Martha took the bundle of paperwork that was thrust into her arms and struggled to prevent the contents of one folder spilling all over the floor. “I thought you’d given up?” she called after her friend. “I thought that Simon said –”
“Simon said that he and his wife weren’t together any more,” Sue called back. “But then someone posted a ‘congratulations on the new arrival’ message on his Facebook page. And they didn’t mean a puppy!”
Martha gasped. “Are you serious?” she called.
“Well, what’s a girl to do?” Martha heard her call back down the stairs. The slight echo to her voice indicated that she had entered the bathroom. “Kettle!” she hollered and Martha heard the lock click.
Shaking her head, Martha stepped into the kitchen to fulfil her request.
Sue made no reference to her new single status as she sipped tea at Martha’s kitchen table, listening first-hand to the account of the séance at Gabriel’s apartment and the subsequent theory that Martin Pine might be innocent.
She pondered the details, an expression of disbelief on her face. “Wasn’t he upset though?” she asked.
“Who?” responded Martha, pouring a second cup from the pot.
“Gabriel,” replied Sue. “You know – the guy who killed his brother is put away for life – justice done and all that – and now all of a sudden, according to someone who sees dead people, the guy didn’t do it at all so they have to start all over again? Didn’t it dredge it all up for him?”
Martha shook her head. “He was a bit wobbly at first but you know Gabriel – he’s been remarkably rational about the whole thing. What’s shaken him most is the fact that he was right about being haunted. He didn’t think it was possible for a medium to be haunted as such. And finding out that it’s Pine has thrown him completely.”
Sue’s brow furrowed. “But it’s his little brother, isn’t he sad about it?”
Martha took a sip of tea. “Laurence was Gabriel’s older brother,” she corrected. “Gabriel never even knew he existed until his late twenties so it’s a bit difficult to grieve for someone you didn’t know, I guess. Plus, Laurence is Gabriel’s spirit guide so he usually sees him all the time. To Gabriel he’s not dead, but now he’s missing and he wants to figure out how to get him back. He’s so confused by the whole thing and wonders if we look further into this whole Pine being innocent thing then maybe it might get Laurence back.” To Martha it made perfect sense.
Sue stared at her for a moment. “Do you really believe all this?” she asked sceptically.
“You know I do,” Martha replied. “You know . . . what happened in Norfolk. And Gabriel helped me and I think he’s really sincere. I know it sounds nuts.”
Sue shook her head. “Freak,” she mumbled.
“I’m not a freak,” protested Martha, smiling.
Sue, in turn, grinned. “Nutter,” she said.
Martha shoved her playfully and Sue laughed as her elbow slid off the table. “Ow!” she exclaimed and rubbed her funny-bone, still smiling. “Well, if you’re a freak then I’m a freak’s friend.” She reached across for one of the files that sat on the table. “Because while you’ve been going all ‘Is there anybody there?’ on me, I have been knee-deep in archives and actual facts and I have rummaged out as much as I possibly can about Martin Pine and, apart from the fact that his name is the reverse of a small and rare mammal, there is really nothing complicated about this guy.” Sue’s face grew serious. “And from what I can find out, it was a pretty open and shut case – two watertight witnesses, no alibi, two bodies and a history of crime for Mr Pine. I’m really not sure how we’re going to prove that he’s innocent and that the voices from the other side are telling us the truth.” Sue made a round ‘oh’ with her mouth and wiggled her fingers, giving a moan in a hollow and ominous voice. Her version of a ghost.
Martha sat forward in her chair. “Did you say two bodies?”
Sue started to organise the files and sheets of paper before her. “I most certainly did,” she replied. “Where’s it gone? Here. Okay – you ready?”
Martha nodded.
“Here goes. Martin Pine was convicted and sent to prison for the murder of Laurence McKenzie who we all know and love, and also – and this is the interesting one – the murder of a Jack ‘Wrecking’ Ball – a notorious gangland criminal.”
Sue paused, took a swig of tea, and glanced over her glasses for a reaction from Martha who stared at her, open-mouthed.
“Jack ‘Wrecking’ Ball,” Martha repeated and a smile tugged at the corner of her lips. “I know it’s not funny, but ‘Wrecking’ Ball? What was he, a wrestler? Jack ‘Wrecking’ Baaallll!” Martha mimicked a ringside announcer and giggled.
Sue stared at her friend. “Martha. Can we take this seriously? Do you know how much stuff we have to get through? And you won’t be making fun of this guy when I show you this file.” She looked serious as she tapped another of the manila folders in the pile before her.
Martha suppressed the grin and took a mouthful from her mug. “Sorry,” she said playfully, giving a last giggle before controlling herself.
“Okay. Let’s start with what I’ve found out about Pine,” began Sue, pulling a fresh sheet of handwritten notes dotted with the occasional shorthand squiggle from the pile before her.
“Right. Martin Archibald Pine, born in Hoxton in London’s East End in 1945 to a widowed mum, Gracie Pine. His dad, Private Archibald Pine, died in a crash while Martin’s mum was pregnant – they were both teenagers when they got married – Archie never saw active service. I’d surmise that theirs was a shotgun wedding judging by the dates, but Archie never saw his son and Gracie never remarried so Martin Pine remained an only child.” Sue paused for breath.
“That’s quite sad, isn’t it?” Martha observed, peering at the page in front of her friend.
Sue shrugged. “Stuff happens,” she said, simply, smoothing her long blonde hair behind her ears as she consulted some more notes.
“Our Martin seems to have been quite the scamp. He was expelled from school for constant truancy and left completely at fourteen which would have been in . . . 1959 or so. Now here’s where it all gets a little more serious. Over the next couple of years, Martin was in and out of borstal – all for petty theft, shoplifting, progressing to breaking and entering and so on. Looks like our boy was probably headed for Pentonville until he got involved with a certain Firm which was hard at work in the East End at the time,” Sue paused and looked at Martha to make sure she was following.
Martha looked back expectantly at Sue. “So he got a job then?” she said, scratching her head with her pen.
Sue lowered her head and looked at Martha over her glasses. “Not really,” she said. “He became involved with a certain Firm.”
Martha stared blankly at Sue, realising that Sue expected her to know something that she didn’t. Martha felt a glimmer of annoyance. Why was everyone doing this these days?
Sue rolled her eyes and sighed. “The Krays, stupid!” she said, flicking through a number of printouts of newspaper pages that she took from a file before her and pushing them at Martha who gasped in surprise. “Reggie and Ronnie Kray and their associates. It was London’s East End in 1962, for heaven’s sake – the Krays more or less owned the place and any criminals, petty or otherwise, were more than likely involved with them. Martin Pine was no exception but how exactly he met them, we don’t know.”
Martha waved her hand to get Sue to stop mid-stream. “How have you found all of this out in the last two days?” she asked, waving at the pile of paperwork.
Sue took a mouthful from the cup that Martha had handed her half an hour ago, and grimaced as her mouth filled with cold dregs. “Eurrrgh,” she said, “Oh we’d better make a hot cup – this won’t do at all!” She stood, made her way to the kettle and filled it. “How I’ve found out has been an absolute stroke of luck,” she said, popping the kettle back on its base and flicking the switch. “It just so happens that I
worked with the editor of the Hoxton Chronicle, Maggie Ross, about six months back on a story and once I found out from the 1961 census that Pine was an Eastender, I was able to give her a buzz and she not only said she’d help, but she sent a poor intern in on a Saturday night to gather up as much as she could find on Martin Pine and Jack Ball and mail it all to me so I owe her a massive drink, therefore you owe me one in turn!”
Martha grinned. “There’s bigger mugs in that cupboard just over your head,” she said drily.
Sue grinned back and turned to take a teabag from the stone jar on the worktop. “Fair enough,” she shrugged. “Anyway, the Chronicle has been in existence since the 1800’s and Maggie computerised their whole records system when she took over as editor about three years ago and, as she has a large touch of OCD, you can find anything at the drop of a hat in there so our intern didn’t have too difficult a job to do – just a very long one as both our boys were extremely busy throughout the late 50’s and early 60’s. At least Martin was, up until he got involved with the Krays, it seems. The last report we have of him in about 1962 lists him as an employee at the Gigi Club, Frith Street, in Soho which was one of the clubs that the Krays controlled. Around then he was fingered as a suspect in an assault on an elderly woman in her home, but somehow he managed to disappear completely until he turned up in court in 1964 for the murders of Laurence McKenzie and Jack Ball.”
Sue blew on the fresh cup of tea as she sat back at the table.
Martha leaned back in her chair and sighed, milling the information around in her head. “It seems a bit unlikely though, doesn’t it?” she said.
“What bit?” replied Sue.
“Well, it’s a long way to go from being a shoplifter to a cold-blooded killer,” said Martha, her brows furrowed.
Sue nodded in agreement. “True,” she said. “But we’re not finished with all this lot yet.”
Martha regarded the reams of newspaper and scribbled-on foolscap pages before her. “Can we take a break?” she mock-whined in a childish voice.
Sue shook her head and grinned. “On to Jack Ball,” she said, pulling open the file with a flourish. “Now this guy. He is a piece of work. He is your stereotypical gangster. He’s so gangster that he makes Al Capone look like Cliff Richard. Take a look at this.” She pulled a sheet of photocopied paper from the pile in front of her and passed it to Martha.
Martha took it in both hands and gasped slightly. “Wow!” she managed as she stared at the image on the sheet before her.
The photograph was copied onto an A4 sheet from a news article which she could see was dated 1960, and featured a close-up shot in profile of a man who, Martha felt instantly, exuded some sort of power. A fat hand was raised toward the camera in an unsuccessful attempt to hide his features but he’d completely missed his mark and the face was still clear, the head turned slightly toward the lens, the expression one of disgust. The man was big but solid, dark hair slicked back to one side. His eyes were narrowed into slits as he glared at the camera which added to the sense of danger that he generated. His lips were curled and there, clear as day, was a long scar which ran from the corner of his mouth upwards along his cheek. Martha had heard of this kind of maiming but didn’t think she’d seen it up quite so close before.
“Does he have one to match on the other side?” she asked, all mirth drained from her voice as she ran a finger along the disfigurement, tracing its length on the paper.
“Not sure,” replied Sue, suitably impressed at the response of her friend to the image before her. “That’s the clearest photo of him I could find. That was on his release from prison in 1960. You can see the headline . . .”
“‘That’s Enough, says Mr Ball,’” read Martha aloud.
“Exactly. He announced to the press that day that he was getting out of a life of crime and going straight for once and for all. My guess is he was just moving towards a more corporate veneer to his crime with added undertones of extreme thuggery. And the odd murder. According to himself, he was hanging up his crime-doers cape and going straight on the family fish stall in Billingsgate.”
Sue’s face was grave as Martha’s eyes met hers.
“It’s weird to say but just to look at him,” Martha observed, “just an old, photocopied picture of him . . . you can almost sense evil coming from him. Does that sound nonsensical?”
Sue shook her head. “For once I completely agree with you. For example, what sort of things does a person have to get tangled up in to get a scar like that? Eeurrrgh!”
They both stared at the picture for a moment before Martha gave an exaggerated shudder. “What exactly did he do?” she asked tentatively. “Or do I really want to know?”
“What didn’t he do, more like,” stated Sue, taking some more documents from the file in front of her. “Right. His back story is a little foggy up to a point. No one really knows what happened to him but at some point in his history his parents died and he was taken in by his much older sister, Anna Calvert, and her family. His parents were found dead at home in what was presumed to be a gas leak but to my mind . . .” Her voice trailed off and Martha’s eyes grew wide as she understood the implication.
“You don’t think . . . ?” she gasped and was answered with a shrug.
“Who knows? Anyway, this guy fell in with those lovely Kray twins and all of their associates quite early on in the game – no surprises there as to how he came across Martin Pine then. At first, Ball seemed to be a hired hand – or fist, rather.”
Sue searched through another few pages and passed a sheet across to Martha. It was a list of criminal charges and convictions from the early 1950’s.
“Literally as long as my arm,” Martha observed, glancing through the sheet quickly.
“Too right,” replied Sue. “The intern actually sat down and made this list out for us, bless her, because it was quicker than copying the reports. Look at the sort of stuff that he did – assault, GBH, battery, breaking and entering, criminal damage – he didn’t use those paws for drinking out of china cups, I can tell you.”
Martha nodded in agreement.
“It was in 1958 that he got sent down for murder for a guy called Richard Gordon whose body was found in the Thames,” Sue continued. “His neck had been broken following a violent beating and he’d been chucked over a bridge somewhere. Anyhow, Ball was sent down – listen to this for a nice guy. ‘As Mr Ball was led down to begin his life sentence for the murder of the unfortunate Mr Gordon, he was seen to gesture to the gallery with his fingers in a ‘V for Victory’ sign and was heard to say: ‘Two years, worth every minute.’ It is not known for sure what Mr Ball means by this but residents of East London can sleep safe in their beds tonight knowing that this man is finally behind bars.’”
“But he was sentenced to life – what did he mean by two years? Oh! But he did get out in 1960 . . . how . . . oh . . .” It dawned on her what Sue was getting at.
“Yes. He knew he wouldn’t serve life so he did his token couple of years for the sake of appearances and then won his appeal on ‘a technicality’. Amazingly, a new witness turned up or something.” She looked Martha right in the eye. “The Firm looked after the legalities,” she said, and paused to let that sink in.
Martha pushed back her chair, stood up and stretched.
“So anyway, it’s after this it all gets interesting,” Sue went on.
Martha stopped in her tracks and leaned against the worktop by the sink. “’Cos it’s been deadly dull up till now?”
Sue smiled and refocused. “So, after his release, and his declaration that he was going straight, he disappears off the criminal radar until 1963 when he turns up floating in a lake in Scotland. He was brought back to the East End for burial . . .”
Martha sat back down again. “Let me guess – horses with plumes, glass carriage, flowers spelling out ‘Wrecker’ or whatever his name was? Some dude with a cane leading a procession through the streets, Newgate Cemetary . . .”
Sue smil
ed again. “Now you’re getting it! Although it wasn’t Dickensian times, love! No Newgate, and the flowers spelled out . . . let me see . . . ‘Uncle’ . . . from his devoted nephew, Christopher Calvert, who inherited Mr Ball’s Scottish residence, Dubhglas Castle, on his passing.”
Martha took a moment to let the information sink in.
“So Ball owned the castle? And Gabriel’s godfather is Ball’s nephew? How the hell did he go from being in jail for murder to working on a fish stall to owning a bloody Scottish castle? And how did he end up dead then? And why? Aaaargh, the mind boggles!”
Martha made an exaggerated gesture of pulling her hair and Sue laughed.
“I know! I know!” she said. “I don’t have all the answers – I have to show all this to Gabriel and find out what he knows – it’s his bloody family history after all. I’m sure Ball didn’t crack open his piggy bank to afford a castle but I haven’t figured out yet where his cash came from. But I guess we’ve established how all the action came to be taking place up in Scotland – obviously Ball knew Pine from London and their criminal associations – my guess is that he maybe installed him at the castle because he was, I dunno, a trusted employee-slash-henchman maybe? And he brought his nephew up there to live with him because he was what they call fahmily possibly and somehow almost all of them ended up dead except for Pine whose ghost says he didn’t do it. Case closed!”
Martha flung her head back and sighed, running her hands down her face. “So how did Martin Pine murder Mr Ball. And Laurence? And why?”
“Cut and dried, it seems, on paper,” replied Sue. “There were two witnesses who testified – have a look at these . . .”
She handed Sue another photocopied sheet where two photographs were printed side by side. One of a thin, tall man with glasses and greased-back hair, wearing a suit and entering what looked like the Old Bailey. The second was of a young girl. The photographer had caught her just as she had taken a glimpse in his direction and had captured her with her full face upturned to the camera. She was young, slight and pretty, Martha noted, except for one flaw. Her left eye was turned inwards while her right was dead centre, where it should have been. For a moment Martha had to stare to see if she was looking directly at the camera or not.
The Dark Water Page 16