by Aly Monroe
Dawkins sniffed.
‘This is in the apple,’ the doctor said. ‘The deceased would appear to have injected it with the syringe and found half an apple enough.’
Dawkins winced. ‘Shit,’ he said, ‘he looks grim.’
Cotton looked at him. Then at Watson. In a dark room on a snowy day the dead man’s face was grey with blue tinges. A moving, spotted effect from the snowflakes provided no animation.
‘Have you moved him?’ he asked the doctor.
‘No. He was tucked up like this. All very neat.’
‘Will you be doing the autopsy?’
‘Oh yes,’ said the doctor.
‘What’s that?’ said Dawkins, pointing.
‘An erection,’ said the doctor. ‘It happens. There’s a Latin phrase. Amorous death, something like that.’
‘Jesus,’ said Dawkins.
For a man who had seen other bodies, some of them a great deal more gruesome than this neat arrangement, Dawkins looked queasy. Perhaps it was the tidiness that upset him, that someone could clear themselves away.
Cotton went to the window and looked out. He had to bend to do it. Below was the courtyard. There was a fire escape outside. He checked the window frame. It was of the sash type, not too big. The catch arrangement on the upper frame was drawn over the lower.
‘Has anyone touched this?’ he asked.
‘Not as far as I know, sir,’ said the sergeant.
Cotton looked round the room. Despite himself he found he was judging Watson’s taste in choosing this room to kill himself. The style was what Cotton thought of as Victorian-Tudor. There was the four-poster bed that, although it had Elizabethan-type posts, did not look very old. The drapes were a dank-looking red, a sort of material flock. The needlepoint rug on the stained floorboards was decorated with flowers.
Cotton walked over to a blackened door. It gave on to a bathroom. He noted that Watson had left nothing in there, no toothbrush or shaving kit.
‘Have you cleared up here?’ he asked.
The police sergeant shook his head. ‘No, sir,’ he said and walked across and opened the wardrobe door. Watson had hung up his shirt, suit and tie on the same hanger. Below them were his shoes, each containing a rolled-up sock.
‘He has a small suitcase,’ the police sergeant said and moved to that. The case contained a toilet bag, a linen bag (‘his dirty underwear’), a fresh shirt and fresh underwear. There was also a translated edition of The Odyssey and a book not of matches but of toothpicks.
Dawkins looked as much disapproving as puzzled. ‘What is this?’ he said. ‘A boffin, some sort of expert in deadly science, comes to a hotel in a place where he was arrested about a fortnight ago, tops himself with cyanide and carries on like bleeding Snow White? Why did he need the apple if he had the syringe?’
‘The ingestion of cyanide can be used to obtain a rapid decrease in blood pressure,’ said the doctor. ‘Of course, in high doses it attacks the central nervous system and heart.’
Dawkins turned. ‘Are you saying it’s better eaten?’
‘It’s what Goering did a few months back. And the man who invented nylon. He drank his with lemon juice, I believe.’
Dawkins grunted. ‘No note?’
‘No,’ said the detective sergeant. ‘I haven’t found anything.’
Dawkins sighed. ‘I’m hungry,’ he said.
Cotton nodded and they left the room.
‘Am I going to be seeing Radcliffe again? Or perhaps Starmer-Smith.’
Dawkins shrugged. ‘I doubt it.’
Downstairs, Cotton left Dawkins with his soup and corn-beef sandwich and went to look for Derek.
Cotton had to wait but Derek had news.
‘Mr Watson was drinking with a tall, tanned, good-looking fellow, greeny tweed suit, greying hair, not a homebody in any way, in the Swan and Sugarloaf. My source saw him give Mr Watson something like a tobacco pouch. They shook hands. Mr Watson then went to the Greyhound.’
‘Good source?’
‘Bambi Bosworth.’
Bambi was the person who had fled across school playing fields in early January.
‘Nothing for old times?’
‘Bambi says no. Mr Watson was a bit fragile. He gave Bambi a fiver and wished him well.’
‘He didn’t think something was wrong?’
‘Well, he wasn’t going to turn down a fiver, was he? That’s a lot more than he usually gets. And he was getting it for old times’ sake.’
Cotton went back to Dawkins. ‘You’re looking for something like a tobacco pouch, apparently.’
‘Why?’
‘That’s what the syringe and the cyanide came in.’
Dawkins called a policeman. ‘Look in the rubbish,’ he said, ‘A tobacco pouch is what you are looking for.’
‘Leather?’ said the policeman.
‘It could be waxed cloth,’ said Cotton.
The policeman left. ‘What’s this about?’ asked Dawkins.
‘Where would you get a syringe and cyanide?’
Dawkins sighed. ‘I’m not a scientist,’ he said.
‘I don’t think cyanide is an essential part of the atom bomb process.’
‘We’re looking for a supplier, then.’
In Watson’s little car in the glove box the police found a small canvas roll, the kind of thing field hospitals have to hold scalpels and instruments. The police took it away.
‘Next of kin?’
‘I think he told me he had a mother in Sanderstead,’ said Cotton.
‘I’ll do that,’ said Dawkins. ‘But give me a policeman to come along.’
19
ON MONDAY, 27 January, under a note announcing that the British Government had agreed to give Burma independence, Cotton found an urgent note from Ed Lowell, the US liaison officer, requesting a meeting. There was no mention of lunch.
He called Ed Lowell and they agreed to meet, at Lowell’s suggestion, at the Royal Academy of Arts within half an hour. Cotton told Miss Kelly he was going out.
‘Did you see Al Capone was dead, sir?’ she asked. ‘Syphilis apparently.’
‘Right.’
Ed Lowell met him with an aggressive hush, tilting in to whisper.
‘I’m disappointed, Peter. This man Watson was a Trotskyite!’
Cotton blinked. ‘Is that some sort of fucking euphemism?’
‘What are you talking about? I am talking about his political leanings.’
Cotton shook his head. ‘I don’t have that information, Ed. What we do have is a report of someone who initially considered himself far too clever to respect the politics of democracies but who managed to frighten himself during the thirties by seeing how a desire for order could turn out. If you want to describe his politics, it was science for science’s sake. He was touchy, proud and socially inept. He wasn’t a joiner. If he had been he might have got more support from his colleagues.’
Ed Lowell got angrier. ‘This man spent time in the States!’
‘And what have you got on him during his time there? You have nothing, correct?’
‘This isn’t our information,’ said Ed Lowell. ‘It’s from your side.’
‘Really? And what does that say?’
Ed Lowell paused.
‘Either it’s surmise or—’
‘What?’
‘We’re being played, Ed.’
‘Are you saying he wasn’t a member of the Communist Party in the early thirties?’
‘I have seen no record of it.’
‘That he wasn’t in the Trotsky-Bolshevik-Leninist group, a Peace League man?’
Cotton closed one eye. ‘No he wasn’t. Watson wasn’t a pacifist. He contributed to the Manhattan Project. That caused thousands of deaths. He was working on our bomb. You’re lumping people together. And you are missing the point.’
‘What’s that?’
‘We have a male witch called Starmer-Smith in MI5 who hunts homosexuals. I’m not saying it’s him, but someone has ta
ken the trouble to think homosexuality wasn’t quite enough to identify a posthumous security risk. So they’ve added Trotskyite. Can you say who? I’ll bet you can’t. That brings us on to the question – why would someone want to confuse us.’
‘It came from your side!’ said Ed Lowell. ‘You can’t be suggesting someone with you is deliberately misleading us.’
It was very cold and Cotton was becoming irritated. He calmed himself with a small smile.
‘No,’ he said. ‘All right. As I understand it, Ed, part of my job is to act as a cross-check so that people don’t run away with themselves. In this case, we may merely be victims of gossip. It may be more. Someone may have been over-enthusiastic. They may have been providing a sop to American pressure. Or it may be someone is manipulating things, making a dead man far more politically threatening than he was, possibly even lending him some threat that belongs to someone still with us. That would be the real point, wouldn’t it? The one to look into.’
Ed Lowell frowned again. ‘You can’t be suggesting your intelligence services are that porous.’
‘Who cares?’ said Cotton. ‘I’ve seen the effects of the word “Trotskyite” on you. We don’t know if there is a motive and if there is one, what it is.’
Ed Lowell paused. ‘What can we do?’
‘Find out where the information came from and consult later.’
Ed Lowell shook his head. ‘It’s your management systems,’ he complained.
‘Possibly. Will you try to trace back?’
Ed Lowell nodded. ‘OK. But my people are alarmed. They want answers.’
Cotton had had enough. ‘Have you heard anything about any of your people from us?’
‘No,’ said Lowell. ‘What are you suggesting?’
‘Just a query,’ said Cotton. ‘I’ll get back to you when I really know and have evidence for what I say.’
Back at the office, Cotton got directly in touch with Ayrtoun.
Ayrtoun replied at once. ‘Our indistinct old friend, “European sources”, tagged Watson as a Trotskyite. That information automatically passed to the Yanks because it is information, it bulks up the reports and Watson can’t answer back. Watson condemned his name by committing suicide. I am tracing it – but will accept any contributions. Look at the time factor – did this tag surface after his death or was it there before?’
On Wednesday, 29 January the freeze worsened. The temperature in central London dropped to about 16 degrees Fahrenheit. In other parts of the country it was even lower. It was almost possible to hear the country icing up. Whereas the London press had previously said ‘Scotland cut off’ by twenty-foot snow drifts and thousands of livestock were feared dead, they now said ‘North and Midlands cut off’. It was estimated that two million workers had been laid off without pay from Birmingham to Sheffield.
In Pont Street that weekend Cotton saw women in fur coats queuing up with buckets to get water. There were NOes everywhere on shop signs. No bread. No fish. No potatoes. No firewood. No soap. No clothes.
On Saturday evening, 1 February, Cotton made sure the windows were blocked. He pinned blankets over the frames.
Around 9 p.m. his buzzer went.
‘Yes?’
‘Anna Melville here.’
‘Isn’t Margot at home?’
‘It isn’t her I want to see. It’s you I want to see. I have a problem.’
Cotton failed to speak quickly enough.
‘For God’s sake, I’m freezing my tits off out here.’
Cotton pressed the entry buzzer.
Anna Melville appeared out of the lift carrying a small cardboard suitcase, looking as if she was wearing everything else she had. Over a black felt headpiece, removed from a props department, she had an elderly brimmed hat and over that a scarf she had tied round her chin. Another scarf had been wrapped round her neck. She was wearing so many clothes under her coat she could not do the lower buttons up. She pulled the scarf away from her mouth.
‘I could pretend,’ she said, ‘I had entirely fallen for you. But I also need somewhere to sleep tonight. It makes you doubly attractive and this would be cheaper for me, particularly as I barely have any money. And it’s absolutely freezing. You have very interesting lips, you know. An interesting mouth. I’ve brought some cheese. Can I come in?’
‘No Margot?’
‘She went home. The theatre is barely operating. Not enough money to pay my wages.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Cotton.
She shook her head. ‘I had to damn well walk. From Pimlico. I fell over. Twice. My bum must be black and blue.’ She frowned. ‘I can’t tell if it’s really warm or not in here.’
‘It’s not really warm,’ said Cotton.
‘Have you got hot water?’
‘The boiler is just ticking over, not more. What about your parents?’
‘There’s my grandmother, my brother, as well as my parents. There are three rooms. And one has a stove. The loo is outside and it has frozen solid. They’re thirteen miles away.’
Cotton put her in the spare room.
‘Are you serious?’ she said.
‘Yes, I am.’
‘Are you one of those men who like to sleep alone?’
‘It’s a bit of a store room,’ he said. ‘But it should do.’
He moved some boxes he had never unpacked and considered the bedding. He took the bedspread off one of the two single beds and pinned it over the window. He took bed linen out of the cupboard and draped it in front of the open oven in the kitchen. He also found the trunk with his army kilts in and took out two to provide extra blankets.
‘You wore these skirts?’ she said.
‘They’re heavy and they are warm.’
On Sunday he was woken by the cold and the sound of scratchy music. Since about 1937, Cotton had not so much collected as picked up some gramophone records, no more than twenty and almost all piano jazz. There were several each by Art Tatum and Fats Waller, Boogie Woogie Dream by Albert Ammons and Pete Johnson, Honky Tonk Train Blues by Meade Lux Lewis and a Louis Armstrong Tiger Rag.
Cotton went to the window. Behind curtains and blanket, there was no view. The pane was white, not with Jack Frost type patterns, this was more like ice filings. When Cotton went through it was the Tiger Rag she was playing. Sitting beside the electric fire with a blanket around her, she laughed when she saw him.
‘You like this stuff?’
‘Very much.’
‘But it’s barely music! It’s hardly together!’
‘You don’t have to listen to it.’
‘Don’t tell me I’ve offended you!’
‘I’m saying if you don’t like it, don’t listen to it.’
‘It’s not exactly Bach or Beethoven.’
‘No, it isn’t,’ said Cotton. ‘But aren’t you at all interested in the improvisational side of it? No two performances are the same in jazz. Didn’t someone say that was what happened in theatre?’
She laughed. ‘No,’ she said. ‘No theatre audience is going to like “To be, double bubble beep, or not boop to be”.’
Cotton smiled. ‘Have you done anything about breakfast?’
‘No. I don’t cook,’ she said. ‘Well, I can do dumplings, I suppose.’
‘Porridge then,’ said Cotton.
It took time. The gas pressure was low and both the water and milk were near freezing.
Around noon Michel Shalhoub rang at the doorbell. He was dressed in a fur-collared coat and homburg hat.
‘Mr Cotton, I implore you,’ he said. ‘I’m having problems getting signatories for my petition.’
‘What’s it about?’
Monsieur Shalhoub leant forwards and spoke even more quietly.
‘Through diplomatic channels I have what I will describe as access to fuel supplies. I have been offered a delivery of coke, enough both to keep the boiler alight and perhaps provide a greater degree of warmth than now. There is unfortunately a monetary charge for the delivery that, apparent
ly, comes outside the normal charges we all pay.’
‘Are you asking for a contribution?’
‘You weren’t in yesterday. Some residents, Miss Fenwick, for example, refused. She has gone home, I understand. Another problem is that I wish for the throat of the boiler to be opened, to provide more heat, you understand. I have spoken to the porter but he tells me he needs permission to do this.’
‘Permission from whom?’
‘The residents’ association. But that is not due to meet until March. Mr Cotton, have you seen the water?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It’s thickening!’
‘Yes. Where is this delivery?’
‘Round the corner,’ said Michel Shalhoub. ‘They tell me I have ten minutes before they move on.’
‘How much?’
Michel Shalhoub told him. ‘I only have three pounds,’ he said.
Cotton looked. He had just over five pounds. ‘They won’t accept eight pounds?’
‘No.’
‘Have you tried Brenda? The old lady with the dog?’
‘Well, exactly,’ said Michel Shalhoub.
‘We’ll try Brenda.’
Brenda looked delighted to see them. ‘It’s thirty-eight degrees in here,’ she said, ‘and my dog’s paws are cold.’
Within a minute she had opened her safe and from a large roll had extracted two five-pound notes.
‘They’re thieves, aren’t they?’ she said. She sounded perfectly cheerful.
The coke was delivered, the gravity feed opened up and within a few minutes the heating had begun to tick as the water circulated. Within a couple of hours Brenda’s thermometer was up to forty-eight degrees.
‘It’s almost toasty,’ she said.
20
GOVERNMENT AGENCIES did not have access to black market or ‘diplomatic’ fuel. In St James’s Street there was no heat in Cotton’s office and lighting was by evil-smelling candles.
‘Please don’t say anything about Dickens,’ said Portman. ‘Bad for morale.’ One man, in the Africa section, was wearing a hat over a balaclava along with his overcoat.