Daughters of Darkness

by Sally Spencer

  ‘A knackered old bugger who’s been dragged back into the force out of retirement?’ his friend suggested.

  ‘I wouldn’t have put it quite like that,’ said Turnbull, somewhat offended. ‘But, given the circumstances, it would be unreasonable to expect me to catch him, now wouldn’t it?’

  It was his ‘so-called’ friend’s comment that Turnbull was musing over as he walked along the embankment.

  A knackered old bugger who’s been dragged out of retirement!

  The more he thought about it, the more unfair the comment seemed. True, his stomach was more rounded than it had been (and growing daily, his wife complained, when she had to let his trousers out yet again), and true, he had a variety of aches when he woke up in the morning which had been totally absent a year or two earlier, and yes, he had given up running to catch a bus that was just pulling off, because that brought on his chest pains.

  But even so …

  It was while he was fully dissecting the complete unfairness of his friend Edgar’s description of him that he noticed the river was on fire.

  Not that it was the whole river on fire, of course, but there was definitely a spot in the middle of it that was blazing away.

  Slowly his eyes adjusted to the sudden increase in light, and now he could see it was not the river at all that was burning, but a rowing boat which was floating on the current.

  Not that it would be floating for long, he thought, because the fire was hungrily – and rapidly – devouring it.

  PC Turnbull trotted, at a gentle pace, towards the nearest police phone box, which was a hundred yards away. He was not sure what the burning boat signified, or how important it was, but he knew that he had better report it to the duty sergeant as soon as possible.

  26th November, 1944

  Detective Inspector Clem Bannister sat in his office, wishing his leg would stop itching. It was the shell fragments that were causing the problem, he told himself. He knew, of course, that there were no longer any shell fragments in his leg, because he had seen the X-rays for himself, but though his mind had accepted the truth, the rest of his body seemed to be taking a long time to get the message.

  When the German tank shell had burst uncomfortably close to him in 1942, Bannister had been a major in Field Marshall Montgomery’s Eighth Army, serving in North Africa. He had spent nearly a year in hospital, in the course of which he had undergone several operations. After the last of these, a physiotherapist – who probably wasn’t, in fact, quite the sadist that he sometimes appeared to be – had subjected Bannister to a programme of rehabilitation, at the end of which he announced he had done all he could, and recommended the major be discharged.

  The leg was mended, but nowhere near as good as new, and there had been no prospect of him re-joining the army. There would probably have been no prospect of returning to the police force (his peacetime occupation) either, under normal circumstances. But circumstances were not normal – the Met had been very understaffed and had welcomed him with open arms.

  So now he was Inspector Bannister once more, charged not so much with investigating crime as finding a way to keep a lid on it.

  He had not been expecting his office door to suddenly burst open that morning, but when it did, he knew, without even raising his head from the report he was reading, who his caller had to be.

  Bannister looked up at Assistant Commissioner Horrocks – a man as stupid as he was discourteous.

  ‘Did you know there was a rowing boat on fire in the middle of the Thames last night?’ Horrocks asked, in a voice that sounded like a malfunctioning traction engine.

  ‘Yes, sir, I did,’ Bannister said mildly.

  ‘Well, give me the details, man! I need the details.’

  ‘The rowing boat belonged to a chap called Harry Driver, and he’s a waterman,’ Bannister told him. ‘If you’d asked me yesterday, I’d have said that the trade of waterman died out years ago, but Harry says that even in this day and age, there’s enough people wanting him to ferry them across the river to make it just about worthwhile.’

  ‘And what have you done about Mr Driver’s boat?’ Horrocks wanted to know.

  ‘Not a lot. You see, by the time the fire brigade got there, it had already gone under.’

  ‘So you are not treating it as a serious incident?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘And may I ask why not?’

  ‘Because it was either an act of revenge against Harry – and he was honest enough to admit to me that he’s made a few enemies in his time – or it was the act of some hooligan. In either case, investigating it would be a waste of our valuable time and meagre resources.’

  Horrocks sneered. ‘I don’t suppose it even occurred to you that it was the work of a German spy, did it?’ he asked.

  ‘No, sir, it did not,’ Bannister agreed. ‘Is there any particular reason why it should have occurred to me?’

  Horrocks sighed theatrically, which he probably thought was showing the natural exasperation of a very clever man who was having to deal with a much inferior mind.

  ‘You had a fire burning in the river – pinpointing the location of the docks – and you don’t think it was the work of a German spy?’ he asked.

  ‘Good God, no!’

  He was handling this all wrong, he realized. When you were speaking to an arrogant idiot who was also your boss, it was wise to talk like a subservient idiot. Well, to hell with that. He’d faced death in the Western Desert, and there was only so much crap he was prepared to take now he was back home again.

  ‘You do realize that we haven’t been bombed for nearly four years, don’t you, sir?’ he asked.

  For a moment, Horrocks was lost for words, and he just stood gazing at the wall. And then an answer came to him.

  ‘If there’s no danger of being bombed, then why is the blackout still being enforced?’ he asked, triumphantly.

  The blackout was still in force for psychological rather than practical reasons, Bannister thought. It was there to remind the civilian population that though the war had finally turned the corner, it was far from over, and they could not afford to relax their efforts.

  Did Horrocks really not realize that obvious fact? From the way he was talking, it would seem not.

  ‘The blackout’s just a precaution, sir,’ Bannister explained. ‘The German Luftwaffe is smashed. That’s why Hitler has resorted to using these V-2 rockets. No one in authority over here actually believes Germany has the power to launch a proper bombing campaign against London again.’

  ‘I believe it,’ Horrocks said, ‘especially after what this spy did last night. I want him caught. Make it your top priority.’ He gave Bannister a weak man’s hard stare. ‘And I’ll be watching you, Detective Inspector, to make sure my orders are obeyed.’

  Then he turned and stormed out.

  Napoleon once said that the English were a nation of shopkeepers. He had meant it as an insult, Inspector Bannister thought, but as the former emperor rotted in exile on St Helena, far away from the Europe he was once master of, he must have cursed those English shopkeepers’ spirit.

  The local shop occupied a central part in English daily life, although – in a strictly geographical sense – it was located on edges rather than in centres. The average local shop, in fact, usually occupied one end terrace of a row of houses – the other end being, almost invariably, a pub.

  In peacetime, these corner shops – which sold almost everything most people could ever want – were open all the hours that anyone could reasonably be expected to be awake. The owners all wore long brown khaki jackets, and appeared to be middle aged. Indeed, they gave the impression of having been born middle aged – of emerging from the womb with quick, calculating eyes and furrowed brows. They knew all their customers’ likes and dislikes, and catered for them, because the customer was the lifeblood of the business – and if they were not careful, those customers might transfer their loyalty to another corner shop.

  The war had change
d all that, as it had changed so many other things. Almost everything was rationed now, so there was little scope for initiative for the wily shopkeeper. It was impossible for him to make a clever purchase and earn an extra few shillings, and he could no longer tempt customers by catering to their weaknesses, because he didn’t have the stock to do it with.

  Ration cards were the great equalizer. The shopkeeper would be allowed a limited amount of stock, and, because there was a shortage of almost everything, he would sell it all, almost without effort. There was nothing he could do to improve his position, so he might as well not try.

  That was probably why the owner of this small corner shop, just off Bankside, was not even there, Bannister thought, but had instead left the business in the hands of a pimply youth who would probably never even have been allowed through the door in the old days.

  Bannister looked around the shop’s shelves, his sweeping glance taking in cigarettes, candles, tins of corned beef and packets of powdered egg. He sniffed, and inhaled the smell of carbolic soap, chicory and furniture wax. Things simply didn’t get more English than this, he thought.

  ‘You want something?’ the youth asked, his voice devoid of any interest in the answer to his question.

  ‘I expect a lot of people round here use paraffin heaters, don’t they?’ Bannister asked.

  The boy was not interested in being drawn into conversation. ‘Is that what you want?’ he asked. ‘Paraffin?’

  ‘Yes, that is what I want,’ Bannister agreed. ‘Have you got a couple of gallons of it to spare?’

  ‘If you’ve got the coupons for a couple of gallons, then we’ve got the paraffin,’ the boy said, smirking because he knew that this customer – or any customer, for that matter – couldn’t possibly have that many coupons.

  ‘There was a rowing boat set on fire in the river last night,’ Inspector Bannister mused. ‘It must have taken a fair amount of paraffin to get that burning, don’t you think?’

  The youth shifted uneasily behind the counter. ‘I wouldn’t know anything about that,’ he said, in little more than a mumble.

  Bannister smiled to himself. He had figured out that the paraffin must have been acquired from somewhere near the point at which the boat had been stolen – because no one would want to run the risk of walking very far with that much illegal fuel – and in coming to this particular shop, he seemed to have hit the jackpot first time out.

  He produced his warrant card. The youth examined it, and looked instantly miserable.

  ‘I’d like to see how much paraffin you have in stock, and then check it against the records to see how much you should have,’ Bannister said.

  ‘The governor’s got all the paperwork,’ the youth replied, clearly in a panic now.

  ‘When will the governor be back?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Does he always take his big bulky sales’ ledgers with him when he goes out?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I don’t believe you,’ Bannister said. ‘Step aside so I can get behind the counter, and I’ll soon find what I’m looking for.’

  The youth didn’t move. ‘Look, inspector,’ he said, ‘I’m not a thief. I swear I’m not.’

  ‘So the books will balance, will they?’

  The boy looked down. ‘No.’

  ‘Then tell me what happened.’

  ‘There was this young lady – real good looking – came in. She said she’d lost her coupons, but she really needed the paraffin because her granny was freezing to death.’

  ‘And did you believe her?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you really?’

  The boy looked down again. ‘No.’

  ‘So why did you give her the paraffin, when you must have known you were almost certain to get caught?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Bannister slammed his hand down on the counter. ‘That’s really not good enough!’ he roared.

  ‘She … she said if I gave her the paraffin, she’d do something for me,’ the boy admitted, reddening.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  My working theory is as follows:

  (i) Grace Stockton’s killer (Red Duffle Coat Woman) was living in London at the time of the murder, since she arrived in Oxford on the London train, and left the same way.

  (ii) Grace must have known her killer, which means they met during the time she spent in London during the war.

  (iii) The motive for the murder lay in something unusual or disturbing that happened on or around the 25th of November 1944, which was when, according to Annie Tobin, Grace behaved monstrously to her and then suddenly and dramatically left London.

  I imagine you’re thinking to yourselves that the theory, as it stands, is somewhat flawed.

  Somewhat flawed!

  I want to hold onto it because it’s all I’ve got, but even I can see that there are holes in it big enough to drive a steam train through!

  For a start, the killer might live in Cornwall or Kent, or any of a score of other locations that do not have a direct connection to Oxford, so it was not so much a case of her coming from London as it was of her changing trains in London. She might not have known Grace at all – the victim could have been no more than a symbol, as Sharon Tate was in the Manson family murders. And Grace might have left London so suddenly for any number of reasons, not the least being the one she stated – a fear that it was not a safe place to bring up her baby.

  Given all that, however, I’ve got to have something as a basis from which to work, which is why I’m now in Camden Town, because it was here, sometime in 1944, that Grace delivered the baby of a young woman who, for the moment, I know only as Jane.

  Bombay Street is clearly marked in my A to Z, and the road is indeed still there. What is missing is the actual terrace of houses that Jane used to live in and Grace used to visit. Instead, there is a children’s playground and a tall steel-and-concrete tower block (which, according to the sign in front of it is called Queen Elizabeth II House).

  Gazing up at the windows on some of the lower floors, I note that most of the curtains are light and modern. Examining the washing lines on the balconies, it seems to me that a lot of the underwear hanging from them is skimpy and lacy, and would have scandalized most women back in the 1940s. And looking around at street level, I see that most of the people out and about are either women in their thirties or kids in their early teens.

  Conclusion? I’m going to be hard pressed to find anyone who lived here in 1944.

  I should have been expecting this, I suppose. After the war, the government moved the population out of the heavily bombed areas, in order to completely redevelop them, and by the time the work was completed (at least two or three years later – and often much longer than that), many of those evacuees were either happily settled somewhere else or dead, and so the neighbourhood was repopulated by an entirely new set of people.

  But all is not yet lost, because just up the road I’ve spotted a pub called the King’s Head, and it is not beyond the realms of possibility that someone in there will remember the old days.

  Beyond the realms of possibility?

  Beyond the realms of possibility!

  Who – in God’s name – talks like that?

  I do, apparently – when I’m really desperate.

  The King’s Head is one of those late-Victorian pubs built of red-glazed brick, with big frosted windows and ostentatiously arched doorways. There are three of these doorways, leading to three different bars – the working men’s public bar, the saloon bar (for men who wear ties, and do not leave their wives and girlfriends at home when they go out boozing); and the lounge bar (normally the province of passing solicitors’ clerks, travelling salesmen and doctors working as locums).

  Approaching any pub, my natural inclination is to choose the public bar, where there will almost inevitably be a dartboard – I’m a real killer with the arrows – and where I can swear without scandalizing any of the other drinkers. On this occasio
n, however, the confidential enquiry agent in me vetoes the public bar, and steers me towards the saloon.

  There is no one else in the saloon bar, but there is an old-fashioned bell on the counter, and when I hit it with the palm of my hand – ding, ding, ding – a man appears almost immediately.

  He is around sixty, I guess. He is slightly plump and has a roundish face, topped off with a shiny bald head which reflects the overhead light back at itself. He is wearing a shiny waistcoat (perhaps to go with his dome) and this waistcoat is struggling valiantly to contain a pot belly of some proportion.

  ‘How can I help you, madam?’ he asks.

  Whenever anyone calls me ‘madam’, I instinctively want to turn round to see who else is there, but, over time, I’ve learned to restrain myself, and I say, ‘I’d like a gin and tonic, please – Gordon’s, if you’ve got it.’

  ‘Gordon’s it is, madam.’

  ‘And have one yourself.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you.’

  He serves my drink, and as he pulls himself a half of bitter, he says, ‘First one of the day.’

  Yeah, right – if it’s your first of the day, my friend, I’m Snow White’s illegitimate love child.

  With the drink I’ve just bought him in his hand, he can’t very well abandon me (all part of my cunning plan, you see) and feels obliged to make some conversation.

  ‘I haven’t seen you round here before, have I?’ he asks.

  ‘No,’ I agree. ‘I’m here with a task to fulfil.’

  It would be churlish of him to say nothing, and I’ve already assessed him as too nice a man for that, so it does not surprise me at all when he repeats, ‘A task to fulfil, eh?’ as if that explains it all.

  ‘Have you been in this pub a while?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes, I suppose you could say I have,’ he responds, with a smile. ‘My dear old dad – God rest his soul – was the landlord here before me, and I was born just upstairs,’ he continues pointing his thumb at the ceiling.

  ‘Did the pub stay open throughout the whole of the war?’ I ask, crossing my fingers.