by Jim Eldridge
‘Do me a favour, get hold of Rosa and tell her what’s happened,’ Julie said to Donna. ‘Tell her to get her copper pal on to it and sort it out.’
‘That won’t be necessary, miss,’ said the short man to Donna. ‘Your friend will be returning shortly, once we’ve got a few things cleared up.’ He pointed at a car waiting at the kerb and said to Julie: ‘This way, miss.’
Coburg and Lampson pulled open the doors of the saloon bar of the Iron Horse pub in Lambeth. Within beer-glass-throwing distance of the Archbishop of Canterbury’s official residence, Lambeth Palace, reflected Coburg, which said a lot about London: the highest churchman in the land cheek by jowl with one of London’s most dangerous gangsters.
As Coburg and Lampson entered the pub, two men at a table between McGuinness and the door stood up. Their flattened noses and cauliflower ears were the clue to their previous occupations as prizefighters, and their current one as McGuinness’s bodyguards. McGuinness gestured to the men to return to their seats and smiled at Coburg and Lampson.
‘Mr Coburg. Sergeant Lampson. Long time no see. To what do I owe this unexpected visit?’
Coburg smiled. ‘Oh, come on, Mr McGuinness. A man like you, who knows everything that happens on his patch?’
McGuinness smiled. ‘Ah, but the Ritz isn’t in my patch.’
Coburg chuckled. ‘See how much easier conversation is when we don’t pretend?’
McGuinness gestured at two chairs at his table and Coburg and Lampson sat down.
‘What can I get you? Beer? Whisky?’
‘Really, when we’re on duty?’ Coburg chided him. ‘Tut, tut. No, just some information.’
‘About what?’
‘Joe Williams. One of yours, I believe.’
McGuinness shook his head. ‘If you’ve been told that, someone is leading you astray, Chief Inspector.’
‘But an acquaintance, surely. Whenever he’s been lifted for anything, your name seems to come up as his rescuing angel.’
‘I’m a man who dislikes injustice, Chief Inspector. When I hear of someone being wrongly accused of something, I feel it my duty to intervene.’
‘And I’m sure Joe Williams was very grateful. Of course, now he’s dead, the picture changes somewhat, because a lot of people want to know who killed him, and what he was doing at the Ritz to end up in a royal suite with his throat cut.’
‘I can assure you, Mr Coburg, that whatever the reason he was there, it was nothing to do with me.’
‘What about Billy Thackeray?’
‘Who?’
Coburg gave a weary sigh. ‘Please, Mr McGuinness, this conversation has been going so well, but to try and pretend you don’t know Billy Thackeray, close pal of Joe Williams, living at the same address—’
‘Yes, all right, the name does seem familiar, now you come to mention it,’ said McGuinness. ‘What about him?’
‘He seems to have vanished.’
‘Vanished?’
‘Yes, he hasn’t been seen at the house he and Joe lived in for the past few days. Do you know where he might be?’
McGuinness shook his head. ‘I hardly know the bloke. Who is he exactly?’
‘A waiter at El Torero. You know, the nightclub where Stavros Higgins phoned you from to let you know that the dead man at the Ritz was Joe Williams.’
For the first time, McGuinness scowled, and they saw the flash of anger in his eyes.
‘Are you having my phone tapped, Inspector?’ he demanded.
‘Chief Inspector,’ Coburg corrected him. ‘And the answer is no. But I’m sure that when I report to the Intelligence services and the Foreign Office about this conversation, if it’s not what I feel is satisfactory, they can arrange it.’
McGuinness studied Coburg carefully, weighing up his next words.
‘Maybe the Intelligence people may not be as co-operative as you’d like, Chief Inspector,’ he said finally, and his easy smile was gone now, replaced by a quiet anger at having his equanimity disturbed.
‘Oh? Why’s that?’
‘If you’re looking for who might have bumped him off, maybe you should look into his political connections. Or maybe these people you mention are already doing that.’
‘What political connections?’
‘By all accounts he was a member of the British Union of Fascists, before they got closed down. But then again, he wasn’t, if you get my drift.’
‘Let’s say I don’t get your drift. Either he was or he wasn’t.’
‘You’re not very good at subtlety, are you, Mr Coburg? Take me, for example. I’m a patriot, I am. King and country first. Now I know where my loyalties lie, and it wouldn’t please me to think that anyone who worked for me favoured the opposition, if you get my meaning.’
‘You don’t approve of the BUF.’
‘No, I don’t, and even though a lot of ’em have been rightfully locked up as the traitors they are, there are still quite a few out there, on the loose, stirring things up. If you know where to find ’em.’
‘And Joe knew where to find them?’
‘Well, he would do, being a member.’
‘And he reported what they were up to? And what did you do with it? A little blackmail?’
McGuinness shook his head. ‘No, no, Mr Coburg. Like I said, I’m a patriot, me. I don’t take money from the likes of them scum to keep quiet. That goes against the grain.’ He winked and smiled. ‘If I were you, I’d have a word with some of your colleagues at Wormwood Scrubs.’
‘Right, Ted, what did you make of all that?’ asked Coburg as he and Lampson walked from the pub to their car.
‘All that British Union of Fascists stuff?’ grunted Lampson. ‘And the bit about Wormwood Scrubs. That’s where MI5 have moved to, ain’t it?’
‘They have,’ replied Coburg.
‘So, if he’s to be believed, Joe Williams was working undercover for MI5, keeping them apprised of what the BUF and other fifth columnists are up to.’
‘If Big Mel is to be believed,’ stressed Coburg. ‘Which, knowing him, is highly unlikely. The man spends so much time lying he’s forgotten what the truth is. But of one thing you can be sure, he’s told us about Williams, the BUF and MI5 for a reason, one which will be useful to him.’
‘Divert attention away from what he’s been up to?’
‘Possibly. But a side of me suspects there’s another reason as well, something we’re not aware of yet. Though I feel we will be, once we start digging.’
‘Perhaps Joe Williams was part of a team that went in to the Ritz to steal the two million and he got killed before the job went ahead.’
‘But whose team? McGuinness is too sharp and too experienced to put things at risk for something that huge.’
‘Maybe McGuinness was working with someone else,’ mused Lampson.
‘The Bell brothers?’ suggested Coburg. ‘They’re big enough to handle two million. And Piccadilly is on their patch.’
‘Yeh, but they’re based north of the river,’ pointed out Lampson. ‘As I’ve said, north and south don’t mix, as a rule.’
‘They might when there’s a fortune of that size for the taking,’ said Coburg.
As Rosa walked into the Ritz she saw that the hall porter was signalling to her from his desk.
‘Yes, George?’
‘Miss Weeks, I’ve had a telephone call for you from a friend of yours. A Donna Dunn.’
‘Donna? Yes, she’s one of my housemates. What’s happened? I can’t imagine she’d phone here for me unless there was a problem.’
‘She did sound upset. She asked if you could call at the house as soon as you came in.’
‘Did she say why?’
‘I’m afraid not. But, as I said, she did sound as if something had happened to upset her.’
‘When did she phone?’
‘About an hour and a half ago.’
‘An hour and a half!’
‘Unfortunately, I didn’t know how to get hold of you,’ said George
apologetically.
‘It’s not your fault, George. I was at Chappell’s selecting some new pieces of music, and I got carried away. I only came in now to practise some of them for tonight. If she phones again will you tell her I’m on my way.’
‘I assume there’s no telephone in your house.’
‘You assume right. Luckily there’s a phone box not far away from us, but it’s no use if someone wants to get in touch. I’ll see you later, George.’
George turned back to checking the pigeonholes behind his desk, making sure that all messages needing attention were still in their rightful places. No one but he was supposed to touch them, though one could never be sure when some interfering person, whether hotel staff or a nosy guest, might have sneaked in when his back was turned.
‘Mr George!’
He turned and saw the trembling figure of one of the kitchen staff still dressed in his whites appearing from the stairs that led to the basement.
‘You know the rules about appearing in the reception area wearing kitchen uniform,’ George he said in tones of stern disapproval.
‘Yes, Mr George, but chef sent me and told me it was urgent. Very urgent. There’s a dead body in the kitchen! He wants you to get in touch with your detective friend at Scotland Yard. There’s been another killing!’
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
As Coburg and Lampson entered Scotland Yard they saw the duty desk sergeant hailing them.
‘More problems, Ted,’ sighed Coburg.
‘It might be something good,’ suggested Lampson.
‘In this place?’ asked Coburg.
Lampson shrugged. ‘Yeh, fair point.’
They reached the desk.
‘Yes, Sergeant?’ asked Coburg.
‘The Ritz have been on for you. A Mr George. Urgent.’
‘Oh? Did he say why?’
‘Yes, sir. It seems there’s been another murder there. Superintendent Allison has gone to look into it, but this Mr George asks if you can go there as well.’
Rosa let herself into the house, and at the sound of the door opening, Donna came hurrying down the stairs.
‘Rosa! Thank God you’re back!’
‘Why? What’s happened?’
‘Two blokes came and took Julie away.’
‘Why? Where to?’
‘They didn’t say. One of them said it was a matter of national security, but it all looked wrong to me. Julie said to tell you and for you to get your copper pal on it.’
‘She must mean Edgar. He’s a DCI at Scotland Yard. Yesterday he showed Julie a photograph of a man who was killed at the Ritz.’
‘Joe!’ exclaimed Donna. ‘Remember, she was talking about him last night.’ She looked at Rosa, puzzled. ‘Is that why these two blokes took her away?’
‘I can’t think why,’ said Rosa. ‘Who were these blokes? Where were they from?’
‘Julie said they told her they were from Special Branch. And they looked like coppers. But … I don’t know … I could tell by the way Julie was not wanting to go with them and them leaning on her, that something didn’t feel right.’
Julie sat in the small locked room. It wasn’t a cell; she’d been in police cells before and she knew what they were like. For one thing, there was supposed to be a toilet in it. There wasn’t one in this room. Yes, there was a bucket in one corner, but that was all. There wasn’t even a proper bunk, just a mattress on the flagstone floor, along with three wooden chairs and a table. There was one window, partially boarded up by wooden slats nailed horizontally across it, with just enough light let in to penetrate the gloom. There was a bare light bulb dangling from the ceiling. All further evidence that wherever she was, this wasn’t a police cell: in police cells the ceiling lights had protective glass impregnated with steel bars to stop them being smashed.
Whoever these people were, they weren’t regular coppers. She doubted if they were even Special Branch. Certainly, the way they’d acted in the car hadn’t been police-like. The short one had produced a thick blindfold which he’d insisted she had to wear. She’d tried to resist, but the tall one on her other side had simply grabbed her wrists and held them in a grip of steel while the short one slipped the band of thick material over her hair and slid it down to cover her eyes.
‘Any attempts to take it off and we’ll handcuff you,’ she was warned.
And so she’d kept it on, and when the car stopped they’d guided her through a series of doors and down a stone corridor before they’d pushed her into this room, taken the blindfold off, and then left, locking the door behind them.
Who were they? At least they hadn’t mistreated her. There’d been no grabbing or slaps, nor even any threats. There’d just been the same boring questions repeated over and over again whenever they came in, the short one doing all the questioning while the tall one just sat and watched, grim-faced. The short one seemed polite enough, didn’t raise his voice, but Julie sensed there was something dangerous about him. She’d encountered men like him before, all perfectly well-behaved, then suddenly fists were flying and there would be blood.
‘Tell us about Joe Williams.’
‘I’ve already told you: I knew him. Not well. We went out a few times, that’s all.’
‘When did you last see him?’
‘About a fortnight ago. There was a party at our house, and I asked if he wanted to come.’
‘You were having a sexual relationship?’
‘No.’
‘Then why did you invite him?’
‘We were both dancers. It was what we did. I knew there’d be other people there who were dancers, and we like to get together to swap information.’
‘What sort of information?’
‘Who’s looking for dancers. You know, for a new show. Or if anyone’s left an existing show so there’s a spot free. It’s a hard life being a dancer. It’s not regular work or a regular payslip.’
‘You were upset when you heard he’d been killed.’
‘Of course I was. I liked him.’
‘How did you hear about his death?’
‘I’ve told you this time and time again.’
‘Tell us again.’
‘One of the girls I share the house with, Rosa Weeks, she’s a singer and pianist. She came home with a friend of hers who’s in the police. He showed me a photograph of Joe and said he’d been killed at the Ritz. He wanted to know if I knew who he was and what he was doing there, same as you’re asking me. I told him the same as I told you: I had no idea.’
‘This policeman. What’s his name?’
‘The same as it was before when you asked me: Detective Chief Inspector Coburg. Rosa called him Edgar, so I suppose that’s his first name.’
‘And you’d never seen this detective before?’
‘Never. I didn’t even know that Rosa knew him.’
‘Why did he come to you with the photograph?’
‘Like I’ve already told you: he showed it to Rosa, and she recognised him as being with me at the party.’
‘But she didn’t know him before that?’
‘No. And neither of them knew his name until I told them.’
Coburg and Lampson strode into the reception hall of the Ritz and made straight for the hall porter.
‘Thank God you’re here,’ said George in heartfelt relief. ‘The superintendent is a good man, but he doesn’t know the ways of the Ritz.’
‘What happened?’ asked Coburg. ‘All I know so far is that someone else has been killed.’
‘One of the kitchen staff,’ said George. ‘Alex Ollen. He’s Swiss.’ Then he gave Coburg a look as he lowered his voice and added: ‘At least, that’s what his papers say.’
‘When did it happen?’
‘His body was discovered about an hour ago, but there is talk he was killed sometime before that.’
‘Where?’
‘In the kitchen. That’s where everyone is right now. They discovered his body when one of the staff went to a store cupboard. He’
d been stabbed.’
‘Thanks, George,’ said Coburg.
Lampson followed him as he led the way to the stairs, then down to the kitchen area. As they neared the bottom of the staircase they could hear a battery of raised voices, some angry, some crying, some making noises of appeasement to try and calm things down.
‘This is going to be chaos,’ Coburg muttered to Lampson. ‘A hotel kitchen’s like an out-of-control lunatic asylum at the best of times. Add discovering a murder victim to it and it’ll be sheer bedlam.’
They marched along the lower corridor and came upon a crowded scene: men in white jackets, some stained with food, gathered around a row that was going on between three men. Superintendent Allison was gesticulating at a man in chef’s whites who was gesticulating back, while at the same time expressing himself loudly in angry French. Between them, trying to pacify both men, was a man in formal dress coat and striped trousers: the general manager. Three uniformed police officers watched from a short distance away with puzzled bemusement.
Allison spotted Coburg and immediately shouted: ‘Chief Inspector! Thank God!’
At this, the general manager and the chef turned, and when they saw Coburg, they rushed over towards him, both shouting and waving their hands.
‘Monsieur Coburg, I must have my kitchen back!’ appealed the chef.
‘I’ve told him we cannot do that until we’ve examined the body in situ,’ snapped the superintendent. ‘Please explain that to him. He doesn’t seem to understand English.’
‘I understand but I do not comprehend!’ the chef raged. ‘Why?’
The superintendent looked at Coburg in appeal. ‘Chief Inspector, please!’
Coburg turned to face the angry chef. He launched into gentle but fluent and flowing French, accompanied by a variety of hand gestures to illustrate. The man listened, nodding, and when Coburg had finished he gave a final nod and said: ‘Oui. D’accord!’ He then turned to his watching kitchen staff, barked something at them, then led them away like a general moving his troops.