by R. N. Morris
‘Punish Mr Blackley? What do you mean, Quinn?’
‘It seems Blackley and the girl were lovers. If that is the right word. Certainly he gave her gifts and in return, she granted him sexual favours.’
‘No, no, no . . . this can’t be true! Mr Blackley is a respectable citizen. You heard this from that Spiggott fellow, did you? He’s obviously lying to divert attention from himself.’
‘You may be right, sir. Spiggott was very quick to point the finger at Blackley. However, Blackley’s son, Benjamin Blackley Junior, believed that Blackley was having an affair with one of the mannequins. Well, the impression I got was that he rather worked his way through them. Blackley has access to the mannequin house and keeps a room there. The gossip is he treats the place as his own private harem.’
‘This is . . . this is . . . Good God . . . We can’t . . . My wife shops at Blackley’s!’
‘Welcome to Special Crimes, sir.’
‘This sort of thing happens a lot, does it?’
‘There’s always something, sir. Something different.’
‘I see. And so . . . We should . . . we should . . . what we should do . . .’ Coddington nodded vigorously, as if in agreement to something one of them had said.
‘If I may make a suggestion, sir?’
‘Go on, Quinn. You interrupted my train of thought, but never mind. What’s your suggestion?’
‘I think we should put a watch on the mannequin house. I am more than happy to volunteer to run the operation.’
‘Good idea. Yes, I like that. A watch. Surveillance. Good.’ Coddington made some strange rapid movements with his mouth, the sole purpose of which seemed to be to make his moustache jump around in a novel way. ‘Why are we doing that exactly? I mean, I understand, of course, but let’s just talk it through. To be clear.’
‘Blackley,’ began Quinn, speaking with slow, deliberate emphasis, ‘is a man of prodigious sexual appetite.’
‘He is? How do you know?’
‘I sense it. You can almost smell it when you’re standing close to him.’
Coddington was not the only one to fidget uneasily at the strange tone in which Quinn had made this assertion. ‘Do you have anything else to base it on?’
‘There had been a family meeting in which he was prevailed upon to rein in his appetites, because of the trouble Spiggott was making. It seems his wife and grown-up children know all about his peccadilloes. He made a promise to stop. I’m sure he meant to keep that promise. But he simply couldn’t. He is a powerful, domineering man. And one of the ways he exerts his power is to force these girls to have sex with him. He is the rapist, I’m sure. On the morning her body was discovered, he sent a messenger around to the house with a contrite message for Amélie. He was sorry. He begged her forgiveness.’
‘Have you asked him about this? He may have some perfectly reasonable explanation.’
‘I am sure he will have.’
‘But I thought you said he and the girl were lovers? That she gave herself to him in return for all those presents. That implies consent on her part, Quinn.’
‘Yes. She had consented. She did consent. Before she knew about the connection between Blackley and Spiggott. Then she withdrew her consent.’
‘I see. So . . . we watch the place. Because?’
‘Because he will not be able to keep away. He will move on to the next girl.’
‘What? So soon?’
‘There is something missing in Mr Blackley’s character, sir. What you and I might call common decency. He is the most immoral man I have ever encountered. His heart is made of ice.’
‘And if we see him return to the house, what then?’
‘We do nothing. Our objective, at this stage, is simply to gather intelligence. To build up a picture of Blackley. It will be interesting to see if any of the other residents testify to his presence there. If not, it shows that we cannot trust their denials regarding his absence on Tuesday. And we may also be able to catch him in a lie, if he denies going there.’
‘But it’s not proof, Quinn. Is it? Blackley has admitted to keeping a room at the mannequin house. We know he has a key. He could simply argue that he was working late and availing himself of the facilities of the house, facilities put in place for his own convenience.’
‘What we need is someone in there. Someone on the inside. Someone we can trust. So that, if we know from our surveillance that Blackley was in there, we can find out from our source inside exactly what he got up to.’
‘Who do you have in mind?’ wondered Coddington.
‘Macadam, bring the car round to the front, will you?’
The girl’s eyes were open but she didn’t look up as he came in. She was still on the bed, lying on her side in her dressing gown, staring at nothing. She was not crying anymore, though her eyes were rimmed with a red rawness, as if she looked out at the world through twin wounds.
‘Edna?’
She lay unmoving. Not the slightest flicker to show that she had heard him, or was aware of his presence in her room.
‘Edna, love? It’s me, Silas. We had a chat yesterday. Do you remember?’
A slight movement of her head from side to side. Did she really not remember him, or did her feeble denial have a wider significance? Was she, perhaps, refusing to speak to him?
‘You don’t remember me? Surely you do?’
At last, her eyes swivelled to fix on him.
‘Not Edna.’ It evidently took a great effort for her to say this. Her head fell back on to her pillow and she closed her eyes. ‘Albertine.’
‘Ah, yes, of course. Albertine. Forgive me, Albertine. How are you feeling today, Albertine?’
He saw the bulge of her tongue move beneath her closed lips as she licked the inside of her mouth away from her teeth. This seemed to rally her energy. Her eyes sprang open once more, and she heaved herself upright into a sitting position. ‘I must go back to work.’
‘I’m sure Mr Blackley will understand . . .’
‘No, I must go back, otherwise I’ll lose my position . . .’ She sprang to her feet with a speed which seemed to take even her aback. It certainly surprised Quinn when she tottered and fell into his arms. He was shocked by how little there was to her. He could feel her skeleton through the dressing gown. It was barely more robust than a bird’s.
Quinn thought of the photographs of Amélie and the medical examiner’s report. He looked down at the crown of Albertine’s head. Her hair was wispy and fine. It would not be going too far to say it was beginning to thin.
How easy it would be to crush her, he thought. What little effort it would take to squeeze the life out of her.
He was not proud of such thoughts. But he would not evade them either. He had to look upon them as part of his method. If he thought this now, looking down at Albertine, it was reasonable to speculate that Amélie’s killer had entertained similar thoughts.
‘Careful, now. My . . . look at you. When was the last time you ate something, my dear?’
‘I . . . I’ve been too upset.’
‘Of course. But we don’t want . . .’ Quinn stopped himself. He had been about to say, the same thing happening to you as happened to Amélie. ‘We don’t want you getting ill, do we?’
‘I have to go back to work.’
‘Not today, Albertine. I’ll square it with Mr Blackley. Don’t you worry.’
Albertine looked up at him with an expression of simple awe. ‘How?’
‘I’m a policeman. If he gives me any trouble, I’ll . . . lock him up!’
Despite her frailty, Albertine managed a sweet complicit giggle at this. It was a hint of the spirited girl she had once been – as recently, perhaps, as a few days ago. The energy drained from her as quickly as it had entered into her. She closed her eyes in defeat. ‘You can’t lock up Mr Blackley.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because without Mr Blackley there’d be no House of Blackley, and then what would we do? We’d all . . . be out on the
street.’
‘I don’t believe that’s true, Albertine. Is that why people are afraid? Why no one will tell the truth about Blackley?’
‘Mr Blackley looks after us. You can’t look after us.’
‘Mr Blackley didn’t look after Amélie, did he?’ For a moment, Quinn thought he had gone too far. He felt a tremor of suffering pass through Albertine. ‘I want you to do something for me, Albertine. I want you to get your strength back. You have to be strong for me, Albertine. It’s what Amélie would want too. You have to be strong for Amélie. So you can help us find out what happened to her. In a moment we’ll go downstairs and see if Miss Mortimer has anything for you to eat. Then I’ll explain what I want you to do.’
Quinn took hold of Albertine by the shoulders and held her away from him so that he could look at her. ‘You need to be very strong, Albertine. For Amélie. Can you be strong?’
But it took all her strength for her to lift her head and open her eyes. And when he looked into those eyes, Quinn could not be sure he saw the answer he wanted. He could not be sure he saw anything at all.
‘Think she’ll do it, guv?’ said Macadam from the driver’s seat as Quinn settled into the back of the department’s Model T. The car vibrated noisily, as if the stress of remaining stationary with the engine ticking over would be enough to shake it apart.
Quinn shrugged. ‘Any sign of Inchball yet?’
‘No, sir.’
‘How did you get on, Macadam?’
‘We’re all set for tonight, sir.’ Macadam gave a wincing smile. ‘What happens if Blackley don’t show, guv?’
‘We have to make sure that he will. Apply a little pressure. Make him feel vulnerable and weak. He won’t like that. Given the kind of man he is, his natural response will be to assert his power. Which, for him, means a visit to the mannequin house.’
The back door opened and Inchball got in alongside Quinn. ‘Ain’ much of a plan, if you ask me,’ he grumbled. ‘With respect and all that,’ he added after a moment.
‘But you’ve spoken to him? He will do it?’ demanded Quinn.
Inchball consulted a fob watch. ‘He’ll be at the front in . . . three minutes.’
‘We’d better get round there too, then, Macadam.’
Macadam wrenched the gears with a grinding of metal and the car lurched forward. The engine misfired once but settled into an eager thrum, as if it was relieved to be on the move at last.
As they drew up along Kensington Road, Quinn saw Benjamin Blackley in place once again, cheerily greeting customers as they returned to his store. It seemed that the collective mood of restraint that had been in evidence in the immediate aftermath of the riot had now passed. An advertising campaign promising substantial discounts had no doubt helped the public overcome any qualms they might have had.
‘Blimey, don’ he ever let up?’ wondered Inchball. ‘I mean, ain’ he got better things to do?’
‘What could be more important than bringing customers into his store?’ said Quinn.
At that moment Spiggott emerged from the entrance of Our Lady of the Sacred Heart Church and strode purposefully towards Blackley.
Inside the car the vibrations were deafening. Every piece of metal seemed to be grating against its neighbour. Quinn felt an angry throb in his pelvic bone. He had an image of bolts spinning loose from their nuts. The car seemed minutes away from falling apart around them.
As a consequence, it was impossible to hear what passed between Blackley and Spiggott. Fingers jabbed the air. Mouths were contorted to form inaudible shouts. The crowd parted around them, as shoppers decided for once to give the usually genial and approachable celebrity a wide berth.
It was safe to say that Quinn had achieved his objective of putting Blackley under pressure.
‘Right,’ said Quinn. ‘That’s enough.’
The three policemen sprang out of the car. Spiggott caught sight of them and ran off, disappearing into the crowd. Quinn put on a spurt to cross the road and approach Blackley. ‘Everything all right, sir?’
‘Thank God you’ve arrived, Inspector. That man . . . you must go after him and arrest him.’
‘Why’s that, sir?’
‘Slander! He committed slander. And made all manner of threats. Against me and my family. He’s trying to blackmail me. And extort money. He’s attempting to perpetrate a wholesale fraud!’
‘Chip off the old block, is he, sir?’
‘What did you say?’
‘He is your son, isn’t he?’
‘Of course not! You’ve been listening to his lies as well, have you? Don’t you understand? A man like me is vulnerable to this kind of attack.’
‘I have to say, sir, I’ve spoken to Mr Spiggott and he seems quite sincere in his beliefs.’
‘He may be sincere or he may not be. That doesn’t make a blind bit of difference. It’s simply not true.’
‘It’s not true you seduced his mother when she was a shop girl here?’
‘Does she say that?’
‘She’s dead, as you well know, sir.’
Blackley looked surly rather than ashamed at being caught out. ‘The point is, surely, that it’s his word against mine. And he only has it on the word of his mother, allegedly. But, as you say, she is dead, and so can’t back up the claim. And from what I hear, while she was alive, she was something of a lush. Certainly, she overlooked the courtesy of ever informing me of the boy’s existence. You might presume she would have done, if what Mr Spiggott claims is true. And so, in short, Inspector, you can hardly blame me for being sceptical now.’
‘You maintain that you are not his father?’
‘My word is my bond, Inspector, and you have my word upon it.’
‘But what of Amélie?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Did she believe you?’
‘What has this got to do with her?’
‘Everything. It’s her death we’re investigating, after all.’
‘I don’t understand your insinuations.’
‘When Spiggott told Amélie that you are his father . . .’
‘Which is a lie – I thought we had established that!’
‘If it is a lie, it is one she believed. She decided to break off with you, did she not?’
‘Break off? Break what off? What are you talking about, Inspector?’
‘Oh, come now, Mr Blackley, we know that you were having an affair with Amélie. The message you sent when she went missing. I’m sorry. Forgive me. The words of a lover to his mistress. Not of an employer to an employee. What was your offence, Mr Blackley? Why did you need to beg Amélie’s forgiveness?’
‘The previous day . . . I had been a little harsh with her during the rehearsal for the fashion parade. She’d been slow and clumsy. Not her usual self at all. I lost my temper with her. Hooking Lady Ascot meant a lot to me. Everything depended on how the mannequins performed. Amélie had felt the rough edge of my tongue. And so I was worried that was the reason she had not put in an appearance. I should have been more patient. The mannequins are our prima donnas, Inspector. You have to handle them with kid gloves.’
‘You would know everything about handling mannequins. You had affairs with others before her. Your son has admitted as much.’
‘How many times do I have to tell you: Spiggott is not my son!’
‘Not Spiggott. Benjamin Blackley Junior.’
‘Our Ben?’ It was a rare lapse into his native, northern vernacular, which perhaps showed how rattled he was. For one instant his expression was panic-stricken. ‘What did our Ben say?’
‘We know that he was inside the mannequin house on Tuesday night. He says that he was there to spy on you on his mother’s behalf. Apparently he didn’t trust your protestations of reform.’
Blackley’s brows dipped sharply but he made no comment.
‘And so, he secreted himself in Monsieur Hugo’s room in order to keep watch on your . . . comings and goings.’
‘How could he, wh
en I wasn’t there?’
‘He clearly expected you to be there.’
‘And does he say that I was there?’
Quinn avoided meeting Blackley’s glowering stare.
‘I take it by your reticence that he does not.’
‘Be under no illusion, Mr Blackley, the girls upon whom you prey feel only revulsion and contempt for you. They may accede to your demands, but only because they value the gifts your favour brings. It is all they can do not to vomit in your face when they bestow their kisses. You flatter yourself, no doubt, that women can’t help falling at your feet. But half of them are terrified of you and the other half are using you. The one thing that unites them all is hatred. Of you.’
‘You don’t have much luck with the ladies, do you, Inspector?’
‘How did you feel when Amélie told you it was over? It’s not for her to say, is it? You’ll decide when it’s over, not her, the bitch. Is that why you decided to teach her a lesson?’
Blackley remained calm, chillingly so. His affable smile was once again back in place. ‘You cannot say things like this and get away with it, Inspector. I don’t care who you think you are.’
‘Don’t you see it in their faces, Mr Blackley? The disgust?’
‘Good day, Inspector.’
‘Did she tell you that she loved him not you? Or that she’d slept with both of you? Was that the straw that broke the camel’s back? You’re not one to share your pleasures with any man, are you, Mr Blackley? Let alone your son!’
Blackley shook his head and moved away from Quinn. He threw back his head and began to cry, like a market hawker, ‘Welcome to the House of Blackley! Step inside and enter a world of provision. That’s right. A world of provision! That’s what we say on our advertisements, because it’s true! Goods from all over the world, lacquered knick-knacks from Japan and China, cinnamon and turmeric from the Spice Islands, cotton from America, rubber from India, French fashions, lace from Madeira, the darkest molasses from Jamaica . . . Whatever in the world you’re looking for, you’ll find it inside our doors. Welcome to Blackley’s . . . a world of provision!’ Blackley clenched his fist and waved it high in triumph on the last emphatic word; he met Quinn’s gaze with a defiant gleam.