Constable Evans 02: Evan Help Us

by Rhys Bowen

  * * *

  Colonel Arbuthnot had lived in an anonymous brick building called Delaware Mansions in a not-so-fashionable part of Kensington that bordered on Notting Hill Gate.

  The caretaker was as colorless as the building. She was a thin, gaunt woman with a humorless face, and she was called, aptly, Mrs. Sharpe.

  “I don’t see that I can let you into the colonel’s apartment,” she said, sniffing with disapproval.

  Sergeant Watkins produced his badge. “North Wales police, Madam. We’re investigating the colonel’s murder,” he said.

  That had an instant effect. The woman’s eyes almost protruded as if she were a cartoon. “Murder? You’re telling me the old colonel has been murdered?” Evan noticed that the upper-class accent had disappeared in favor of good old-fashioned cockney. “Well, well. That’s a turn-up for the books. Who’d want to murder him?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to find out,” Sergeant Watkins said. “You probably know about his recent doings better than anybody.”

  “We passed the time of day as he went out,” Mrs. Sharpe said, guardedly, in case these policemen were hinting at more than that. “I felt sorry for the old chap. Nobody in the world, that’s what he always told me.”

  “So he had few visitors then?” Evan asked.

  “Few? I can’t remember any recently. He went out for his walk every morning, around the park, then he stopped to read the papers at the local library and came back in time for lunch. That was about it, really. Not much of a life, was it?”

  “He didn’t go out apart from that?”

  “He had lunch at his club sometimes, although he was telling me that it was hardly worth going there any more because all the old codgers were dead now. And he sometimes went to the pictures in the evenings.”

  “On his own?”

  “Who did he have to go with?” Mrs. Sharpe asked. “I’m sorry to hear he was murdered, but in a way it was a blessing in disguise, wasn’t it? He didn’t have much to live for.”

  “Do you think we could take a look at his room now?” Evan asked.

  “I can’t see what for,” Mrs. Sharpe said.

  “It might give us some clue about who could have killed him.”

  “Why, some madman, of course,” Mrs. Sharpe said angrily. “Who else would want to kill a harmless old man with no money?”

  “All the same, we might find something,” Evan insisted. “A letter from a distant relative, his bank book…”

  “I can tell you that he’s had no letters since last Christmas,” she said. “I know because I sort the post and put it in their cubbies.”

  And take a good snoop at it too, Evan thought.

  Obviously Watkins was sharing his frustration. “I don’t know why you’re being so difficult about this, Mrs. Sharpe. I can go to Scotland Yard and come back with a search warrant in fifteen minutes, but then we’re only wasting more time, aren’t we? So why don’t you just cooperate and give us the key to his room—unless you think you’ve got something to hide in any way?”

  That did the trick. “Me?” She drew herself up to her full height and looked down her beaky nose like a bird of prey. “Young man, I have never done anything against the law in my life. Here.” She stalked to a glass-fronted cabinet on the wall and almost flung a key at Watkins. “229. At the back on the second floor.”

  The hallways were unnaturally quiet. The carpet was threadbare and faded. There was an ancient lift with an open, wrought-iron cage, but they took the stairs and passed nobody. The colonel’s flat was at the back, facing onto the backs of other buildings, making it dark and dingy. No wonder the colonel had felt so alive when he came to Wales each summer.

  The living room was filled with good quality oak furniture—a big rolltop writing desk, a barley twist table and chairs, and an overstuffed leather club chair beside a gas fire. Mementoes of a life spent in the Orient were everywhere—a large bronze Buddha in one corner, a brass-topped coffee table with an oriental water pipe on it, a couple of mogul prints on the walls. On the mantelpiece and on top of the desk were old photos of handsome young men in tropical kit, tiger shoots, Indian palaces, and a large portrait photo of a very beautiful woman. The glass case on the wall was full of silver trophies.

  Everything was covered in a layer of dust.

  “That’s why she didn’t want us to see the room,” Evan muttered. “She was probably supposed to clean it while he was away and didn’t think he’d be back for a while.”

  Watkins opened the rolltop desk. “Alright,” he said. “Let’s get down to work. I’ll go through the cubbies and the drawers. You look through the kitchen and bedroom for any correspondence or anything else of interest.”

  The desk was in immaculate order. So were the kitchen and the bedroom. There was a wall calendar of glorious Britain above the fridge, with the weeks in Wales highlighted. The bedside table contained only a book on the history of the Gurkha regiment and a tin of extra strong peppermints. The closet was almost empty. The colonel had taken his meager wardrobe with him.

  Evan came back into the living room. “Nothing in there, sarge.”

  “Not much in here, either. No hidden fortunes turning up. Did you try the mattress?”

  “No, but I could. Somehow I don’t think the colonel would be stupid enough to put money where old Mrs. Sharp-Eyes could spot it.”

  “That’s probably true enough. I bet she has a good snoop at everything. And she’d love to be part of a murder investigation too. She’s the kind that likes to feel important. So if she’s got nothing to tell us, then there is nothing to tell.”

  “Poor old chap,” Evan said, taking out an envelope that contained Christmas cards. “Only five Christmas cards and one of those was from an army benevolent association. There don’t appear to be any disgruntled relatives waiting in the wings, do there?”

  “If there are, they don’t keep in touch with him. Look, here’s his address book.” He flipped through it. Most of the names were crossed out.

  “Here’s his appointment book,” Watkins said, taking out a slim black leather diary. “I don’t suppose there’s much in it either, but you might take a look.”

  The diary was almost empty. It confirmed what Mrs. Sharpe had said. The colonel hardly ever went out or entertained. Then an entry, pencilled in tiny, neat script, caught his eye.

  “Hey, look at this, sarge,” Evan said. “Cynthia, eight P.M. Taffy’s. And here it is again in March. And in April. He had a date with this Cynthia once a month.”

  “A young relative, maybe?”

  “She didn’t send him a Christmas card.”

  “It’s worth checking out. We’ll have to find out where this Taffy’s is. Some kind of Welsh restaurant maybe. Something Welsh anyway, with a name like that.”

  Mrs. Sharpe stuck her head out of her door as they went past. “Find anything interesting?” she asked.

  “Did the colonel ever mention anyone called Cynthia?”

  “Cynthia? That wasn’t his wife’s name, was it? No, that was Joanie. He talked about Joanie all the time. I can’t say I ever remember Cynthia. He told me they had a daughter who died out in the East long ago.”

  “No, this person was alive last month,” Evan said. “Thanks for your help, Mrs. Sharpe. We might be in touch again, and you can call us if you remember anything at all that might be important.”

  “Oh, and don’t touch anything in the colonel’s flat, will you,” Sergeant Watkins added. “We might need to take fingerprints, so make sure you don’t dust.”

  He couldn’t resist giving Evan a grin as they went out into the street.

  “Here’s a phone booth,” Evan said. “Let’s look up this Taffy’s. It’s a good place to start.”

  “Not there,” Watkins said, a few minutes later. “Either it’s not in London or they don’t need to advertise. We’re coming up against more than our share of dead ends here. I hope this trip doesn’t turn out to be a complete waste of time, or I’ll have the D.I. yelli
ng that I’ve used police funds for nothing.”

  “Not too many police funds, judging by that hotel,” Evans said. “I think we should go to Scotland Yard and see what they’ve got on Ted Morgan.”

  “Okay with me. Let’s get a taxi this time. My feet are already killing me.”

  Soon they were crawling along Church Street in stop-and-go traffic.

  “It would have been quicker to take the tube,” Watkins sighed.

  “Traffic’s bad these days, even at weekends,” the cabbie said. “Too many bloody tourists. Where are you gentlemen from?”

  “Wales.”

  “I thought so. I can always spot the accent. Up to see the sights, are you?”

  “No, we’re police officers on a case,” Watkins said.

  “Ooh. Police eh? I’m glad I’m not exceeding the speed limit.” He laughed at his own joke.

  “Tell me,” Evan said suddenly. “Do you happen to know a place called Taffy’s?”

  “Taffy’s?” The old cabbie started a chuckle, which turned into the wheez of a smoker’s cough. “Then you’re planning on taking in a little recreation on the side, are you?”

  “You know it then?”

  “Of course I know it. Just off Greek Street in Soho.”

  “Could you take us there instead of Scotland Yard?”

  “There’s no point at this time of day. They don’t open until late afternoon.”

  “Someone might be there. Would you take us, please?”

  “Suit yourselves. I’ll see if we can nip through the park and get out of this mess.”

  Fifteen minutes later the taxi came to a halt in a depressing back alley. “Here you are, gents. Taffy’s. Enjoy yourselves, eh? But don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” He cackled again.

  Watkins and Evan climbed out and stood looking around as the taxi drove away. The alley smelled of stale orange peel, rotting garbage, and dog urine. Most of the buildings presented only dirty brick walls and closed doors, but one doorway was open and a flight of stairs led down to a basement. On the open door was a glass-fronted sign. “Taffy’s Club. Members Only.” On both sides the sign was decorated with pictures of curvaceous girls wearing spiked heels, elaborate feather headdresses, and not much else.

  “It’s a girlie club! How about that—the old devil.” Watkins chuckled. “Put your blinkers on Evans, we’re going in!”

  Evan followed him down the stairs through swing doors into a vestibule with red satin walls and sofas and a red plush carpet. On the wall were framed prints of Botticelli nudes. There were several doors, all closed. While they were deciding which door to try first they heard the clatter of high heels coming down the stairs and a girl burst in. She wasn’t wearing makeup, hair curlers were peeping out from under a scarf, and she had dark circles under her eyes. It was hard to equate her with one of the beauties on the poster above. She reacted like a startled fawn when she saw them.

  “’Ere, what are you doing ’ere?” she demanded. “We ain’t open. Go on, clear off before Barry sees yer. Come back at four o’clock. That’s when we open.”

  “We’ve come to see the boss,” Watkins said. “Tell him we’re here, will you?”

  “The boss? Barry, you mean?”

  “Is he the owner?”

  “No, he’s just the manager.”

  “Where’s the owner then?”

  “I don’t know. I just work here, don’t I?” she demanded. “What do you want to know for anyway?”

  “Just a little social call from back home,” Watkins said. “Taffy’s is a Welsh name, isn’t it, and as you can hear, we’re from Wales.”

  “The owner wouldn’t be from Wales by any chance, would he?” Evan asked.

  “I wouldn’t know. Like I said, I just—”

  “Work here. We know,” Watkins finished for her.

  At that moment the door on the far left opened and a young dark haired man came out. He had sharp dark eyes, a very short haircut, combed forward like one of the old Romans, and he was wearing an expensive dark suit.

  “Noreen, you’re late,” he barked. Then he noticed Watkins and Evans. “We’re closed.”

  “So this young lady told us,” Watkins said. “Are you Barry?”

  “What if I am?”

  “We’d like a word. North Wales police.” He flashed the ID.

  “I’m busy. What’s it about?”

  “Do you have an office we can go to?” Evan asked.

  “We can talk here just as well. I’m not supposed to take people back to the office.”

  “Why? Got anything to hide back there?” Watkins asked with a sweet smile.

  “Just obeying orders,” Barry said.

  “Okay, Barry. Let’s sit down here,” Watkins said, choosing the closer of the two red sofas. “We’d like to speak to the owner. Where can we find him?”

  “He’s away at the moment.”

  “Away? You mean out of the country?”

  “Could be. I’m not sure. He don’t confide in me. I just work here.”

  “When will he be back?” Evan asked.

  “I couldn’t say.”

  “Alright. You’ve got a girl who works here called Cynthia?”

  “That’s right. One of our best little workers.” Barry attempted a smile.

  “Can we talk to her?”

  “She ain’t here yet.”

  “Then give us her home address.”

  “She’s asleep right now. She needs her beauty sleep, you know. You’ll have to come back later, won’t yer. She gets in around three.”

  Watkins sighed impatiently. “Okay. Then do you remember a customer called Colonel Arbuthnot?”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “We know he came here on a regular basis, so he’d have to be a member, wouldn’t he?”

  “It’s possible. Many of the gentlemen give fictitious names, don’t they? They don’t want the little woman to find out where they’ve been.” Barry gave them a supercilious smile.

  “Then let’s check your records.”

  Barry stood up. “If you want to check anything here, you’d better bloody well come back with a search warrant,” he said.

  “No problem. We’ll do that,” Sergeant Watkins said. “And don’t go trying to hide things either, because we’ll keep searching until we find what we want.”

  “What exactly do you want?”

  “To find out who had reason to bash an old bloke over the head,” Evans said, and was pleased to see the startled reaction on Barry’s face.

  Chapter 19

  “There’s something fishy going on at that place,” Watkins muttered to Evan as they took a cab to New Scotland Yard. “I just hope he doesn’t manage to hide too much evidence before we get back.”

  “It’s not our problem anyway, is it?” Evans asked. “It’s up to the local vice squad if they’re doing anything illegal there. We just need to know if the colonel could be in any way mixed up in it.”

  “Like what?”

  “Extortion? Blackmail?”

  “But you don’t kill off the one who’s paying out.”

  “Unless he refuses to pay.”

  “Possible. More likely than someone in Llanfair wanting to get rid of him.”

  “He may have threatened to go to the police with something he knew about Taffy’s Club,” Evan pointed out.

  “I don’t see how he could do that without incriminating himself.”

  “You know the colonel—he was one of the old school. If he found something wrong, he’d feel it was his job to report it, at whatever personal cost.”

  The taxi pulled up outside the new concrete and glass building that housed the headquarters of the Metropolitan Police.

  Evan peered up at the building as he got out of the cab. “Doesn’t it seem odd to you that nobody at Taffy’s seemed to know anything about the owner—where he was, who he was?”

  “I expect they were just being cagey,” Watkins replied as they headed for the revolving glass doors.
/>   The young female P.C. at the front desk explained that being Saturday, there weren’t too many people on duty. “What branch did you want?” she asked.

  “Let’s start with vice,” Watkins said. “They’d know about Taffy’s if there is anything worth knowing.”

  She glanced at her computer. “I’ve got Sergeant Dobson in. I’ll give him a call and let him know you’re here.”

  A few minutes later they were sitting in a cramped back office, divided from its fellows by glass partitions. The view was of more brick walls with a small slice of River Thames between them. The desk was piled high with papers and a worried-looking plainclothes officer looked up from a computer as they came in. “Sorry about the mess,” he said. “I still can’t trust my notes to computers. I have to keep a printout of everything.”

  “I feel the same way,” Watkins said. He held out his hand. “Sergeant Watkins and Constable Evans, North Wales police.”

  “Jim Dobson. Take a pew if you can find anywhere to sit.” Sergeant Dobson snatched up a pile of papers and added them to the tottering mound on the desk. “Now, what can I do for you?”

  “What can you tell us about a club called Taffy’s?” Watkins asked.

  A smile crossed Jim Dobson’s face. “Taffy’s? I could tell you more than you probably want to hear. What do you want to know about it?”

  “Anything you can tell us. Who owns it?” Evan said.

  “It’s owned by a bloke called Taffy Jones. He’s got fingers in all sorts of nasty little pies—escort services, clip joints, prostitution, drugs. You name it, he’s into it.”

  “Taffy Jones—is he a Welshman then?”

  “Originally, I suppose. You wouldn’t think so from talking to him.”

  “Any idea where we’d find him?”

  “I’d like to know that myself. So would half of London, I’d imagine. It seems that Mr. Taffy Jones has done a bunk, leaving a lot of people not very happy, including a rather large protection racket, to whom he owes a great deal of money.”

  “This Taffy Jones,” Evan asked. “What does he look like?”

  “Good-looking sort of bloke, big, solidly built—a bit like you.” He nodded at Evan. “Late thirties, early forties. Snappy dresser.”