur,’ he exclaimed in a pantomime French accent.
‘I should hope not,’ said Bradley. ‘We’re police officers.’
‘Oh Gawd!’ Suddenly Jules’s pseudo accent disappeared and was replaced by pure Cockney. ‘Linda, love,’ he shouted, in the direction of a door at the rear of the salon, ‘come and take over while I talk to these gentlemen.’
A slender blonde emerged from the back room of the salon, shot what she obviously believed to be a sexy glance at Bradley, and picked up the scissors and comb that Jules had just abandoned. Without a word, she began to cut the customer’s hair.
‘Better come in the back room, guv’nor,’ said Jules, and led the way into a tiny office.
‘Is your name really Jules?’ asked Hardcastle.
‘Good God, no. That’s for the punters. I’m Charlie Perks. Now, what’s this all about?’
‘It’s about Mrs Ruby Watson,’ said Bradley.
‘Mrs Watson. D’you mean she’s married?’
‘The fact that she’s called Mrs Watson might be a clue, Mr Perks. And yes, she’s married and her husband’s in the Royal Air Force, serving in Malta, poor devil.’
‘But your relationship with Mrs Watson,’ said Hardcastle, taking a guess that there was one, ‘is not why we’re here.’
‘Oh!’ Perks sounded very relieved.
‘We are concerned about Mrs Watson’s safety.’ Hardcastle went on to explain about the murders of Joyce Butler and Mavis Lavender. ‘As a result of those killings and the fact the two dead women, Mrs Butler and Miss Lavender, were close friends, we fear that Mrs Watson may become a target.’
‘Oh, my Gawd! D’you mean he might come here and murder us?’
‘We’ve no idea,’ said Bradley, rather enjoying the sight of the panic-stricken pseudo French hairdresser, ‘but just to make sure, we intend to place a woman police officer in here. If you have no objection, that is.’
‘No, no, not at all,’ said Perks hurriedly, sounding immensely relieved.
‘Is Ruby here?’ asked Hardcastle.
‘Not at the moment. She just popped out to get a pint of milk.’
But at that moment, the door of the office opened and Ruby Watson entered. She saw Bradley and did a double-take. ‘What you doing ’ere?’ she asked, placing the milk on a table.
But before Bradley was able to answer, Perks said, ‘They’re from the police, Ruby love.’
‘What’s up, then?’
Bradley explained to Ruby Watson about the murders and the fear that she might be at risk. Then, he explained the precautions they intended to take.
‘D’you know, I had an idea you was a copper, Jack,’ said Ruby, ‘when you started asking all them questions when we was dancing down the assembly rooms. But you never took me up on me offer, did you? That surprised me because I’ve known a few coppers in me time and they’re a randy lot.’
‘I’ve been very busy, Ruby. You know how it is.’
‘I hope you’re going to pick out a good-looking copper to take care of me, Jack. I s’pose it ain’t no good asking for you, is it?’
‘No, like I said, Ruby, I’m busy. And it won’t be a man either. We’ve got a woman officer lined up to look after you.’
‘What good’s that? I need a tough he-man guarding me.’
‘Don’t worry about that, Ruby. The woman we’ve got in mind is very good at unarmed combat.’
Ruby pouted. ‘Well, that’s a bit of a let-down, I must say.’
NINETEEN
Hardcastle had called in a favour from the sub-divisional inspector in charge of the Cannon Row police station area. The result was that Woman Police Constable Eve Sullivan was assigned to protect Ruby Watson.
‘That should ruin her love life,’ commented Bradley drily.
‘Whose? Ruby’s or Miss Sullivan’s?’
Bradley laughed. ‘You’ve got no soul, guv’nor. Have you lined up someone to accompany Doris Jackson, yet?’
‘Yes. I spoke to a mate of mine at West End Central and he’s given me a PC by the name of Craig. He said that he’s a good bloke who’s accustomed to working in plain clothes.’
‘I hope he’s a trolleybus enthusiast,’ said Bradley.
‘I don’t know about that, but he represents the Metropolitan Police at athletics, so he should be a match for any villain who takes it on his dancers.’
‘How very apt,’ commented Bradley.
On the day following Mavis Lavender’s murder, Jack Bradley spent an hour studying the brass object that he had found beneath the dead woman’s body. But being no nearer discovering what it meant, he decided to take his problem to the Imperial War Museum in Lambeth, South London, where he was introduced to the curator that dealt with insignia, a man called John Ward. Ward was an elderly man, studious in appearance, who peered at Bradley through heavy horn-rimmed spectacles.
‘I’m surprised to find that you’re still open, Mr Ward,’ said Bradley, once introductions had been effected.
‘We’re closing next month for the duration of the war, Sergeant Bradley. We had hoped to remain open, but it’s been pointed out to us that our name might lead the Luftwaffe to believe that we’re some sort of military installation masquerading as a museum. On top of that, the army has claimed back some of our exhibits.’ Ward shook his head. ‘We must be in a parlous state if the army is relying on museum pieces to fight the Wehrmacht. However, what can I do for you?’
Bradley handed over the
brass item that he had found under the body of Mavis Lavender. ‘I wondered if you could identify that for me, Mr Ward.’
‘Royal Air Force brass air gunner’s badge, Sergeant Bradley,’ said Ward, returning it after a brief examination. ‘Discontinued in 1939 in favour of the “AG” cloth half brevet. The one you found is certainly not worn today. Without encroaching on your expertise, and in view of its virtual redundancy, is it possible that the badge has nothing to do with your body and may have been there longer than the deceased?’
‘We think that’s doubtful, Mr Ward. Thank you for your assistance.’ Bradley decided not to explain to the curator the first steps taken by the police at the scene of a crime.
The next obvious place to go was the Air Ministry in Kingsway. There was an armed soldier at the door to Adastral House who referred Bradley to a flight sergeant manning a desk just inside. He, too, was armed.
‘Can I help you, sir?’ asked the flight sergeant.
Bradley produced his warrant card and explained that he was investigationg a murder in Kingston upon Thames, and needed the help of the RAF.
‘I think your best bet is to have a word with an RAF police officer, Sarge. Just one moment.’ Picking up his telephone, the flight sergeant dialled a number and explained about Bradley’s enquiry. ‘Someone will be down shortly,’ he said, as he replaced the receiver.
A young officer descended the stairs and approached Bradley with his hand outstretched. ‘Detective Sergeant Bradley? I’m Flight Lieutenant Martin Peters, Special Investigation Branch. Come up to my office.’
Peters invited Bradley to take a seat in the tiny office and sent for coffee.
‘Now, Sergeant Bradley, how can we help?’
Bradley produced the brass insignia and placed it on Peters’ desk. ‘I found this under the body of a young woman on a bomb site in Charing Cross Road. She had been murdered. The Imperial War Museum told me that it’s an air gunner’s insignia, but its use was discontinued in 1939.’
‘Quite right,’ said Peters. ‘How were you hoping that we might help you?’
‘Ideally, we’d like to trace anyone who’s lost this, Flight Lieutenant, but I realize it’s a tall order.’
‘Damn right it is.’ For a few moments, Peters swivelled his chair from side to side. ‘Sergeant Bradley, there are over a million men and women in the Royal Air Force, a substantial number of them aircrew. And of the aircrew many are air gunners, one of the most vulnerable members of the crew, especially the tail gunner. With the best will in the world, you are asking me to solve a problem that is nigh-on impossible to solve.’ Martin Peters paused for a moment. ‘Another thing, if the squadron commander caught any of his gunners wearing the old insignia, he’d get a flea in his ear.’
‘Oh well,’ said Bradley, as he stood up, ‘it was worth a try.’
‘There is just one thing that might be worth trying, Sergeant Bradley. The Free Polish airmen wear RAF uniform, but could still be using the old insignia.’ Peters returned to his desk and scribbled a name and address on a slip of paper. ‘This is the Polish military police officer that we liaise with. When were you thinking of going?’
Bradley glanced at his watch. ‘I’ve got time now, if they can see me today.’
‘Good. I’ll give them a ring and let them know you’re coming. RAF Uxbridge is high security, now that it’s the HQ of Eleven Group. I’m sure the Polish military police will help, if they can. I’ve always found the Poles very helpful.’ He chuckled. ‘In more ways than one.’
Even though Flight Lieutenant Peters had told RAF Uxbridge that Bradley was coming, a telephone call was not enough to meet the stringent security precautions prevailing. He was asked for his warrant card at least three times before he was shown into an office in Hillingdon House.
‘I’m Detective Sergeant Jack Bradley, Murder Squad, and I’m looking for …’ He pulled out the piece of paper given to him by the RAF officer at Adastral House. ‘Yes, a Captain Kasia Sikora.’
The shapely woman who stood up from behind her desk was not in uniform. She was probably in her mid-thirties with shoulder-length black hair. She laughed.
‘You’ve found her.’
‘But you’re a woman.’
The woman laughed again. ‘I can tell you’re a detective, Sergeant Bradley.’
‘I’m terribly sorry, ma’am.’ Being unfamiliar with Polish names, Bradley had expected to find that Captain Kasia Sikora was a man, but that the Polish military police captain was an attractive woman who laughed at him had momentarily flustered him.
‘Martin Peters telephoned to say you were coming to see me, Sergeant Bradley,’ said Sikora in flawless English. She shook hands with a firm grip. ‘Please sit down. Can I persuade you to a glass of vodka? I won’t tell anyone you’re drinking on duty if you don’t tell anyone I’m drinking on duty.’ She laughed infectiously.
‘You’ve persuaded me,’ said Bradley.
Opening a small cupboard next to her desk, Captain Sikora produced a bottle of vodka and two shot glasses into each of which she poured a measure almost to the top. She pushed one glass across her desk towards Bradley. ‘Okrzyki,’ she said, downing the contents of her glass in one swallow.
‘Toast!’ said Bradley, assuming that is what she had said, and he too emptied his glass. ‘Ye gods!’ he exclaimed, grasping his throat as he went red in the face.
‘You like?’ asked Sikora, laughing.
‘It should come with a fire extinguisher,’ Bradley was able to say, once he finished choking.
‘That’s proper vodka. I make it myself, not like the stuff you buy here in the shops.’
‘You can’t buy it in the shops any more.’
‘Well, down to business, eh?’ said Sikora, becoming suddenly professional.
‘I don’t know whether you can help me or not, Captain Sikora,’ he began.
‘Please call me Kasia,’ suggested Sikora.
‘I’m Jack,’ said Bradley, and went on to explain about the murder of Mavis Lavender. Finally, he placed the air gunner insignia on the captain’s desk.
Sikora picked it up, examining it closely. ‘To my knowledge, Jack, there are two squadrons that still use this insignia. At least, they did. Leave it with me and I’ll make some enquiries. If it happens to be one of our people, you realize that we have the right to try him or her by court martial.’
‘Are you sure about that, Kasia?’
‘Oh yes. It is your Allied Forces Act that says so. However, we are getting ahead of ourselves. It might have nothing to do with any of our personnel.’
‘I’ll leave it in your capable hands, then, Kasia.’ And with that, Bradley had to be content.
‘We should have lunch sometime, Jack.’ Sikora shook hands, this time holding on to Bradley’s hand a little longer than when they had met.
‘Good idea,’ said Bradley, wondering how he could get out of it without offending this charming Polish lady.
The first twelve days of the police watch on Ruby Watson and Doris Jackson were uneventful. WPC Eve Sullivan had read every one of the out-of-date magazines in the hairdressing salon while keeping a watchful eye on Ruby Watson and every customer who had entered the salon, aware that an attacker could as easily be a woman as a man. She had drunk countless cups of tea and refused the offer of a free hair styling from ‘Jules’.
By the end of the thirteenth day, Hardcastle began to believe that he had made a mistake in thinking that either woman was in danger or, worse still, that the murders of Mavis Lavender and Joyce Butler were unconnected. There was also the possibility that the officers on the protection duty were becoming so accustomed to their task that they would be less vigilant. It was a recognized failing for which the officers could not be blamed. However, Hardcastle decided to keep them on the detail rather than introducing reliefs as being the lesser of two risks.
But on the fifteenth day there came a breakthrough.
Doris Jackson was on the early shift on bus route number 46 from Victoria
to Alperton. She had told her driver, Douglas Grant, known as Dougie, why she had a police escort. Grant was a thirty-year-old who laboured under the misapprehension that driving a bus was a reserved occupation, an illusion of which he was to be disabused very soon, despite his splay-footed gait that he believed would afford him an exemption from service.
Doris was standing on the platform and had just rung the bell to indicate to the driver that it was safe to pull away from the bus stop when she saw a familiar face.
‘Don,’ said Doris excitedly to her escorting policeman, PC Don Craig, ‘that’s him, just crossing the road.’ She pointed at a man hurrying from behind the bus to the opposite side of the road.
Craig was seated on the bench seat just inside the bus and immediately leaped to his feet.
‘Stop the bus, Doris.’
Doris Jackson rang the bell three times, the recognized signal for an emergency stop. Craig jumped from the bus and began to follow the suspect.
Dougie Grant dismounted from his cab and walked round to the platform. ‘What’s up, girl?’ he asked, expecting to have a troublesome passenger pointed out to him.
Doris Jackson quickly explained, in almost a whisper, what PC Craig was doing.
‘I can’t keep the bus hanging about while he makes up his mind whether he’s going to come back or not,’ complained Grant. ‘I’ve got a schedule to keep to.’
‘You’ll do as I tell you, Dougie Grant. I’m the conductor and, as such, I’m legally in charge of the bus, so go back to your cab and have a sandwich or something until I tell you to go.’
‘I hope you know what you’re doing,’ muttered Grant bad-temperedly, and strolled back to his cab. He did not like being put in his place, especially by a woman.
Don Craig was back minutes later. ‘We can carry on now, Doris.’ There was an element of bitterness in his voice.
‘What happened, Don?’
‘I lost the bugger. It was almost as if he sensed I was following him and suddenly disappeared. He must’ve gone into one of the houses because I can’t see where else he could’ve gone. You’re certain it was him, Doris?’