The Death of Kings

by Rennie George Airth

  ‘But can we be sure that this man Wing won’t do the same thing now that he has them in his hands?’ Cradock scowled.

  ‘Not a hundred percent certain, sir. But we’re inclined to doubt it. Wing’s at the point where he’ll have to put pressure on his victim. He’s running out of time. The longer this game goes on, the more danger he’s in from his Triad friends. I’d expect him to get in touch with Garner directly and let him know he has the pictures in his possession. He might even send him one or two of the choicer items. I mean those with his face clearly shown in it.’

  ‘And what are we going to do in the meantime?’ The AC seemed to be spoiling for a fight that morning. ‘Just sit on our hands?’

  ‘Not at all, sir.’ Chubb’s tone remained soothing. ‘We’re in a position to threaten Garner with arrest now, even if we haven’t got enough to charge him with as yet. We know that he lied to us about his alibi. Styles and Grace are both of the opinion that he’s close to cracking. He’s got a meeting set with Sir Richard Jessup this evening, one he asked for. It could be crucial. Jessup’s promised to let us know what passes between them.’

  ‘He’ll get in touch with you, will he?’

  Chubb coughed. ‘No, actually, it’s Mr Madden he’s promised to telephone.’

  ‘Madden again!’ The tip of the AC’s nose turned red. ‘I thought he’d agreed to leave this inquiry to those whose job it is to deal with it. Now you tell me he’s meddling again . . .’

  ‘He’s not meddling, sir,’ Billy broke in hotly. ‘He’s trying to help. The only reason we are where we are is because of the trouble he’s gone to on Mr Sinclair’s behalf. He’s given us invaluable information, and most of it has come from Sir Richard Jessup, who obviously trusts him. That’s what’s got us where we are. If it wasn’t for the two of them—Sir Richard and Mr Madden—we’d still be floundering.’

  ‘All right, Inspector . . .’ Chubb made a calming gesture. ‘Keep your hair on.’

  Cradock glowered at Billy. For a moment it seemed that he might react. Instead he turned to Chubb.

  ‘What do you plan to do now, Chief Superintendent? The commissioner will want to know.’

  ‘Keep looking for Wing, sir. We’ve sent copies of his photograph to all the police stations in the Metropolitan area along with the two names, either of which he may be using. I’m hoping we’ll have him in custody soon.’

  ‘What about Garner?’

  ‘Depending on what Jessup has to tell us, I plan to call on him first thing tomorrow morning with DS Grace.’ It was Billy who replied. He’d had time to cool down. ‘He’ll be asked to explain why he gave us a false alibi for the day Portia Blake was murdered. Unless he can provide a satisfactory answer, we’ll bring him in for questioning.’

  Cradock muttered something unintelligible. He glared at them both.

  ‘Well, I only hope you know what you’re doing . . . both of you. But I’m warning you again—I want to see some action. So does the commissioner. This business has dragged on long enough.’

  • • •

  ‘Someone got out of bed on the wrong side this morning.’ Chubb chuckled. ‘And someone else has been twisting his tail. . . . The commissioner, I expect. But Cradock’s got a point. Even if we can’t charge Garner in the end—we may have to accept that there simply isn’t enough evidence to convict him—we have to find Wing, and quickly. If the Triads get too close to him he may well throw in the towel and skip the country.’

  Billy’s grunt was non-committal. They were walking down the corridor away from the AC’s office and they went on in silence until they came to the door to Chubb’s office. There the chief super paused.

  ‘I was expecting to hear a little speech from you, Inspector.’ He shot a sly glance at Billy. ‘I thought we’d get a few words from you on the subject of Detective-Constable Poole and her latest contribution to the investigation. Mind you, I don’t mind admitting that was a smart bit of work she did yesterday, putting it all together after she’d spoken to the girl.’ He shook his head ruefully. ‘It’s not a gift everyone has. Most of us have to sweat out the details and then try to make sense of them. But now and again you come across someone who seems to sense how the dots are joined up. John Madden had that gift, I remember.’ He peered at Billy. ‘Why didn’t you say something when you had the chance? You should have spoken up.’

  ‘Not with Cradock in that mood.’ Billy growled. ‘It would have been a waste of breath. But I mean to see that her work gets recognized. When this is over I’m going to write her up for another commendation. She’s already earned it.’

  ‘Good.’ Chubb nodded approvingly. ‘And while you’re at it, you might recommend her for sergeant again. You were right—we’ve got too many idle DCs around here working out their pensions. It might be time to throw a cat among the pigeons.’ He frowned. ‘What’s she doing now?’

  ‘I sent her out to Brent Cross this afternoon. We had a report from the police there that an oriental answering to Wing’s description had been reported staying in a local boarding-house. He moved out a few days ago, but he’s been seen since in the same general area and I thought we’d better check it. Even if he doesn’t know yet that the Triads are looking for him here, it’s likely he’ll stay away from the city centre. I haven’t heard from Lil, but I’ll be seeing her later this evening. We’re having supper with Mr Madden in St John’s Wood. Depending on what he hears later from Sir Richard Jessup, I might have some news for you tomorrow.’

  • • •

  Lily checked her wristwatch.

  It had just gone nine o’clock. She wondered how much longer they would have to wait. What time did nobs sit down to dinner? (She was thinking of Sir Richard and his guest.) Surely later than she was used to doing. Left to her own devices, Lily usually had something to eat soon after she got home to her flat in St Pancras, which was around six o’clock as a rule, unless she was kept late at the Yard. It was the same when she went over to Paddington to see Aunt Betty and Uncle Fred, the couple who had raised her after she had lost both her parents, one to a bullet in the trenches, the other to the influenza epidemic that had swept the world in the wake of the Great War. Aunt Betty always had them sit down at six-thirty on the dot for what she called either supper or high tea, depending on her mood. Here, as guests of Madden and his daughter, they had eaten at half past seven. But whether this was the family’s normal practice or done as a favour to their two visitors, it was impossible to say. Nothing about the evening had been familiar to Lily. She had seldom felt more out of her element, but the funny thing was she had enjoyed every moment of it.

  It had started when she rang the doorbell . . .

  Knowing that she was late—Billy Styles had told her to be at St John’s Wood by six—Lily had been hurrying from the bus stop in the Finchley Road, where the ponderous double-decker she had caught at Marble Arch had deposited her. Behind her was a largely wasted afternoon spent in the wilds of Brent Cross, one of the more distant London suburbs, near the end of the Edgware Line. It had taken her half an hour to get out there and the same amount of time to get back. In between she had been forced to spend a long afternoon following up a lead which in the end had yielded next to nothing in the way of useful information.

  Not that the local plod hadn’t been helpful: the station commander, a grey-haired Irishman, had detailed one of his PCs to accompany her to the boarding-house where Stanley Wing had, until recently, been staying.

  ‘You were right about him using the name Lee,’ he had told her. ‘That’s how we got onto him. He’d been staying there for a fortnight, according to the landlady. He couldn’t produce an identity card, naturally, but he showed her a passport when he registered and gave an address in Hong Kong. She never got a chance to chat with him, she said; he was hardly ever there and took all his meals out. About the only thing he told her was that he was in London on business and wasn’t planning to stay long.�
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  ‘What about the report that he’d been seen later in the same area?’ Lily had asked. ‘It might mean he’d just moved to another boarding-house. He wouldn’t want to remain in one place for too long.’

  ‘I thought of that.’ The commander had nodded sagely. ‘But we’ve already checked other boarding-houses and hotels and drawn a blank. If he is still hereabouts he’s probably found a room to rent. Mostly they’re advertised in tobacconists and newsagents, and we’re checking those. But there’s also word of mouth.’ He had shrugged. ‘We’re doing our best, but the last sighting we had of him, the one you’re talking about, happened a week ago, and for all we know he may have moved on since then.’

  Wing’s landlady, when Lily finally spoke to her, had little to add. Sharp-eyed and business-like—she seemed sure of her facts—she had described her erstwhile lodger as a ‘strange one’ but ‘no trouble at all’.

  ‘He was quiet as a mouse,’ she told Lily. ‘I can usually hear when anyone’s coming down the stairs and going out through the front door, but he used to slip by without a sound. He wouldn’t even stop for breakfast, and although I serve supper for them that want it, he was never here. You couldn’t tell what he was thinking, either. He’d look at me with those black eyes of his and I wouldn’t have the first idea of what was going on in his head.’

  She’d had no hesitation, however, in identifying Wing from the photograph she’d been shown and had added a crucial detail about his appearance which disposed of any doubt that might have remained in Lily’s mind.

  ‘He had a scar on his throat. I only saw it once. He used to try to hide it by wearing a scarf, which seemed an odd thing to do given this hot weather we’ve been having. But one morning he must have forgotten to put it on because when he went past me to the door I saw the mark. It looked like a nasty gash.’

  With nothing to show for her afternoon’s efforts other than this one small grain of information, and aware that she was a good half-hour late for her evening appointment, Lily had arrived hot and panting at the address she’d been given in St John’s Wood. Pausing only to run her fingers through her hair and button the blazer-type jacket she generally wore for work, she had pressed the doorbell . . .

  Rapid footsteps sounded from inside, and after only a moment the door was flung open. Expecting to see the tall figure of John Madden, Lily was confronted instead by a young woman about her own age wearing an apron and holding a bowl in the crook of her arm.

  ‘Excuse me, Miss . . .’ She had got no further.

  ‘Not Miss . . . Lucy.’

  ‘I’m sorry . . . ?’

  ‘That’s my name . . . Lucy. And you’re Lily . . . Lily Poole.’ A smile had illuminated the young woman’s face. ‘I know all about you. Angus is forever singing your praises.’

  ‘Angus . . . ?’ Lily wasn’t sure how to respond. But the young woman, who she’d guessed must be Madden’s daughter, was already stretching out a welcoming hand and she’d allowed herself to be drawn into the house.

  ‘I should have said Chief Inspector Angus Sinclair, formerly of the Metropolitan Police.’ Lucy Madden’s expression had become grave and her voice had dropped several registers as she intoned the solemn words. ‘But, you see, I’ve called him Angus since I was eighteen. It started when I joined the Wrens during the war. Daddy was shocked. He said I ought to be more respectful to my elders. But Angus insisted. In those days I was stationed at the Admiralty and he used to take me to lunch at The Savoy now and then. I loved it. It was the first time anyone had treated me like a grown-up.’

  She led Lily down a short passageway from the bare, uncarpeted hall.

  ‘I’m sorry the house looks so abandoned. It belonged to my great-aunt, but she died recently and it’s up for sale. Nearly all the furniture has gone. But we’ve still got chairs and a table in the kitchen. Daddy’s gone out with Billy to a pub round the corner. He said they were going to buy some bottles of beer but I expect it was because he wanted to talk to him about this case you’re all working on. I read in the paper this morning about that poor woman being murdered in her flat—the one Daddy went to see—and I wanted to hear what Billy had to say about it. But as soon as he arrived they decided they had to go out, and I’m sure it’s because they didn’t want me to hear what they said. It’s so frustrating . . .’

  They had reached the kitchen, where Lily had her first chance to study the golden-haired girl. She’d been told that Madden’s daughter was good looking, but she saw now that that was an understatement. ‘Stunner’ would have been closer to the mark.

  ‘I’m so pleased to meet you at last, Lily.’ The radiant smile had returned. ‘Can you help me choose something for supper? We’ve got all these tins’—Lucy waved her hands at the assortment of objects lined up on the kitchen table—‘which we simply have to get rid of before we move out. Actually, I shouldn’t even have mentioned them to you.’ She giggled. ‘They’re terribly illicit. Aunt Maud bought them off a spiv called Sid during the war—poor Sid, he ended up in jail—but never ate any of them except the caviar.’ She frowned. ‘We could have some of that I suppose . . .’

  ‘Caviar . . . ?’ Lily had only ever heard of the stuff.

  ‘Or perhaps not.’ Lucy shook her head. ‘I think it’s dreadfully over-rated . . . just, well . . . fishy. But we’ve got one tin of pheasant left, and some foie gras, which isn’t the best thing for one’s complexion, but never mind that, and an absolutely delicious Stilton which is sitting in the larder. What do you think?’

  She looked inquiringly at her guest. Then her expression changed.

  ‘What lovely eyes you’ve got, Lily.’

  ‘Me . . . eyes?’ Lily was struck dumb again.

  ‘You must do something with them.’

  ‘Do . . . ?’

  ‘Come on. This can wait.’

  Seizing her visitor by the hand, Lucy pulled her out of the kitchen and up an uncarpeted echoing flight of stairs to the landing above and from there to a bathroom. Positioning Lily in front of the mirror, she rummaged in a cloth bag standing on a table by the basin and brought out a stick of mascara.

  ‘Stand still,’ she commanded.

  Minutes had gone by. Madden’s daughter worked busily. Finished with the mascara, she fished out a compact from the bag. Lily felt the feather-light touch of a powder puff on her cheeks.

  ‘There, now . . . !’ Lucy had stood aside. Lily gazed at herself in the mirror.

  ‘Crikey!’ she said.

  ‘You see? All it takes is a touch here and there.’

  Lucy had put her face beside Lily’s and the two of them had gazed at the mirror together.

  ‘Your boyfriend will get a surprise.’ Lucy caught Lily’s eye in the mirror and smiled. ‘Have you got one?’

  ‘There’s a young copper stationed at Paddington nick.’ Lily couldn’t stop herself. She’d never come across anyone quite like Lucy Madden before. ‘I met him through my uncle Fred.’

  ‘And is he your boyfriend?’

  ‘He thinks he is.’

  ‘That’s the way to handle them.’ Lucy was warm in her approval. ‘Keep them guessing.’

  She cocked an ear.

  ‘I can hear Daddy’s voice. They must be back. We’d better go down.’

  • • •

  ‘So it all depends on what Rex Garner has to say for himself.’ Lucy Madden pondered the question. ‘He might just decide to confess. It could all be over this evening.’

  She turned her eager gaze on Lily.

  ‘But doesn’t it seem a little too easy to you?’ she asked.

  Lily awoke with a start. It had been a long day and after two glasses of wine (which was one more than she was used to drinking at any one time) she was starting to feel drowsy sitting there at the table.

  ‘Easy . . . ? I wouldn’t say that.’

  ‘Nor would I.’ Billy met Ma
dden’s glance and smiled. ‘I’ll let you into a secret, Lucy. As far as any copper is concerned, the easier the better. But I wouldn’t count on Mr Garner coming clean just like that. Chances are he’ll look for a way out. If he’s smart, which I don’t think he is, he’ll realize that we don’t have enough to charge him with as yet. Not on the Portia Blake murder, anyway. But there’s still that business in Hong Kong. That’s hanging fire . . .’

  Glancing at his watch, he shrugged.

  ‘Still, I wish they’d get a move on.’

  Supper was over and they had been sitting round the kitchen table for some time drinking coffee and sipping wine, waiting for the phone call that Madden was expecting. Initially reluctant—or seemingly so—to discuss the case, Billy had quickly yielded to the pressure which Lucy exerted on him, and which had begun after she witnessed the way her father greeted Lily Poole.

  ‘Billy’s been telling me about your work.’ Madden had shaken the young policewoman’s hand warmly. ‘He explained how you put the pieces together yesterday. You were right, of course. That’s what Miss Cooper failed to tell me when I spoke to her. She’s the one who had those negatives all the time. She must have pocketed them before Miss Blake’s sister came to collect her things. Poor woman: look what they brought her to in the end.’

  ‘What did Lily do?’ Lucy had pounced on her father’s words. ‘And why is she blushing like a beetroot?’

  ‘Oh, I can’t discuss that.’ Madden had adopted a distant air. ‘What I really want to do is hear Lily’s news.’ He had seated their guest at the table beside him. ‘Mr Sinclair will demand a full report. He hasn’t been able to get about for a while, as you probably know. I’ve had to be his eyes and ears.’

  ‘Billy . . . !’ Lucy had rounded on their other visitor. ‘I insist on being told. I’ve seen the Daily Mirror. I know all about the photographs.’

  ‘Sorry, luv.’ Billy had taken his cue from Madden. He contrived to appear regretful. ‘I’m afraid I can’t talk about it. Police business, you know . . .’

  ‘Police business! I’ve never heard anything so ridiculous. You know very well you’re going to tell me in the end, so stop teasing me, both of you.’