“I suppose he’s a Christian. But if he prays at all, he is praying that Jack will be sent back to Mozambique.”
“Even though he would be going to his death.”
“Because he would be.”
The flushed patches had faded from her face leaving her very pale.
“Well,” said Tamplin lightly, “it looks as though Mullen has got one supporter in this country at least.”
Conscious that she had said more than she meant to, Dorothy added, “I must ask you not to print anything about that.”
“I’ll respect your confidence,” said Tamplin with a smile. “But perhaps I might advise you to be a little more careful when dealing with representatives of the popular press.”
As Anna arrived with the coffee, the doorbell sounded. Dorothy, who had just picked up her cup, started and slopped some of the coffee into the saucer.
“It’s a woman,” said Anna. “I saw her coming up the path. Don’t worry. She don’t look like a reporter.”
“Then show her in. And fetch another cup.”
The woman who came in certainly bore no resemblance to any reporter Tamplin had ever met. She looked, he thought, like a crow. Wrong. Not a crow. When you took in her glossy black coat with its discreet white frontal, her sharp nose and her beady black eyes, you realised that she was a magpie; an inquisitive, bouncing magpie with its eyes wide open for treasure.
“Why,” said Dorothy, “if it isn’t Mrs. Queen! How sweet of you to come all that way to pay us a visit.”
“Not such a great way, my dear. Over Hammersmith Bridge, a bus down the Fulham Palace Road, a bus up Putney Hill and there I was. Almost, as you might say, on your doorstep.”
In fact, nearly a mile to go, thought Tamplin, but a mile would mean nothing to those stout little legs. The accent puzzled him. Not cockney, certainly. Original West Country, perhaps, overlaid with big city sophistication. Devonshire cream in an East London supermarket.
“And how is everything back in Hammersmith?”
“We’ve missed you, love, that’s a fact. The man who’s got your house, he’s a clurk. He’s got five squalling kids and a wife who squalls louder’n them. Oh, thank you, me dear. I always think a cup of coffee’s welcome at this time in the morning. I hope you look after the family as well as what I did.”
“I hope I do,” said Anna and bolted back into the kitchen.
“That’s a pretty child,” said Mrs. Queen. “Got a good figure, too.” She sounded like a Roman matron examining an item from the slave market. “It must be a great comfort to your husband having her here, I’m sure.”
Dorothy’s head jerked up. Before she could speak, Mrs. Queen added smoothly, “Look how nice she keeps the house. I’m sure she’s a better polisher than what I was.” She swung round to bring Tamplin under her guns. “The gentlemen of the press are here, I see.”
His car had been fully twenty yards up the road, but those button eyes wouldn’t have missed it.
“I suppose you’re here about that book Mr. Katanga’s written. Soon as I heard about it I went to our library and put my name down for it, but they told me it’d be months before I got it, it’s that popular.”
Dorothy said, “Perhaps my husband would lend you a copy.”
“Do you think he would?” The idea pleased Mrs. Queen. “We didn’t always hit it off. Not altogether. I had to stand up for myself, you know. But after a round or two we came to respect each other.” Switch to Tamplin. “I couldn’t altogether blame them for leaving Hammersmith. It was the neighbours. A nasty narrow-minded crowd, I called them. Their tongues longer than their noses.” Back to Dorothy. “But I’ll say this for you, dear. You’ve fallen on your feet and no mistake. You couldn’t hardly have found a more sheltered love-nest.”
There was a hint of malevolence in the way Mrs. Queen enunciated the words ‘love-nest’. Tamplin thought, if I knew what was really going on inside that bird-brain of yours I might have a chance of understanding these people.
One thing was clear. He had caught Dorothy looking down at her watch more than once. So, she was hoping that Mrs. Queen would have finished her coffee and hopped away before her husband came back. Mrs. Queen did not seem to share her apprehension. She had settled herself comfortably in her chair. If the master of the house returned she was more than ready for him.
All the time that she was speaking her head had been swivelling round as she appraised the contents of the room. Now she switched back to Dorothy. “Your husband must be doing well, with his books and his articles, love. And now he’s got himself involved in this shop-lifting business and that horrible policeman from South Africa. We’re all following it in the papers. As good as a serial on the television. You can’t tell what’s going to happen next.” Back to Tamplin. “It’s all publicity, isn’t it, sir?”
He said, “You hear people say, sometimes, that all publicity is good publicity even when it’s bad. Actually, I don’t believe that’s true.”
“Well, you should know. You’re in the game, aren’t you? Isn’t that his car? I hope it is. I’d like to see the great man again.”
It’s what you came down here for, thought Tamplin. This could be interesting.
When Katanga strode into the room he upset most of Tamplin’s preconceptions. He was a very good-looking man. As a boy, before life and responsibility had thickened him, he must have been stunning. The gossip columns had skirted delicately over his ancestry, but all of them had mentioned the Swedish blood. There was assurance in his face and bearing, but no arrogance, and there were lines round his eyes and mouth which might have been lines of humour, but could equally have been lines of cynicism. Mrs. Queen had called him the great man. He was not great yet and, hopefully, had enough humility to know it. But the promise of greatness was there all right.
“Well, if it isn’t my Queenie,” he said, “This is a surprise.”
“A nice surprise, I hope, sir.”
“Of course. What else could it be? Your brains are matched only by your unchanging beauty.”
“Soft soap.”
Ranging rounds, thought Tamplin. If battle were to be joined, it would not be one-sided. As a boy on a farm, he had seen magpies mobbing an eagle-owl.
“Would you like a cup of coffee?” said Dorothy hastily.
“Coffee?” said Mrs. Queen. “Half past twelve isn’t coffee time, is it? Not unless I’m losing my memory. A glass of whisky before dinner and another one, or maybe two, before supper. That was the regular drill, wasn’t it?”
“You’ve an excellent memory,” said Katanga. “But there’s one thing I must correct you about. Now that we’ve moved up in the world, we call what we eat in the middle of the day lunch, not dinner.”
“Oh dear, oh dear. You’ll have to forgive my vulgar ways,” said Mrs. Queen, with a touch of pink in her cheeks.
Katanga had extracted a bottle of Haig from the corner cupboard. Now he paused in front of the sideboard to select one of the glasses on it. There was a larger one, Tamplin saw, half hidden behind a pile of books; not a drinking glass, more an open-mouthed glass pipkin of the sort chemists use for mixing their brews.
“Careful to pick the right glass,” chirruped Mrs. Queen. “We don’t want another accident, do we?”
If she hadn’t been piqued she wouldn’t have said that, thought Tamplin. Katanga swung round. “And just what exactly do you mean by that?”
“Nothing, sir. Nothing at all. What should I mean?”
“I’ll get you some ice from the fridge,” said Dorothy, halfway out of her chair.
“Stay where you are,” said Katanga. He turned about and made for the kitchen. Dorothy gave a small sigh.
The kitchen was only divided from the living-room by a partition and they could hear Katanga talking to Anna. He had evidently recovered his temper – if, indeed, he had lost it – and Anna was laughing at something he was saying.
By the time he came back with the drink, Mrs. Queen had, at last, concluded that she had o
utstayed her welcome. She had extracted herself from her chair and recovered her umbrella which, like so many Londoners, she carried more as a walking-stick and a weapon than as shelter from the rain.
“Are you off?” said Katanga, just politely enough. “Could I give you a lift home, perhaps?”
“In that nice new car of yours?” said Mrs. Queen. “That would be a treat. I hope you don’t have the same trouble starting it as you did with the old one.”
The silence which followed this innocent remark was crackling with undischarged electricity. Tamplin realised that the principals were so intent on their private fight that they had almost forgotten he was there. He decided, reluctantly, to break it up. Climbing to his feet, he said, “No need to drag Mr. Katanga away from his lunch. I can easily run you home myself.”
“Two gentlemen competing to do me favours,” simpered Mrs. Queen. “I’ll entrust myself to the gentleman from the press, if it isn’t taking him too far out of his way.”
“Hammersmith is on my way.”
“Then I have great pleasure in accepting.”
Whether it was a pleasure for her or not, one thing was clear to Tamplin. The thought of him having the chance of a private talk with Mrs. Queen was no pleasure to either of the Katangas. Very interesting.
As they were bowling north up Putney Park Lane, Tamplin said, “As it happens, I know the Castelnau area well. When I first came to London I lived just south of Hammersmith Bridge, in Riverview Gardens.”
“To think of that. Not a long way from my little house. The world’s a small place, isn’t it? Do I gather that you’ve moved off now?”
“I had to move away when I got my job on the Highside Times. But I didn’t lose touch. I’d started playing rugby for South-West London. They use the Mill Lodge ground. So, most Saturdays, there I am, back again.”
“Rugby?” said Mrs. Queen. “That’s the game with the funny-shaped ball, isn’t it? I saw on television that girls were playing it now. I fancy I might have enjoyed that.”
Just the right shape for a front row forward, thought Tamplin. They proceeded in silence for a minute. Mrs. Queen, he knew, had something to say and sooner or later she was going to say it.
It came as they slowed to cross the Upper Richmond Road. “Tell me, Mr. Tamplin, does your paper pay money for information?”
“Occasionally. Very small sums. We usually call them expenses. It makes our informants feel more comfortable about it.”
“Small sums,” said Mrs. Queen thoughtfully. “Even when the information is so important that it might make a lot of difference?”
“The trouble is that we’re not a very important paper. Not one of the big league.”
“But if you was to get hold of a story the others hadn’t got, that might give you a lift into the big league.”
“True,” said Tamplin. He was aware that he was dealing with a much tougher character than the newsagent, Sundridge. Whatever this lady had for sale he would not get it for blarney. He said, “What sort of sum had you in mind?”
“Should we say five hundred pounds? Half of it down and the other half when you’ve used the information.”
The promptness with which Mrs. Queen rattled this off made it clear to Tamplin that the project had been taking shape in her mind for some time. When he said nothing she reverted to her wheedling tone. “Jackie Katanga’s an important man, isn’t he?”
“He’s a witness in a criminal case which wouldn’t ordinarily take up more than half a dozen lines in any paper.”
“Come along, sir, come along. Don’t talk about lines. I can read between lines. Maybe the shop-lifting isn’t all that important, but being in the case is making his name known, isn’t it? He’s going places, isn’t he?”
“You could be right and when he gets there maybe we’ll come back and see what it is you’ve got for sale.”
“And maybe by that time,” said Mrs. Queen tartly, “you’ll find you’re not at the head of the queue. It’s Boswell Road we want. First on the right.”
They had crossed Hammersmith Bridge by now and were in Barnes Avenue. Up to this point he had not needed directions. It was familiar territory. Barnes Avenue led to the home ground of the South-West London Club and they were, at that very moment, passing the Secretary’s flat which he had so often attended on selection nights.
“Turn right at that telephone box. That’s the one. My little home-from-home is number 9. I share it with my married sister and her husband. Their children are all grown-up, thank the Lord. Are you married, Mr. Tamplin?”
“Not yet.”
“You’re lucky. It’s usually a mistake.”
“Was yours?”
“Since you ask,” said Mrs. Queen, “I’ll be frank with you. My husband is what you might call a figment. I felt it due to my age and position that people should start addressing me as a married woman, that’s all it was. Here we are and thanks for the lift. I’ve a feeling we shall be seeing more of each other. Goodbye to you.”
Tamplin watched as she hopped nimbly up the front steps. Numbers 7 and 9 Boswell Road, though not semi-detached, were so squashed together that they might, without loss of dignity, have edged up a yard closer and completed the attachment. When the Katangas had lived in No. 7 they and the Queen household must have been very much in each other’s laps.
As Mrs. Queen went in and slammed the front door behind her, Tamplin moved forward slowly. Boswell Road was a oneway street with cars parked nose to tail along the nearside. At the far end he had a choice. He could turn right and re-cross Hammersmith Bridge, heading back to Highside and an overdue lunch. Or he could turn left and park in a spot well-known to him between his own club ground and the playing fields of St. Paul’s School.
At the moment he felt that a short interval for thought was more important than food, so he turned left. As he did so a battered grey BMW Alpina pulled out of the line of cars opposite Mrs. Queen’s front gate. When it reached the end of Boswell Road it, also, turned to the left.
The place that Tamplin had chosen was well suited to reflection. Both playing fields were empty and the early-afternoon sun was slanting across the grass and silvering the ruffled waters of the Thames which formed a backdrop to the scene. Now a few boys in football clothes were coming out of the school block and were heading for where he sat, passing a ball between themselves or kicking it ahead and chasing it.
He ignored them and concentrated on his problem.
There were still too many pieces missing for him to be able to put together a coherent picture; but if the enquiry which he had asked Bonnie Parker to make turned out as he anticipated he would unquestionably have enough information to interest the lawyers for the defence. They were the people who were going to fight the next round. Armed with his information, they could at least fight with their eyes open.
If he decided to help them.
One of the boys had kicked the ball a long way ahead and another boy was running after it. He pulled off the difficult catch a few yards away from where the car was parked. Tamplin said, “Well played,” and the boy smiled before turning to kick the ball back.
As Tamplin started his car and headed back towards the road, the BMW Alpina drew across the opening, blocking it.
The man who got out was young, fair-haired and heavily built. He walked with a limp. The last time Tamplin had seen him he had been coming up the steps of the Orange Consortium.
He hobbled up and leaned in at the nearside window of the car. He said, “Reporter?” managing to make it sound insulting.
Tamplin said, “Reporter’s old hat. I prefer to call myself a newspaper man.”
“Don’t mind what you call yourself, chum. But a word in season. We saw you dropping Mrs. Queen at her house.”
‘We’ apparently included the other young man, who was in the driving seat of the BMW.
“I congratulate you,” said Tamplin, “on the excellence of your eyesight. I did indeed drop Mrs. Queen at her house and I fail to see what the he
ll it’s got to do with you.”
“You could find out. If you bothered the old girl again.”
“Just move your car. And stop talking like a B-movie heavy.”
The young man looked at him thoughtfully for a long moment, as though memorising his face. Then he signalled to the driver, who cleared the entrance.
“I’m obliged to you,” said Tamplin. “No. I didn’t mean for moving your car. I meant for helping me to make up my mind.”
14
When Tamplin got back to the Highside Times he found the reporters’ room empty. Bonnie Parker had left a note on his table. She had done the job which he had suggested.
Introducing herself as an old school-friend of Rosemary Herbert she had extracted from the Secretary of the City Northern Institute the two addresses which they had on record. One was 10 Mornington Square, N1. The second, and more interesting one, was 10 Axe Lane, EC2.
“We like to have a record of both the home and the office address,” explained the Secretary, who was a girl of around Bonnie’s age and inclined to be friendly. “Axe Lane’s in the City. I imagine that would be the office one, wouldn’t you?”
Bonnie had agreed that this was likely and had proceeded to Axe Lane. There was no indication of the business carried on at No. 10, but Bonnie, who did not believe in hanging about, had marched in and tackled the commissionaire, this time in the character of a girl looking for a job.
The commissionaire had told her who the owners of the premises were and had added that, seeing as how they’d lost two of their three girls recently, they’d probably be glad to take her on. When she asked what sort of person the headman was the commissionaire had been discreet, but unenthusiastic.
At the foot of her note Bonnie had written, ‘I expect the girl you’re interested in was one of the two who left Axe Lane last week.’
Tamplin added the note to his file and turned up the Sentinels account of the hearing at Bow Street. This gave him the name of the solicitor who had been acting for Mullen and he walked across to the public library in Liverpool Road to examine the Law List. There were three Shermans in it, but only one in London. A member of Bantings, the well-known Lincoln’s Inn firm, but not, it seemed, a partner. So much the better. More approachable.
The Queen v. Karl Mullen Page 13