by Jim Eldridge
‘Is he going to live?’
Meek hesitated. ‘To be honest, it’s too early to say. He’s very weak. As you may know, pneumonia fills the lungs with fluid, and pleurisy adds more fluid in the pleural cavity outside the lungs. When you add in bronchitis, all three make breathing a very painful process and cuts down the amount of oxygen circulating in the body, which, in turn, affects the heart.’ He gave an apologetic smile. ‘I’m sorry if this sounds like a medical lecture, but I think you ought to know the reality of the situation.’
‘Yes,’ nodded Sarah. ‘Should I stay here the night? In case …’
‘It’s hard to say, Mrs Stark. At the moment he’s sleeping and comfortable. The testing time will come in the small hours of the morning. That’s when the body’s at its weakest. But, in your husband’s case, it’s hard to predict. What I will say is that he’s one of the most stubborn men I’ve ever treated. To be frank, I would have expected him to be dead after what he’s gone through, but he refuses to die. He must have very strong willpower.’
You can say that again, thought Stark.
‘My advice is for you to go home and get some rest. If there is any change, we have your telephone number.’
‘Thank you,’ said Sarah.
‘Can I also give you my telephone number at work,’ said Stark. ‘I’ll telephone to see how he is in the morning, but this is in case you need to get in touch tomorrow.’
He handed the doctor one of his cards. Meek glanced at it and was about to put it in his pocket when he stopped and read it again. ‘Of course! Chief Inspector Stark! You’re the man who saved the life of the King!’
‘I’m afraid the newspapers exaggerated my role in the situation,’ said Stark apologetically.
‘Nevertheless, that was a very courageous thing you did. It must have been nerve-wracking.’
Stark was tempted to say not as nerve-wracking as four years in the Flanders trenches, but he bit his tongue. ‘Thank you for all you are doing for my father, Doctor,’ he said. ‘We’ll be in touch in the morning.’
FOURTEEN
Stark made his telephone call to the hospital as soon as he woke at six the next morning, and was able to tell his mother that Henry had had a comfortable night.
‘Though the hospital’s idea of a comfortable night can be different from the patient’s,’ he added, remembering his own painful time in hospital recovering from the wounds he’d received in the war.
While Sarah made breakfast, Stark went next door to collect Stephen from Mrs Pierce’s house, where he’d spent the night sharing a bed with her six-year-old son, Eric.
‘He kept having these dreams and kicking me all night,’ grumbled Stephen.
‘Don’t worry, you can sleep in your own bed tonight,’ Stark promised him.
‘Will Grandad be home tonight?’ asked Stephen.
Stark and his mother exchanged glances, then Stark said, ‘Even if he isn’t, one of us will be at home with you tonight.’
When Stark’s car arrived to take him to Scotland Yard at half past eight, he announced, ‘We’ll drop you off at school first, Stephen, and then I’ll take your grandma to the hospital.’
‘I can walk there,’ said Sarah. ‘It ain’t far.’
‘I’ve got the car,’ said Stark. ‘Let’s use it.’
‘But it’s an official car,’ Sarah pointed out.
‘And I’m going to Scotland Yard on official business, and on the way I’m calling in at the hospital to see how Dad is. So, you might as well come with me.’
‘Huh, you’re as pig-headed as your dad,’ grumbled his mother.
Stephen beamed. ‘The other kids will be so jealous when I turn up in a police car!’
The latest report on Henry, when they got to University College Hospital, was the same as earlier that morning: Henry had had a comfortable night.
‘Can I see him?’ asked Sarah.
The nurse at the reception desk pointed at the notice listing visiting hours: ten to ten thirty, three till four and seven till eight in the evening. It was now ten to nine.
‘I’ll wait,’ said Sarah, and she headed for the wooden bench where she and Stark had sat the night before. Stark followed her and offered her five shillings.
‘What’s this for?’ she asked, looking suspiciously at the coins in his hand.
‘So you can get a taxi home. There are always taxis outside.’
She shook her head. ‘I’ll walk,’ she said.
‘It’s over a mile,’ he pointed out.
‘That’s nothing,’ she said. ‘What do you think we did before you had money for taxis? I walked everywhere.’
‘Yes, but you were younger then.’
‘I can still walk as far as you can.’
Stark sighed and put the coins back in his pocket. ‘You’re as stubborn as Dad,’ he said.
‘And don’t you forget it,’ said Sarah.
Stark accepted defeat and returned to the waiting car.
‘Trouble, sir?’ asked the driver, Joe Brown, nodding at the hospital.
‘Always,’ said Stark with a sigh.
Stark sat at his desk, reading through the notes he’d made on the case.
‘Gallipoli’s the motive,’ Churchill had said. Could there be something in that? Fairfax had received death threats because of what had happened at Gallipoli, though not for well over a year. But people with a burning desire for revenge had long memories. The problem was that those threatening letters had been destroyed; any evidence to identify potential vengeful assassins had gone.
There was Lady Ambleton, of course, whose husband had been killed at Gallipoli. What was it that actor chap, Coward, had said of her? ‘If I had a suspicious mind, there’s someone I’d be taking a close interest in with relation to the poor dear departed Lord Fairfax. Beneath that elegant exterior, absolutely ruthless … And reflect on the black widow spider who kills her spouse after mating.’
Was it possible that Lady Ambleton had been involved? There would have been no need for any break-in; she would have been admitted to the flat by Fairfax.
He shook his head. No, it was too convenient.
The office door opened and Danvers entered. ‘Good morning, sir.’ He looked at the clock, which showed ten past nine. ‘Sorry I’m late, sir. I’ve been trying to get hold of my sister, but she’s not taking my telephone calls. I think she suspects my parents have asked me to talk to her about Edgar Cavendish. However, I did talk to my father.’
‘And?’
‘Lord Fairfax was in the same area of France, and at about the same time as Carl Adams was at Belleau Wood. So it’s quite possible they met there.’
‘The link,’ nodded Stark. ‘But why would they be meeting up now? Carl Adams deliberately sought out Fairfax.’
‘Was Lord Fairfax’s man, Redford, able to throw any light on why they met?’
‘No,’ said Stark. ‘But I then went on to call on Lady Ambleton.’
Stark produced the piece of notepaper he’d taken from Lady Ambleton’s hall table and passed it to Danvers. Danvers frowned, then went to the evidence file and took out the anonymous letter.
‘Yes, I’ve checked. The handwriting’s the same,’ said Stark.
‘But why would she do that?’ asked Danvers, puzzled.
‘Jealousy,’ said Stark. ‘Apparently, she hated Lady Amelia and resented the fact that Lord Fairfax still harboured feelings for her.’
The shrill ringing of the telephone broke their thoughtful mood. Stark picked up the phone. ‘DCI Stark.’
‘Paul, it’s Billy Hammond from Finsbury Park.’
‘Yes, sir. What can I do for you?’
‘You can start by cutting the “sir”,’ said Hammond.
‘You are my superior officer, Superintendent,’ Stark pointed out.
‘In this case, Paul, I’m calling as an old friend. I’ve got a problem I’d like to run past you.’
‘What is it?’
‘It’s a murder, and on the surface it look
s clear-cut. We’ve got the man who’s supposed to have done it in custody, we had a witness … but there’s something that hits me as not quite right.’
‘In what way?’
‘I’d rather tell you about it face to face,’ said Hammond.
The telephone operator, realized Stark. All telephone calls went through one of many switchboards spread around London, and it was well known that switchboard operators often listened in to telephone calls, usually for their own amusement and to pick up titbits of information and gossip, some of which they might be able to sell to the newspapers.
Stark hesitated. ‘I’ve got a big case on at the moment, Billy …’
‘I know. Lord Fairfax and the American. I wouldn’t bother you but I’m sitting on a bit of a powder keg with this one, Paul. There’s been a lot of trouble on the streets lately, and I’m worried it could all erupt into a large-scale riot if I make the wrong move.’
‘I’ll be there shortly.’
‘Thanks.’
Stark hung up. ‘That was Superintendent Hammond at Finsbury Park. He wants to see me about something.’
‘To do with this case?’
‘I don’t know. But if Superintendent Benson asks where I am, tell him we think it may be.’ He hesitated, wondering whether to bring Danvers into the situation with his father, but then decided he couldn’t avoid it if things went wrong. ‘The other thing is, my father was taken into hospital last night.’
‘Something serious, sir?’
‘Pleurisy, pneumonia and bronchitis.’ Stark saw Danvers blanch at this, and nodded. ‘Yes, it’s not good. They removed fluid from his lungs, but they’re keeping him in. I’m only telling you in case the hospital telephone for me while I’m out.’
‘I’ll take a message.’
‘They might not leave one, if it’s … bad news. Just give them the telephone number at Finsbury Park.’
‘Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir. If there’s anything I can do …’
‘Just hold the fort until I get back. Go through everything we’ve got again – all the notes, all the gossip we’ve picked up. We’re still trying to find out which one of them was the real target. And get in touch with the War Office and see if they ever had any threatening letters about Gallipoli.’
‘Gallipoli, sir?’
‘Yes. Remember, Churchill said that he believed the reason for the murders was revenge for the disaster at Gallipoli. That he and Fairfax had both received death threats. Redford confirmed that Fairfax had received death threats over it, but not for eighteen months. And all the ones he’d received had been destroyed. There’s a chance that whoever wrote to him may also have written to the War Office expressing their anger, and the War Office usually keeps every bit of paper that comes into it.’
‘Right, sir,’ said Danvers.
‘One word of warning, Sergeant. If my experience earlier is anything to go by, trying to get the War Office to cooperate with us on this will be like getting blood out of a stone. It’s highly likely they’ll refuse to admit that there even was a battle at Gallipoli.’
‘I’ll do my best, sir,’ Danvers promised.
In the car on the way to Finsbury Park, Stark thought about Billy Hammond. He and Hammond went way back. Hammond had been newly promoted to inspector at Camden Town station when Stark joined the force as a trainee copper. He’d been tough, but fair. Too fair for some who’d made a tidy sum taking bribes from thieves to avoid them being arrested, before Hammond stepped in. Taking bribes was banned. Anyone found doing it would be sacked – and also prosecuted. At first some of the older hands thought it was just a bluff, the new inspector throwing his weight about, or maybe doing it to get a slice of the action. They were wrong, and as some of those older hands left, or took early retirement, the nature of Camden Town station changed. They were thief-takers again. People who stopped crime, not those who took part in it.
Soon, Hammond’s reputation grew. He was promoted again: chief inspector. But just when it seemed he would be moving to the hallowed halls of Scotland Yard, his career seemed to stall. Stark was one of the few who knew the reason. Hammond had caught a superintendent out in a corruption scandal, and tried to have him jailed. To the top brass, jailing a senior officer was unthinkable. It was one thing to dismiss lowly constables caught with their fingers in the till – it showed the police were taking action to root out the rotten apples in the force – but to prosecute a superintendent could ruin the reputation of the Metropolitan Police in the eyes of the public. And so the superintendent retired ‘due to ill health’, and Hammond was given a promotion, this one to superintendent of the North London Division, and based at Finsbury Park. It was as far as they could move him away from the centre of the action at Scotland Yard and still keep him in the boundaries of the Metropolitan area.
Hammond had accepted his fate. He wanted to be a policeman, a good policeman. Being a policeman, guarding society, he’d told his younger officers like Paul Stark, was the best job in the world. You protected the weak.
The force needed more officers like Billy Hammond at its heart in Scotland Yard, reflected Stark. But the powers-that-be weren’t keen on mavericks who didn’t toe the party line. Maybe that’s what lies in store for me, thought Stark. Superintendent in some remote part of London bordering on the countryside. Well, maybe that wouldn’t be too bad. A whole new life with Stephen, and possibly Amelia.
He shook his head. Get real, Paul, he told himself bitterly.
Billy Hammond greeted him warmly as he stepped into Finsbury Park police station. ‘I’m glad you could make it,’ he said.
‘It sounds very mysterious,’ said Stark. ‘What’s the issue?’
‘Let’s take a walk,’ said Hammond. ‘We can talk outside.’
Stark followed Hammond out of the building and waited until they were strolling along the High Street before he asked, ‘Trouble in the station?’
‘I don’t know,’ admitted Hammond. He took a copy of the Daily Target from his coat pocket and passed it to Stark. ‘I don’t know if you’ve seen this?’
Stark shook his head. ‘It’s a paper I do my best to avoid. Gossip, lies, half-truths and hate-filled propaganda wrapped up in a Union Jack.’
‘True. And today it’s anti-Jewish.’ He gestured at the paper. ‘Page two. A man called Israel Rothstein, a Jewish factory owner who the Target says brutally murdered a hard-working trade union official.’
Stark opened the newspaper and scanned the story. ‘The Target taking the side of a trade unionist? Isn’t that supporting Bolshevism in their eyes?’
‘The Target uses whatever it wants to keep its message emotive,’ said Hammond. ‘Mr Rothstein is the owner of a small clothing firm who’s supposed to have beaten a trade union official to death.’
As they walked, Stark read the report. According to the newspaper, Israel Rothstein, the Jewish owner of a clothing factory, had been heard having a fierce argument with a popular trade union official called Harry Jukes. The argument had got violent, and Rothstein had beaten Harry Jukes to death with a heavy iron doorstop. A witness who’d heard the argument had called the police, and when the beat constable arrived on the scene, he found Jukes dead, his head bashed in, and Rothstein unconscious, the bloodstained doorstop clutched in his hand. The constable presumed that Jukes had managed to get in one final blow that knocked Rothstein out, before collapsing and dying from his injuries.
‘Who was this witness?’ asked Stark, handing the newspaper back to Hammond.
‘He was a tramp who said he’d gone into the factory to get warm. He said he didn’t see the fight, but he heard it. Rothstein and Jukes shouting at one another in the office, and then he heard what sounded like a fight break out. So he left the factory and found a beat copper and told him what was going on.
‘The beat constable went with the tramp into the factory and into Rothstein’s office, where they found Jukes dead and Rothstein lying in a daze on the floor.
‘The constable went to get help, a
nd the tramp scarpered. The constable guessed he didn’t want to get involved. Tramps do their best to avoid getting involved with the law.’
‘But he made sure he got the law involved before he vanished.’
Hammond nodded. ‘Exactly. It’s all too pat. And it’s not just this case. There’s been some stirring up lately – having a go at Jews locally. Attacks on their shops, that sort of thing.’
‘Organized?’
‘Have you ever heard of an outfit called the British Union of Patriots?’
Stark frowned. ‘Not before yesterday. Why? Do you think they’re behind these attacks?’
‘They’ve started to be active in the area, holding meetings, mainly about how the Jews are taking over everything. Officially, they’re just another political outfit, like the communists, but they’re a bit more rabble-rousing.’
‘More rabble-rousing than the communists?’ queried Stark with a smile.
‘Yes, all right,’ said Hammond ruefully. ‘We’ve all heard the speeches about the revolution and blood in Park Lane. But this BUP lot seem more targeted.’
‘Against Jews?’
‘Jews. Chinese. Anyone who’s not British.’
‘Most Jews are British. They’ve been here for years.’
‘True, but since the revolution in Russia there have been a lot more arriving. And, of course, they move into areas where there are already plenty of Jews.’
‘I’m still not sure how I can help in this case,’ said Stark doubtfully. ‘I’m guessing, as we’re walking, it’s something to do with the station.’
Hammond nodded. ‘My gut feeling is that the clothing firm owner has been set up. The question is, is anyone inside the station a part of it?’
‘The beat constable?’
‘Constable Danny Fields,’ Hammond nodded. ‘The business of the tramp is too pat. I’m not saying it’s not possible – tramps disappear all the time. But there was something about Fields when I asked him for his report – something in his manner – that made me wonder if there wasn’t something more going on.
‘The thing is, Paul, Harry Jukes, the trade union bloke who was killed, was very popular around here. If I do the wrong thing, we could end up with riots in the streets, either from angry Jews or from an angry mob who hate Jews looking for vengeance.’