The Death of Kings

by Rennie George Airth

  ‘I do wish Sarah had been here, though. I’d love to meet her. Adele’s going to visit us sometime in September. But I’d like to have the whole family over for lunch before then.’

  ‘You two looked as though you’d had a good talk.’

  Madden smiled at her as they started off down the long elm-lined drive.

  ‘It was wonderful. I heard her whole life story—what she told you, and more. She still misses Jack Jessup, but all things considered I think she’s as happy now as she could be. She loves being a grandmother to the children.’

  She glanced at Madden.

  ‘You and Richard really get on, don’t you?’

  Madden nodded. ‘I don’t know what it is about him. But it’s not charm, though he has that. It’s more a sort of grace. He’s one of those people unusually blessed by nature, but makes no show of it. I get the impression he’d rather give than receive. I felt it as soon as we met. It seems as though we’ve known each other for years, but that’s thanks to him . . . to his openness. Heaven knows it’s not a gift I have.’

  ‘I should say not.’ She teased him gently. ‘I remember it took me ages to break through the shell.’

  Laughing, he touched her hand.

  ‘Did he tell you anything useful?’ she asked.

  ‘Rather. I got the full story on Stanley Wing: it turns out he’s been a member of a Triad gang for years. He’s in trouble with them now, deep trouble. They mean to kill him. It seems he may be in London.’

  ‘Oh, lord!’

  ‘But that wasn’t all we talked about. I didn’t mean to bring Rex Garner into it, but somehow the conversation turned that way and I ended up having to tell Richard that he’s a suspect; at least as far as Billy and Chubb are concerned.’

  ‘How did he take that?’

  ‘He wasn’t happy. In fact, he was more upset than I would have imagined, given that they’re not close friends any longer. I tried to explain that there wasn’t a strong case against Garner, and that I wasn’t altogether persuaded by the theories the police were playing with. But Richard didn’t seem to be taking it in. He kept insisting that Garner couldn’t possibly have murdered the girl. It wasn’t in him.’

  He saw Helen’s questioning glance.

  ‘But I wonder if he really believes that.’

  15

  ‘IT COULD BE HIM, couldn’t it?’

  Detective-Sergeant Joe Grace peered at the grainy, ill-lit photograph he was holding, which at first glance seemed to show a naked woman sitting alone on the end of a bed. On closer examination, however, the figure of a man lying under the sheets behind her with his face buried in the pillow could just be made out, and it was on this near shapeless form that the sergeant had fastened his gaze.

  ‘The trouble is it could be anyone.’

  Grace clicked his tongue in disapproval. He glanced at Billy. The two of them were sitting in the back of a police car on their way to Rex Garner’s Mayfair address. Earlier that morning, knowing that the individual they wanted to interview was due back any day, Billy had rung his number and found he had finally returned from Scotland.

  ‘Still at least we know who the lady is: Miss Portia Blake in the altogether—and a nice bit of crackling, too. A pity she had to go and get herself topped.’ Joe sounded regretful. ‘What a waste.’

  The photograph, docked to focus on the two figures—more of the room was shown in the print Grace was looking at—and with Miss Blake’s breasts and lap decorously blacked out, had been splashed across the front page of the Daily Mirror that morning. According to the story that accompanied it, the snapshot had been received by the editor through the post together with a note, not typed this time but written in printed capitals, stating baldly that the man lying face down on the bed was in a position to reveal ‘valuable information’ about the young woman’s murder. ‘I will say no more at this stage,’ the brief letter had concluded ominously. Both note and photograph had been sent to Scotland Yard at Chubb’s insistence.

  Coming as it had on the heels of the information about Stanley Wing furnished by Sir Richard Jessup and relayed to the Yard by Madden, this latest development had spurred Chubb to summon the detectives involved to his office for a council of war.

  ‘We’ve got to put a stop to this nonsense,’ he had declared. ‘We’re being led by the nose and I won’t have it. I’ve sent a telegram to Hong Kong asking for confirmation of what Jessup told Madden, not that I doubt it. I think Wing’s here in London, all right, and it’s odds on he’s the one behind this. I want him found, and quick. How’s the photo lab doing with that picture Jessup’s office sent us this morning?’

  ‘We’ve got a shot of Wing’s face ready to be copied and distributed.’ It was Billy who replied. ‘I’ve already put his name out and I’ve asked for a check on all hotels and boarding-houses. But if the Triads are after him, it’s likely he’s travelling under a false name. If he is—if he’s using a forged passport—that’s an offence and we can detain him. Otherwise we’ve nothing to hold him on for the moment. We could still take his prints though. We’ve managed to lift several different sets from the photo. Some of them will belong to whoever handled it at the Mirror, but we might find Wing’s as well. If so, we can ask him what he’s up to. I think we should also get in touch with the Amsterdam police. If Jessup is right about the Triads possibly sending a killer from Holland, they might know something about it.’

  ‘I’ll see to that.’ Chubb had made a note. ‘As for the rest, this bloke Garner must be spoken to. I’ve already asked Hong Kong if they know anything about that woman he’s supposed to have beaten up. I’m still waiting for their reply. But I want the question of his alibi cleared up. If he satisfies us on that score we can cross him off the suspects’ list and Mr Wing may have to work a little harder to get our attention. Find out exactly where Garner is. If he’s still in Scotland, one of you will have to go up there and talk to him. I’m not prepared to wait any longer. Neither was the commissioner after he saw that photo in the Mirror. He sent word via Cradock this morning that we were to pull our fingers out; only he put it less politely.’

  It was following this meeting that Billy had made his call, and having finally located the man they wished to question, he had delayed only long enough to give Lily Poole her orders before setting off with Joe Grace to conduct their interview with Garner.

  ‘Portia’s not the only one without any clothes on,’ Grace remarked now. He was still peering at the photograph. ‘There’s a painting of a woman on the wall behind the bed. You can just make it out. She’s lying on her back.’

  ‘It’s a print of a famous painting by some Spaniard,’ Billy said. ‘The Nude Someone or Other. Lil told me she’d seen a re-production of it in a book. Maybe it was put there to lend a little atmosphere to the place. It looks to me like a tart’s bedroom.’

  ‘Borrowed for the occasion, you mean?’ Joe was intrigued.

  ‘That’s my guess.’

  ‘Do you reckon he’s seen it?’ Grace tapped the photograph with his finger. They were approaching Hyde Park Corner, only minutes away from Garner’s house, which was situated in a street off Park Lane bordering on Shepherd Market.

  ‘I shouldn’t think so.’ Billy grimaced. ‘He drove down from Scotland and only got home late last night. Somehow I doubt he has the Daily Mirror delivered to his doorstep.’

  ‘You didn’t mention it when you called?’

  ‘I think I woke him up. I just told him we wanted to speak to him. He tried to put me off, said he had an engagement this morning, but I told him it was urgent and couldn’t wait.’

  ‘Do we hit him hard?’ Grace asked. ‘We could just shove this under his nose and ask him if the bloke in the bed is him. If he’s still half asleep we might catch him napping.’

  Billy shook his head. ‘I’m going to take him back to the day when Portia was killed. I’ll tell him we’re checking
on everyone’s movements, and that includes his alibi. Depending on how he answers, we can ask him about that girl in Hong Kong. We’ll save the photograph till last.’

  Billy glanced at his colleague. Lean, narrow-eyed and with a pock-marked face that would have sat well on an axe murderer, Joe Grace was one of the Met’s most experienced detectives; more to the point, he could also be one of the most disagreeable when it came to dealing with anyone he regarded as a less than truthful witness, which Rex Garner might well prove to be, Billy thought, having already had a sharp exchange with the fellow on the phone a little earlier; especially if it turned out that he had lied about his alibi.

  • • •

  ‘Let me say at once that I resent this intrusion, Inspector. You’ve no right to barge in here with hardly a by-your-leave and start firing questions at me for no good reason. I intend to have a word with your superiors. I warn you now I’m not without friends in high places.’

  If Rex Garner was trying to present a threatening front, he was making a poor job of it, Billy thought. Still in his pyjamas and wearing a silk dressing-gown and felt slippers, he looked like a man who had just been dragged from his bed to answer the doorbell; and given that he had probably gone back to sleep after being woken by the call he’d received earlier, that might well have been the case. His lank dark hair was uncombed, and although he had the kind of good looks that the newspapers liked to compare with a matinee idol’s, his bloodshot eyes were bleary and his cheeks unshaven. Nor had he improved the impression he was making on the two detectives when, having led the way into his drawing-room, he had poured himself a whisky and then sat down heavily in an armchair. Joe Grace had glanced ostentatiously at his watch. It was barely eleven o’clock.

  ‘I know that the investigation into the murder of Miss Blake is being reviewed. I saw something about it in a newspaper up in Scotland. But I can’t imagine why.’

  His face set in a belligerent expression, Garner swallowed a mouthful of neat whisky. His gaze moved restlessly about the room, which was large and airy with tall sash windows giving out onto the street and a ceiling higher than most, which afforded space for a handsome wooden staircase at the back of the room which led up to a gallery lined with books. Despite its elegant appearance, however, there were abundant signs of neglect all about them. Magazines and old newspapers lay strewn around along with ashtrays that must have remained uncleared for weeks, given that Garner had returned only the night before. A thin patina of dust dulled the polished surface of a sun-bathed table near the window.

  ‘There’s certainly nothing I can tell you. I was nowhere near Foxley Hall when the girl was murdered. As I told the police at the time, I was in Canterbury for most of that day.’

  ‘Lunching with a friend?’ Billy asked. Yet to be invited to sit down, he and Grace had settled for standing side by side in front of Garner, only a step or two away from him.

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘Could you give us his name, please?’

  ‘His name?’ Garner flushed. ‘Of course I can give you his name. But I don’t see why I should. I was interviewed by the police years ago and they were perfectly satisfied with the answers I gave them then.’

  ‘His name, if you don’t mind, sir.’ Billy held the other’s gaze.

  ‘I do bloody mind. His name was Peter Carrick.’

  ‘And he can confirm that you had lunch together that day?’

  ‘I rather doubt it. Poor old Peter didn’t survive the war. His plane was shot down over Germany. He was a bomber pilot.’

  Garner’s lips twitched in a near smile. He seemed to feel he had scored a point.

  ‘What was he doing down in Kent that week-end?’

  ‘What was he doing . . . ?’ The blood returned in a rush to Garner’s cheeks.

  ‘How is it you two came to meet for lunch in Canterbury on a Sunday? Is that where he lived?’

  ‘My God you’ve got a nerve! Are you accusing me of lying?’

  The man seemed intent on working himself up into a fury, but Billy wasn’t impressed—and neither, he saw out of the corner of his eye, was Joe Grace. The sergeant’s thin lips were drawn back over his teeth. The effect was wolf-like.

  ‘No, I’m simply asking you questions, Mr Garner, the same questions that everyone who was staying at Sir Jack Jessup’s house that week-end will be required to answer. We need to trace people’s movements that Sunday afternoon. This is normal police procedure. If Carrick wasn’t one of Sir Jack Jessup’s houseguests, what was he doing down there?’

  ‘His people have a place nearby.’ Garner was breathing heavily. ‘He was spending the week-end with them and we agreed to meet in Canterbury. I rang Mrs Castleton to tell her I wouldn’t be back for lunch. If she hasn’t confirmed that yet I’m sure she will.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Billy took out his pad and made a note in it. Garner watched him with narrowed eyes.

  ‘Will that be all?’ he asked.

  ‘Not quite.’ Billy put his pad away. ‘I’ve got a more general question for you now. How well did you know Miss Blake?’

  ‘How well . . . ?’ Like a cartoon character, Garner’s face seemed to inflate with renewed rage. ‘I barely knew the woman: that’s to say I had run into her once or twice during the summer. She was always with that Chinaman, or whatever he is.’

  ‘You’re referring to Mr Stanley Wing?’

  ‘You know bloody well I am.’

  ‘With whom you were also acquainted?’

  ‘What of it?’

  ‘Has he been in touch with you recently?’

  ‘The man’s in prison, for Christ’s sake. Don’t you even know that?’

  ‘Are you sure you’ve had no communication with him?’

  ‘Quite sure.’ Garner mopped his sweating brow with the sleeve of his dressing-gown.

  Billy took out his pad again and made a further note.

  ‘We’ve been given an account of the dinner that took place on the evening before Miss Blake was murdered. Can you explain why she behaved in the way she did?’

  ‘Of course I can’t bloody explain.’ The bloodshot eyes bulged. ‘She was putting on some kind of act; don’t ask me why.’

  ‘An act that was directed at you, it seems. Or so we’ve been told. According to one account, she appeared to be trying to embarrass you. Would you agree?’

  ‘I don’t know what she was doing. And no, I wasn’t embarrassed, I was just annoyed. I didn’t know what had got into her.’

  ‘Was that why you decided to absent yourself from lunch the next day? Was it because you didn’t want to have to sit through the same performance again?’

  Garner glared at them, but said nothing.

  ‘Turning to another matter now . . .’ Billy consulted his notepad. ‘Could you tell us about the incident that took place in Hong Kong some years earlier—it was well before the war—involving you and a Chinese girl? Apparently you assaulted her—so badly that the affair had to be hushed up and you were sent home at once.’

  Garner swallowed. He had turned pale.

  ‘We’d like to hear your account of that incident. Also, could you tell us what happened to the girl? Did she recover from the attack?’

  ‘Of all the damned nerve . . . !’ Garner found his tongue. But the sudden look of panic Billy saw in his eyes spoke louder than words. ‘I want you both out of here. Now!’

  Billy ignored the outburst.

  ‘And there’s one final matter we need to raise with you. Did you see today’s Daily Mirror? No? It carried a photograph on the front page.’

  He nodded to Grace, who produced the snapshot with a flourish and thrust it in front of the seated man’s face.

  ‘Recognize anyone?’ The sergeant bared his teeth in earnest.

  Garner’s jaw dropped. Unable to disguise his astonishment, he stared transfixed at the p
hotograph.

  ‘That’s your friend Miss Blake sitting there.’ Grace’s grin suggested he was enjoying himself. ‘But who’s the bloke in the bed behind her? That’s what we want to know. Any ideas?’

  Seemingly struck dumb, Garner’s eyes remained fixed on the glossy print. Twice he opened his mouth as though to speak, but each time he closed it without uttering a word. Finally he tore his gaze from the photograph. The two detectives watched as he fumbled for the whisky bottle beside him. He filled his glass with a shaking hand.

  ‘I refuse to answer any more questions.’ He sat blinking. His gaze had lost focus.

  Billy cocked his head on one side. He wasn’t sure what to make of the man’s reaction. He studied the slumped figure in front of him.

  ‘Do you know that room?’ he asked.

  ‘What . . . ?’ Garner awoke from his reverie. ‘No!’ He half shouted the word.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t recognize it . . . that painting on the wall behind the bed? You can tell us if you were ever there with Miss Blake. You can admit it. It doesn’t mean you killed her. We know she had a lot of men friends.’

  Swallowing the last of his whisky, Garner grasped the arms of his chair. He rose unsteadily to his feet, forcing them to shuffle backwards.

  ‘I’ve already told you: I won’t answer any more questions.’ He stood swaying before them. ‘I want you to leave.’

  ‘Fine. But I ought to explain something first. We’ve been looking at this case again, going through all the statements, reviewing the evidence. And if we were wrong first time round, if Miss Blake’s killer got away with it, then I have to tell you that the facts we’re collecting now seem to point to you as a possible suspect. Unless you’re willing to answer our questions honestly, unless you’re prepared to clear the air, then the next time we question you it will be under caution, and if you refuse to answer, you may find yourself facing charges of obstructing the police and perverting the course of justice. Do you understand?’