by J F Straker
Tea arrived before he had finished; in two thick white mugs, tepid and sickly sweet and heavy with milk. David eyed it with disfavour and sipped reluctantly. Morgan, however, appeared to find it both palatable and refreshing.
‘Great stuff, tea.’ He put the mug down half empty. ‘Better than all your beer.’ He had a soft, musical voice which was much in demand at police concerts. ‘Mind if I put a few questions?’
‘Help yourself.’
‘Right. Well, now — these people who were at the club last night. You say you knew none of them except the Winstone woman?’
‘I’d seen one or two of the younger set there before, but I don’t know them. Never even spoken to them.’
‘I daresay we can get their names from the barman. Does the club keep a visitor’s book? Do they have to sign in?’
David did not know. He had never taken a guest. Although he did not say so now, he preferred to seek his company and partners among the members. It came cheaper.
‘And Nora? She’s a Mrs, by the way, not a Miss. Or so her cell mate says.’
‘Cell mate?’
‘Sorry. A slip of the tongue. But their flat has a cell-like atmosphere, poor things. Very primitive and spartan.’ The superintendent was a man who liked his comforts, and he shuddered at the memory. ‘What about Nora?’
‘I’ve already told you. I’ve seen her at the club a few times, and once or twice I’ve danced with her. Until last night I knew nothing about her except her Christian name. I don’t know much more now. Less than you, I imagine.’
Morgan took another large draught of tea, his grey eyes fixed thoughtfully on his godson. The crumpled suit, the heavy check shirt with its soft collar, the loosely knotted tie, offended him aesthetically. And when did the boy last have his hair cut?
‘H’m!’ He put down the mug. ‘How long an interval was there between the departure of the darkie and Chapman?’
‘I don’t know. I didn’t see Chapman leave. Perhaps ten minutes. Could be less.’
‘And the Winstone woman told you nothing about her coloured friend?’
‘No. I didn’t ask, and she didn’t tell me.’
Morgan belched silently behind his hand; the tea and the acid-drops were beginning to tell on his stomach. Surreptitiously he undid the top buttons of his trousers and allowed the zip to slide a little, reflecting sadly that a year ago such a concession to obesity would never have been necessary.
‘All right. Go on from where you left the club together.’
There wasn’t much more to tell. Just the journey back to the flat, and bidding Nora good-night, and leaving her there at the foot of the steps. ‘Oh, yes. There was this car. It was parked a short way up the street, facing us — a black Zodiac saloon. Looked new.’
‘Anyone in it?’ David shook his head. ‘Did you note the registration number?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘But you must have seen it. It’ll be floating around somewhere in your subliminal. Try to isolate it.’
David tried. The attempt was unsuccessful.
‘It may come to me later,’ he said. ‘Things do. In fact, I’ve a vague notion that it was familiar in some way; the number, not the car. But what’s all this about, sir? What makes you think the woman has been kidnapped?’
Morgan selected another acid-drop and shook his head in reproof. The bald patch on top of his round head gleamed in the electric light. He had done his best to cover it with the hair remaining to him, but there was not enough to do the job properly.
‘Your father would never have been so slow, David. He was a real newspaperman. Use your intelligence, boy. You left the woman standing on the pavement. But she didn’t go up to her flat, and she hasn’t been to work to-day; her flat-mate assured me of the first, the salon of the second. So where is she? Where would she have gone of her own volition at one o’clock in the morning and wearing evening dress?’
‘A boy-friend may have been waiting for her. Perhaps the Zodiac was his.’
‘Why didn’t she change first? It wouldn’t have taken long. But, granted he was too impatient for that, where has she been all day? Wandering around London in a dance frock?’
David shrugged. ‘O.K., so she’s been kidnapped. Although I can’t think why. She’s no sex kitten, and who’d pay a ransom for Nora Winstone? But why have you been roped in? Why can’t M Division handle their own dirty work? It isn’t as though the woman was important.’
Morgan smiled. It was a warm, attractive smile, even when forced. He had practised it before the mirror many times; partly because he was a vain man, and partly because he knew that a disarming smile was one of the most useful attributes in the business.
‘That’s where you’re wrong, my lad. Right now Nora Winstone is one of the most important women in the country. To the police, anyway.’ The smile faded. ‘Does the name Dyerson ring a bell? Police Constable Frank Dyerson?’
‘I can’t say it does. Should it?’
‘It should. It was front-page news over the weekend. Dyerson was shot dead by a young thug down by the river late Saturday night. A thug who apparently goes by the odd name of Bandy. Remember?’
David did remember. ‘Where does Nora fit in?’
‘She was a witness to the shooting. The only one we have.’ Morgan frowned. ‘Or had.’
‘Was she, though!’ David whistled. ‘But wait a minute, sir. Is that right? According to the papers there were three witnesses. No names mentioned, of course, but I’m sure they said three. What about the other two? And wasn’t there a night watchman? Can’t he help?’
‘Not a hope. The poor chap was knocked out before he even knew the brutes were there. He’s still in hospital.’ Morgan crunched the thin acid-drop sliver to powder. ‘The other two never showed up.’
‘And Nora did?’
‘Nora did. It was she who told us there were others. A young couple canoodling in a doorway, according to her.’
‘Didn’t she give you their names?’
‘No. She said they were strangers to her.’
‘And you think that’s why she was kidnapped? Because she could identify the gunman?’
The superintendent helped himself to another acid-drop before replying.
‘Because he thinks she could identify him,’ he said slowly.
David sat up smartly. ‘And can she?’
Morgan frowned. ‘It seems doubtful. She says she dropped her spectacles just as Dyerson shone his torch on the man’s face. She couldn’t distinguish the features, she says.’
David exhaled in exasperation. ‘I don’t get it,’ he said. ‘First you tell me the woman’s important, now you as good as say she isn’t. How come, sir?’
The superintendent shifted uneasily in the swivel chair. Why the devil couldn’t they provide him with a padded seat? Comfort was due to his age if not to his rank. At forty-eight the flesh was less resilient.
‘Of course she’s important,’ he said testily. ‘Every copper in the division — in the whole command — is sweating blood to put this lot in the cooler. But at the moment we’re up a gum-tree. Right at the ruddy top. There isn’t a smell of them — not even the faintest whisper of a smell. And that’s odd, you know, because there’s usually something in these cases. Crooks in general don’t hold with coppers being shot, it unsettles the atmosphere. If it weren’t that they seem to have unloaded the loot successfully I’d say we were dealing with new boys.’ He banged his fist on the desk — purposefully, not in anger. ‘We’ll get them eventually, of course. Sooner or later someone will talk out of turn. My fear is that when that happens we may not have enough evidence to hold them. And that’s why I said Nora Winstone is important.’
To David it seemed that the superintendent was rambling.
‘How?’ he demanded impatiently. ‘What use is she if she can’t identify the man?’
Morgan leaned back and surveyed his godson through narrowed eyes.
‘Ask yourself what she was doing in that alley on
Saturday night, and there’s only one answer. She was spying on the other two. There’s nothing else she could have been doing.’ He coughed. ‘Not alone, anyway. So they could not have been the strangers she said they were. She must have known at least one of them.’
‘Then why deny it?’
‘Search me. Maybe she didn’t want to involve them, or maybe she was just plain scared. Scared for herself, scared for them I wouldn’t know. But I do know one thing. If I could have gone to her and told her that I had the gunman in the cooler and that all I needed to put him away for keeps was someone to identify him, she’d have played ball one hundred per cent. If she couldn’t identify the chap herself — and she heard his voice, remember — then she’d have told me who could. If she knew, that is.’ Abstractedly he scratched his head, exposing more of the bald patch. Then, realizing what he was doing, he hastily smoothed the hair back into place. ‘Don’t ask me why, but Constable Dyerson’s murder really got under that woman’s skin.’
David’s interest was now fully roused. He nibbled nervously at his fingers, the sharp, wolfish teeth biting into the hard skin round the nails. Snowball would really go for this. Not just the kidnapping — the dailies could have that — it was the unseen drama behind it that Snowball would expect him to disinter. That could be tricky. But at least he was in on the ground floor.
‘How come this Bandy creature got wise to Nora if he didn’t see her and the newspapers didn’t publish her name?’ he asked.
‘She may have talked. We warned her not to, but you know how women chatter. Perhaps she failed to appreciate the danger.’
‘Nora Winstone isn’t a chatterer. I should know.’ But there was nothing to be gained in pursuing that line of inquiry. They could only guess at the answer. ‘Is there no chance of finding the two other witnesses without her?’ he asked.
‘There’s always a chance. We’re working on it. But it will take time, and that’s something we’re short on.’
Morgan could stand the chair no longer. His posterior had gone to sleep, there were pins and needles in his legs. He drew up the zip of his trousers, fastened the buttons, and stood up. Supporting himself with one hand on the desk, he stamped his feet to restore the circulation.
David stood up too. He said, ‘With all due respect, sir, aren’t you putting the cart before the horse? What use is a witness until you have a suspect to be identified?’
‘A hell of a lot of use. To start with, we need a description of the man. Nora Winstone couldn’t give us that. Polished shoes, tight jeans, an impression that he was young —that was as far as she could go.’ Morgan ceased stamping and began to massage the seat of his trousers. ‘But that’s not all. This Bandy creature will have read the papers, he’ll know that Nora isn’t the only ace in the pack. He needs the other two. He’ll try to extract their names from Nora; and, since his methods of extraction will undoubtedly be more persuasive than ours, he’ll probably succeed.’
David knew what he meant by persuasion. He said, ‘I suppose it has occurred to you, sir, that they may not be content merely to hold Nora? That when they’ve got what they want they may — well, eliminate her?’
Morgan looked suddenly tired. When he could he shaved twice daily, but to-night his chin and cheeks were dark with stubble.
‘You’re too right it has. And the others too if they find them before we do.’
David hesitated. Unless he were angry he seldom ventured to criticize his godfather to his face. But he ventured now. He said slowly, Was it wise, sir, to allow the newspapers to publish the fact that there were witnesses to the shooting? Wasn’t it hazarding their lives unnecessarily?’
The superintendent did not take criticism easily. A vain man, he was apt to lose his temper when his actions or decisions were questioned. Now he looked more sad than angry, the grey eyes were clouded.
‘I’ve asked myself the same question, David. We hoped to panic them into a false move. But I don’t know. If only Nora Winstone had kept her mouth shut...’
He began to pace slowly up and down the room, hands buried in his pockets, head bowed. David had no great affection for his godfather, but he felt sorry for him now. He said cheerfully, ‘It’s easy to be wise after the event. Pardon the cliché, but we deal in them.’
Morgan made no comment. For a while he continued his pacing, pausing eventually in front of a large wall-map of M Division area. David joined him.
‘Exactly where did the shooting take place, sir?’ he asked.
Without hesitation Morgan put a well-manicured forefinger on the map. David guessed that he had studied it many times before.
‘Just there.’
‘Rotherhithe Street,’ David read aloud. ‘I don’t know it.’
‘It runs for miles along the south bank.’ The finger moved round the bend of the river to Limehouse Reach. ‘Mostly warehouses, with the occasional pub. And when the pubs close of a night it’s more or less deserted.’ Abruptly the superintendent turned away from the map. Putting a hand to his mouth, he yawned widely and long. Tears came into his eyes, and he knuckled them away. ‘By Themis, but I’m tired! Time to call it a day, I think. You’d better cut along, David.’
David suppressed a smile. Some years back the superintendent, dipping into a book on Greek and Roman mythology, had discovered that Themis, daughter of Uranus, had represented in Homeric poems the personification of the order of things established by law, custom, and equity. She was, he had thereupon decided, the only right and proper deity for a policeman to swear by — since when he had sworn by no other.
‘Suits me,’ he said. ‘I’ll ring you if I remember the registration number of that Zodiac. It will probably come to me in the small hours.’
‘In which case you can save it till the morning,’ Morgan told him. ‘And watch that blasted editor of yours. I don’t want his dirty finger messing up this pie. Give him the facts and tell him to stick to them.’
‘Snowball’s not greatly interested in facts,’ David said doubtfully.
‘I know he’s not. Which is why I don’t trust him. And if he tries steam-roller tactics you can tell him I said so.’
Inspector Nightingale, the divisional detective inspector, a man of the superintendent’s own age, less formidable in bulk and with a grey, egg-shaped face that appeared to have cracked in several places, was talking to the station sergeant in the main office. Morgan introduced them to David. They chatted for a few minutes, and then David, anxious to be gone, said brightly, ‘Well, I’m off. Nothing else, is there, sir?’
‘Just one little thing.’ The superintendent’s eyes were suddenly steely, the tired look had gone; his voice, hitherto legato, was now staccato. ‘Why did you call to see Nora Winstone at her flat this evening? I don’t think you told me.’
From the very start of the interview David had been anticipating this question, had even pondered his answer. If he mentioned the diary he would have to hand it over, and he did not wish to do that until he had had a chance to peruse it in private. Morgan had said to watch Snowball, that he did not trust him. Well, David did not trust him either. But, cynical and unscrupulous though he was, Snowball knew his way around; he would not stick his neck out regardless. He would be content to bide his time, waiting for the full story to break; and when it did he would expect David to be ready with all the intimate little details, the scandal and the sob-stuff that Topical Truths regularly fed to its readers. Maybe some of those details could be found in Nora Winstone’s diary.
As the interview progressed he had allowed the diary to slip from his mind, so that now, when the question came, he was unprepared. He said, with a slight stutter in his speech, ‘D-didn’t I? I suppose it d-didn’t seem important, sir.’
‘Important or not, I’d like to know.’
David fingered his tie. The knot had slipped farther round his neck than usual, and he pulled it straight.
‘I just thought she might like to come out for a drink,’ he said hopefully.
Morgan sta
red at him. ‘Really? Getting low on girlfriends, aren’t you?’
David flushed. He knew Morgan did not believe him, but he refused to be provoked into the truth. He said shortly, ‘I felt sorry for her. Can I help it if I’m human?’
Morgan let him go, watching him thoughtfully as he walked across the big office and out into the hall. But Nightingale was watching the superintendent. He knew that look. When David had gone he said, ‘What’s up, Super? Something bothering you?’
Morgan rubbed his chin, scraping across the bristles.
‘I don’t trust that young man,’ he said. ‘He’s my godson, but I don’t trust him. He’s selfish and obstinate, and he’s got big ideas.’ As an afterthought he added, ‘And he wears his hair too long.’
‘Nothing wrong with ideas.’
‘Not if they’re the right ones. But ever since that Shere Island job he’s seen himself as God’s gift to journalism. It has blunted his sense of responsibility as a citizen. Maybe he doesn’t realize it, but that’s how it is. He’d do his grandmother if he thought there was a story to it.’ Morgan sighed. ‘Well, his grandmother’s dead, which may be lucky for her. But he’s got a godfather, and I don’t want him to do me.’
‘You think he wasn’t sticking to the truth?’
‘I think he was monkeying with it, to say the least. However, David’s my problem. What’s new with you, Warbler?’
The D.D.I. grinned. It gratified him to hear his nickname on the lips of his superior. It showed that Morgan had not forgotten their days on the beat together.
‘Nothing on the Bandy gang. But we’ve collected another headache. A stiff. Big one, too; they found him in the river. Someone stuck a knife in his back.’
‘H’m! People are getting a darned sight too careless with knives these days. Has he been identified?’ Nightingale shook his head. ‘Well, he’s all yours. But I’ve been thinking about those missing witnesses. You know —the young couple. If, as Nora Winstone says, they were canoodling, then it’s a dead cert they are locals. Or the girl is. One doesn’t pick a spot like Rotherhithe Street for a cuddle unless it happens to be handy. And it could be that their reluctance to come forward is because cuddling is something they shouldn’t have been doing — if you see what I mean.’