‘No,’ said Powell, shortly.
‘They also want something to say, in a release. We’re running behind here.’
‘It’s obviously the same killer and there is an element of ritual, in the forehead crosses. I think there is a connection between the victims, except for the hooker, but Geoffrey Sloane’s against me. By now Amy should have some background about the victims.’
There was another silence. Then Beddows said, ‘Nothing more than that? I can’t say we’ve got a positive sighting?’
‘You do and you’ll obstruct my investigation. And I won’t carry the can.’
The silence was even longer. ‘That a threat?’
‘You know I couldn’t afford to.’
‘We’ve got to say something!’
‘A positive line of inquiry.’
‘We try something as shitty as that the media will eat us alive.’
‘We try anything more and they’ll spit the pieces out and us with it,’ said Powell.
Two hours later, in his Park Avenue apartment, James Durham sat watching the main NBC evening news, his third Scotch clutched in his hand, undrunk, forgotten. He knew the names of all three men, although the father, not the son, in Texas. And felt hollowed out, not understanding. All he understood was that everything was over. Everything crumbling around him. He began to cry.
Chapter Twelve
‘How the fuck can one human being do something like that to another?’ demanded the detective sergeant, Anthony Bennett.
‘Poor little cow,’ agreed Malcolm Townsend.
Both detectives were standing just inside the door, giving all the space to the forensic squad in front of them. Townsend said, ‘What do we know?’
‘Name’s Beryl Simpkins,’ said Bennett. ‘Professional torn. Worked Shepherd Market. Arrived last night with a man around eleven. Paid for all night. Clerk found her this morning.’
‘We got him?’
‘Waiting downstairs. He’s shaken up.’
‘Who wouldn’t be, finding this before breakfast?’
Townsend was a large man, the muscles of an amateur league rugby player in danger of going to fat. He was on the promotional fast track, already a chief superintendent at thirty-eight. Bennett, by comparison a thin, studious-looking man, was just as ambitious, determined to make inspector by swimming as closely as he could in Townsend’s wake, the suckerfish to the shark. He hadn’t been sure how much mileage there’d be in the killing of a whore until he’d seen the body. The injuries and mutilations guaranteed some headlines, although it would be important to catch the bastard quickly, before he killed again.
He said, ‘Guy that did this is a nutter, real Jack the Ripper.’
‘We’ll issue a very full press statement, to warn the girls,’ decided Townsend. ‘And liaise with Vice. Get the word put out we want to talk to any torn who’s recently had a kinky client, likes to inflict pain, maybe he hurt himself …’ He hesitated. ‘You’re right: he’s got to be a nutter. Get some people to check psychiatric hospitals for any escapes or recent releases of sexual deviants. Try Broadmoor yourself.’ To the forensic squad he called, ‘Anything hopeful?’
‘He had a bath, I’d guess after he did it,’ said a balding, protectively dressed scientist, from the bathroom door. He held up a linen strip. ‘Towel’s wet, with some black hair adhering. More hair in the bath, too. And there’s enough fingerprints, all sorts, to fill a book. This is a busy place, doesn’t get properly cleaned all that often.’
Before his superior could state the obvious Anthony Bennett said, ‘When they’re all printed up I’ll run them through Records.’
‘Let’s see what the clerk can remember,’ suggested Townsend.
Keith Mason, a small, timid man who twitched rather than blinked, was sitting on the very edge of an upright chair behind his desk in the office, which had already been handed over to the day manager. Before either detective could speak Mason said haltingly, ‘The company want me to tell you that this is a respectable hotel and that they’re devastated that anything like this could have happened.’
Townsend leaned slightly towards the man and said, ‘And I want you to tell the company that I know this is a pay-by-the-hour knocking shop, which doesn’t interest me as long as I get all the co-operation I want. If I don’t I’ll get the Vice Squad to prosecute and close you down …’ He paused, smiling. ‘We understand each other now?’
‘Yes,’ said the night manager, meekly.
Townsend said, ‘Good. Now tell us all about it.’
‘I don’t know anything,’ said the man at once. He stuttered.
‘You’d be surprised,’ said Townsend, soothingly. ‘What hours do you work, as night clerk?’
‘Ten to ten.’
‘Beryl a regular?’
The man nodded. ‘Already been here twice last night, before the last time.’
‘They pay in advance, right?’ came in Anthony Bennett.
The man nodded again.
‘How much?’ demanded the sergeant.
‘Fifty pounds. And she had a £50 note. I remember that. I only took a few last night.’
‘Where is it?’ demanded Townsend.
Instead of replying Keith Mason went to a safe in the corner of the office, turned the combination and took out ten separate £50 notes. Bennett took them, recording each number before dropping them by their corners into a glassine evidence bag and gave the man a receipt.
‘What time did Beryl arrive, the last time?’ coaxed Townsend, after the night manager sat down again.
‘Just before eleven.’
‘You were alone at the desk.’
‘Yes.’
‘Was it busy or were Beryl and the man the only people in the foyer?’
‘A couple had just gone upstairs. And two more couples were coming in at the same time: I could see them paying off taxis outside. But for about three or four minutes it was just Beryl and her client.’
‘People like Beryl and her client don’t register, do they?’ said Anthony Bennett.
‘No.’
Townsend looked meaningfully at the subdued manager. ‘So you had three or four minutes to look at the man with Beryl?’
‘That’s not the way,’ said Mason. ‘Men are often embarrassed with prostitutes so you don’t look at them. This man stayed some way from the desk, where the foyer is shadowed. It’s like that on purpose, for the same reason.’
‘Describe what you can about the man,’ urged Bennett. ‘Take your time. Don’t miss anything out, even if you don’t think it important.’
Arranging his recollection, Keith Mason didn’t speak at once. Then he said: ‘White man. Young. Mid-twenties. Dark hair. Quite slim—’
‘Slim or definitely thin?’ broke in the sergeant.
‘Slim. Fatter than me. About the same height as me, though. Dark suit and tie, with a white shirt. No topcoat. And a satchel. Black.’
‘Satchel!’ seized Townsend.
‘With a strap, for his shoulder. They carry them sometimes. Sex aids.’
‘What about his face?’ said Bennett.
‘I really didn’t look.’
‘Beard?’
‘No. I would have noticed that.’
‘Moustache?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘What about his nose? Big? Small?’
‘I really didn’t look,’ repeated the man.
‘They speak to each other, so you could hear his voice? Any accent?’ picked up Townsend.
‘Beryl spoke to him. Said it was all fixed up. He didn’t say anything.’
‘Do you think you could work with a police artist? Make a picture?’
Mason shook his head yet again. ‘I honestly didn’t see enough to do that.’
‘What about if you saw him again? Do you think you’d recognize him?’
‘I don’t think so.’
Townsend sighed. ‘You didn’t see him leave?’
Mason shifted, uncomfortably. ‘No.’
>
‘How many doors are there?’
‘Five, including the front. A fire door at the side and the back and two back doors.’
‘Can you get to them without passing the front desk, where you were?’
‘I lock the front door at three. Then I check the others, which all lock from the inside. The release bar on the side fire exit was up, where it had been opened.’
As Bennett hurried back upstairs to fetch a fingerprint officer Townsend said, ‘You’ve really been very helpful.’
‘Well?’ demanded Townsend, in the car returning to New Scotland Yard.
‘Going to be a bastard,’ judged Bennett.
‘Beryl got any kids?’
‘Not according to her police record.’
‘That’s something, at least. Poor cow.’
* * *
There was the sound of slow movement from beyond the door and then the clatter of a failed first effort to slip the catch. It went down the second time but he had to push from the outside to help it open. Samuel Hargreaves was still slight but bowed after so many years, head forward over his chest, barely supported by a weakened neck. That should make it easier than usual, thought Harold Taylor. The old man had rheumy eyes and there was beer on his breath. He said, ‘Sorry about the delay. And the door. My hands.’ He held up fingers gnarled and twisted from arthritis.
‘Mr Hargreaves? Samuel Hargreaves?’
‘That’s right. You’re the American lawyer?’
‘That’s it. Can I come in?’
The man shuffled backwards and supported himself against the wall to turn. The house stank, of dust and urine and cooked fish. He led the way into a kitchen, where the smell of fish was strongest. There was some simmering on the stove. Two cats, entwined in the same basket, looked up uninterestedly but then immediately rose, backs arched. Hargreaves said, ‘Bill and Ben. Good companions, cats. Don’t seem to like you, though. Do you want some tea?’
‘No, thank you,’ Taylor said. His stomach was churning at the stink. He wished he’d known about the cats.
The man collapsed into a sagged, blanket-covered chair in front of an unlit grate. The cats were stiff legged beside him. ‘Surprised to hear from you. You said a legacy? How much? Who’s it from?’
‘We’ve got to establish you’re the right Samuel Hargreaves first.’
‘What do you want to know?’
‘In the late Forties, early Fifties, you were in the British Army?’
‘National Service,’ said the man. He looked down at his pets. ‘Be quiet! Sit down!’
‘What unit?’
‘Medical Corps.’
‘Where?’
‘Catterick, first.’
‘Then where?’
‘Berlin.’
‘What sort of work did you do in the Medical Corps in Berlin?’
‘Pharmacy. Stores. Can’t remember anyone from then likely to leave me any money. I really am sorry about Bill and Ben. Can’t understand it. Not normally like this.’
The animals were making Harold Taylor extremely uneasy. ‘You handle a lot of medicines in Berlin?’
‘That was my job.’
He couldn’t stay in the house much longer; couldn’t prolong it as he’d intended. This was foul. Obscene. ‘Penicillin? Streptomycin from time to time?’
‘Course I did. What’s this got to do with …’ began the old man and then looked up with his weak eyes to the face that was transforming in front of him.
‘Remember me, you bastard?’ demanded the man now with Myron Nolan’s face.
Hargreaves moaned, eyes rolling upwards in a faint, and pitched forward from his chair, scattering the cats. As he did so his bowels collapsed, adding to the stench.
Amy Halliday managed to intercept the FBI Task Force as they were about to board the Bureau plane to Washington. She told Powell, ‘You were right about the link. It’s Florence.’ He listened for a further ten minutes and decided to fly direct to Birmingham. ‘Tell Charlie Andrews I want another meeting with Jethro Jnr.’
‘Beddows has scheduled a conference that the Director is going to chair.’
‘Tell him it has to be postponed.’
‘How about asking?’
‘Tell him,’ insisted Powell.
Chapter Thirteen
The FBI pilot kept the plane’s engines idling, stopping only long enough for Powell to disembark. Barry Westmore promised the results of the scientific tests and examinations he needed later that day. Powell said by-then he’d be back in Washington.
Charles Andrews was waiting at the airport, a car ready on a part of the terminal feed road upon which parking was prohibited. He said, ‘Jethro Jnr first, then Gaynor. I thought we could call by the Arlington house instead of calling Gaynor in, for what you say you want?’
‘It’ll only take a minute,’ agreed Powell.
‘Jethro Jnr said it was right you made an appointment this time. He’s put the word out on the street that he’s got an amnesty for every crime going back to the death of Jesus, and Birmingham PD are pissed about it. I haven’t told them you’re coming back. And Harry Beddows wants to speak to you a.s.a.p.’ He nodded to the car phone. ‘You want to do it from here?’
‘No,’ said Powell. Instead he told Andrews about Pittsburgh and what Amy Halliday had discovered wading through records.
Andrews said, ‘How do you explain that?’
‘I can’t,’ said Powell. ‘I’m hoping Leroy can.’
‘Shit, look at that!’ exclaimed Andrews.
There was an expectant crowd in the debris-strewn lot around the Hillside Sports and Social Club and as they got out of Andrews’s car there was a camera flash and television lights flared on.
Charles Andrews said, ‘Jethro Jnr’s fifteen minutes of fame.’
Powell managed to get halfway along the gauntlet before a microphone appeared in front of him.
‘… breakthrough in these serial killings that’s brought you back here today?’ finished a voice that Powell hadn’t heard begin.
‘All information has to come from Bureau Public Affairs in Washington, DC,’ said Powell firmly, forcing his way on.
‘Is an arrest imminent?’ demanded the unseen questioner but Powell shouldered his way inside without replying.
There wasn’t a spare seat and there was hardly any room left to stand inside the huge main room. The hubbub that greeted them died almost at once. The only comfortably clear area was at the far end, beyond the slated partition. Jethro Morrison Jnr sat smiling a gold-toothed smile from his round table. The caftan was azure blue, worn with a Muslim cap. The links in the three-strand gold necklace were so wide it made the sort of breastplate featured on Egyptian tomb walls. He was flanked by the same two unnamed attendants, with Leroy Goodfellow to his left. The crowd parted into another processional avenue and as he got closer Powell saw there was a waiting bottle of Mount Gay rum. Behind him Powell heard Charles Andrews say, ‘Holy shit of angels!’
Someone in the crowd heard too and said ‘Hallelujah’, and there was a snigger of laughter from a small group. From the brightness Powell knew the local television cameraman had followed them into the club.
‘Welcome, Brother!’ greeted Jethro Jnr, ringmaster to the circus, loud enough for the remark to be picked up by the camera’s boom mike. ‘Sit. Take a taste.’
The two FBI men sat. Well rehearsed, another gold-draped man poured drinks for everyone around the table. Leroy Goodfellow was suffering a cocaine cold and from his sniffed fidgeting Powell guessed he’d just contributed to his malady. Powell and Andrews took the offered glasses. Jethro Jnr lifted his hand as if in benediction and the chatter behind them quietened. The cameraman and the reporter came into the annexe. Able to focus beyond the light for the first time Powell saw that both men were black. So was the stills photographer.
Jethro Jnr raised his glass and said, ‘To the defeat of crime.’
There was a ripple of sycophantic laughter from the main room. Powell said, ‘I’ll
drink to that’ and did. Charles Andrews didn’t.
Jethro Jnr said, ‘Us Brothers gonna show you the way again?’
Andrews shifted uncomfortably.
Powell said, ‘I hope so.’ His glass was attentatively refilled.
‘Mutual co-operation, niggers helping hooky law, honky law helping niggers. Don’t that sound the best?’ The man spoke looking more to the cameras than towards Powell. There was a giggle from the room. The resident Bureau agent shifted again.
Powell brought his glass up. ‘Here’s to a perfect world.’
Jethro Jnr hesitated, face briefly clouding, then drank. ‘What can we do for you this time, Brother?’
‘Better than last,’ said Powell. ‘And without an audience. Just Leroy.’
The stiffening of the gang leader’s face lasted longer the second time. He said, ‘You’re a guest in my house. I ain’t got nothing we all can’t hear.’
Powell tapped his briefcase. ‘I brought the photographs of your daddy, just in case you forgot what happened to him.’
Jethro Jnr, with a bully’s recognition of an unafraid opponent, dropped the badinage. ‘How close are you to getting who did my daddy?’
The cameraman zoomed in tightly as Powell said, ‘Getting closer all the time. At the moment you’re holding things up.’
‘Want Jethro with me,’ said Leroy Goodfellow, urgently.
‘Fine by me,’ accepted Powell at once, nodding to Andrews. ‘You and Jethro, he and I.’
‘Hey, man …!’ began the television reporter.
‘No!’ said Powell. At once, smiling, he said, ‘You don’t want that, do you, Jethro? You want your daddy’s killer caught, right?’
‘My house, my rules,’ announced the mobster, seizing Powell’s offered escape. ‘Things to talk about in private.’ He was rising when he finished, leading the way through the central door of the rear five into a lavishly furnished office. He hurried to the commanding, buttonback chair behind an equally imposing desk. Powell, Charles Andrews and Leroy Goodfellow took seats fronting it. The walls were papered with photographs of people the dead man’s son clearly considered famous. He was featured in all of them. The only one Powell recognized was Muhammad Ali. There was a bar to the right but Jethro Jnr didn’t offer drinks.
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