“Who?”
“My goose. He is looking so fat and scrumptious, Billings. And huge! It’s an absolute monster of a beast! This is going to be the best Christmas meal we’ve had in our lives! You are still comin’, aren’t ya?”
Suddenly a door slammed in the corridor and the two detectives heard vigorous footsteps approaching them.
“Clarkson, my dear chap! Is that you?” It was the smug and confident voice of Inspector Flynt, calling from the corridor. “And is that coffee you’re drinking?” he asked as he walked towards the filing cabinet. “I could simply murder a cup right now. I don’t suppose you’d be so kind as to... Oh, Billings.” He was suddenly taken aback by the other detective’s presence.
Billings nodded at him, but Flynt did not reciprocate the greeting and turned back towards Clarkson. “I’ve just come back from Berkshire,” he said. “Took the midnight train from Reading. Haven’t slept a wink all night.”
“Berkshire?” Billings asked intrigued. “Were you working on the Lord Palmer case?”
“Oh, that’s right.” Flynt suddenly turned his attention back towards Billings and looked him in the eyes for the first time. “Brendan’s a friend of yours, isn’t he?”
“Well, he’s not really a friend.”
“I hope not, because he’s going to hang.”
“Why do you say that?” Billings was trying hard to control the sudden pounding of his heart.
Flynt hesitated. “I’m not sure I should be disclosing that to you.”
“You can’t have any evidence against him?”
“Nothing concrete, I admit, but...”
“But what?”
“I have probability.”
“Probability?”
“There’s no one else who could’ve done it.”
“How do you know?”
“Everybody else has an alibi and no one else was spotted on the estate.”
“Is that all you have? That’s not enough.”
“No, that’s not all. I have other things too.”
“Like what?”
“You know, Billings, you really shouldn’t be questioning me like that.”
“What else do you have?” Billings asked again, but Flynt turned his back on him and continued his conversation with Clarkson.
“How about that coffee, Clarkson?”
“Yes sir, I shall get you some.” They both walked out of the filing room, leaving Billings alone with a pounding heart and a trembling hand.
He’s bluffing, he kept thinking to himself. He doesn’t have anything else. He’s bluffing.
*
According to the personnel file, Jacobs lived in Tavistock Square. It was a pleasant, quiet square in the centre of London. There was a pretty green park which was surrounded by large, elegant houses. A little too large and elegant for a policeman’s wages, thought Billings as he walked tentatively towards the doorsteps. It was Jacobs’s day off, which meant Billings wouldn’t get the chance of speaking with him until the following day. This, of course, wouldn’t do. Billings would have too much time on his hands and, sleep being impossible, he’d have nothing else to do but fret, worry and agonize. So he decided to pay Jacobs a visit.
He took a deep breath before walking up the doorsteps and ringing the bell. What precisely was he going to ask him? How was he going to handle this? Damn it, he thought to himself. He hadn’t thought this through.
The door was opened by the maid, who started eyeing him up with an arrogant look on her face.
“Good morning,” Billings said, tipping his hat at her. “I’d like to speak to Mr Jacobs please.”
“And who may I say is calling?”
“My name is...”
At this point an elegant young lady walked in from the drawing room. “Who is it, Mary?” she asked, walking towards the door.
“It’s some man asking for Mr Jacobs, ma’am.”
“Don’t let him in, Mary.”
“I won’t, ma’am.”
The young lady joined the maid in the doorway, grabbed the door and pulled it towards her, so that there was only a small gap left through which she could communicate with her visitor.
“What do you want?” she asked with an angry frown.
“My name is John Billings, and I…”
“We settled this business with your people yesterday!” the lady interrupted.
“Pardon?”
“The bill has been settled. You should check with your boss. Please do not disturb us any longer!”
She was about to shut the door, but Billings managed to put his foot in the doorway in time to block it. “My name is Detective Sergeant John Billings,” he repeated, this time with a little more assertiveness. “I am a colleague of Mr Jacobs.”
The lady fell quiet for a few seconds and looked embarrassed. She had clearly taken him for one of the bailiffs. “I see,” she said eventually. “Well come in, Mr Billings”.
She opened the door and Billings stepped into the hallway.
“My husband has a visitor at the moment, but I shall see if he can make some time for you.” She made her way towards the drawing room, but stopped before entering. “You know, you really should have announced yourself sooner,” she said, turning towards him with another angry frown. “Instead of making me believe you were somebody you were not!” She disappeared into the drawing room with the maid, leaving Billings alone in the elegant hallway.
Billings looked around him and wondered again how Jacobs could afford to live here. It really was a nice house. The hallway was spacious, with Greek-style columns flanking each door. The floor was tiled with black and white marble. There was a huge potted aspidistra – that great symbol of respectability – against one wall and a steam radiator on the other, strategically placed right beneath the coathangers and the hatstand. A brand new, shiny top hat took pride of place at the top of the hatstand, like a fairy on a Christmas tree. Was it Jacobs’s? He had never seen his boss wear it. Neither had he seen him wear that striking long red coat with the fur collar which hung conspicuously from the coat hanger. Conspicuously, he thought. Why did that word suddenly sound so familiar to him?
Jacobs popped his head from the drawing room and looked irritatedly at Billings.
“Billings, what the devil are you doing here?”
“I need to speak to you, sir.”
Jacobs came out into the hallway and closed the door behind him. He was wearing a silk dressing gown over his clothes and Billings was taken aback by this unexpectedly flamboyant look. It didn’t suit him at all. Jacobs looked comical.
“Well, what is it?” Jacobs said in a hushed tone, looking sideways towards the drawing room, clearly anxious not to be heard by his visitor.
“I need to speak to you about the jewels.”
“The jewels?”
“I saw Mr Etherbridge at Sandringham. He said you’d returned the jewels to him.”
“Well, what of it?”
“Those were the jewels which were stolen from Lord Palmer.”
Jacobs continued to look confused.
“Whoever stole those jewels must have been involved in Lord Palmer’s death,” Billings explained.
“For heaven’s sake, Billings!”
“I was trying to find out where those jewels came from this morning, but I couldn’t find the report. Clarkson said you took it home with you.”
“Flynt is dealing with the Lord Palmer case now,” he said angrily.
“But you are dealing with the counterfeiters case and it now appears that the two are connected.”
“This really isn’t the time to discuss this, Billings! Today is my day off. I can discuss this with you tomorrow!”
Jacobs was about to head back into the drawing room, but Billings grabbed his arm and stopped him.
“Could I just have a look at the file, sir?”
“No, you may not!”
“Why not?”
Suddenly the drawing room door opened, and an olive-skinned man with lon
g dark hair and a small goatee beard popped his head into the hallway.
“Is everything all right, Ezra?” the man asked with a foreign accent.
“Yes, yes. Everything is fine. Just help yourself to another glass of brandy. I’ll be right with you.”
The man glanced suspiciously at Billings before returning back into the drawing room.
“You are being impertinent and difficult, Billings! I am not going to discuss this with you now. Just go home and see me in my office tomorrow!” And with that, Jacobs turned away from him and re-entered the drawing room.
It wasn’t until Billings had left Jacobs’s house and was walking back to the Yard that he suddenly put two and two together. The conspicuous coat, the strange foreign accent. That was Bhodan Krym! Jacobs was entertaining the leader of the Russian counterfeiting gang!
*
As Billings walked to work the following morning, he saw a man leaning on the railings of Chelsea Bridge. The man had a rough-looking face with long greasy hair sticking out of an old black hat. He was smoking a cigarette and he was staring pensively ahead of him, not at the river but at the road. Billings thought that there was something suspicious about the man’s manner. Why was the man lingering on the bridge? What was he waiting for?
The man crushed out his cigarette as Billings walk past him, then proceeded to walk on behind him. When he got off the bridge, Billings turned right towards Pimlico Pier. The man did the same.
Billings stopped just below Vauxhall Bridge and crouched down to tie his shoelaces. He looked behind him as he did so and, sure enough, the man had stopped also and was now gazing at the river. Billings thought that there was something vaguely familiar about that man, but he couldn’t quite place him. Having tied his shoelaces, Billings continued on to Millbank Street and stopped again at the Victoria Tower Gardens to check whether he was still being followed. He was.
Damn it, thought Billings. Who is this man?
He started accelerating his pace after that and took some strange turns on his way to work. He turned right into Wood Street; then right again towards Great College Street; then left towards Dean’s Yard and from there straight on towards Bridge Street. The man continued to follow him all the way. He rushed after him, confused and desperate to keep track.
Billings stopped again on Bridge Street, at the foot of Big Ben, to scan the masses of people who had gathered in the city. He couldn’t see the man among them. Had his mad manoeuvring worked, he wondered. Had he been able to drop his shadow? It seemed so.
He smiled contentedly and continued walking to work when suddenly, out of nowhere, the man came running towards him and threw himself on top of him. He grabbed Billings by the collar and pushed him onto the ground, where he proceeded to punch him in the face. Twice.
“That’s for sticking yer nose in where it don’t belong!” he said with the first punch. “And that’s for locking up my son!” he said with the second.
He then got up and ran away, cutting through the crowd of curious spectators which had gathered around them.
Billings was unable to open his eyes for a few seconds and remained lying on the ground, the pain pounding in his face and in his head. It took him a while to realise exactly what had happened. When he finally opened his eyes, all he could see was a swarm of people towering over him, looking down and fussing about him.
“You’re gonna need that stitched up, sir,” he heard a woman say. “We should get a doctor to look at your face.”
“Have you checked your pockets, sir?” a man chipped in. “It wouldn’t surprise me if he hasn’t robbed you as well. Same thing happened to a friend of mine only last week.”
“I saw the whole event, sir,” a gentleman stated. “If you need a witness, you must call on me. Let me give you my card.” He proceeded to take a calling card out of his breast pocket.
“Everyone please! Clear off!” cried Billings, waving his arms in the air in an attempt to break up the crowd and catch a glimpse of his fleeing attacker. If he couldn’t chase after him, he at least wanted to know who it was. But the crowd ignored him and started crouching down and pulling at his arms or wiping the blood off his face with their handkerchiefs.
“Let go of me! I’m fine!” he cried again as he pushed himself back on to his feet. “Everyone, clear off! Now!”
“We’re only trying to help, sir,” a woman said, offended. But Billings had risen from the ground now and was standing on his own two feet again, so the crowd soon started to disperse. Billings looked around him, confused, but there was no sign of his attacker. Wiping the blood of his forehead, he staggered on to work, angry and humiliated, his sight still blurry, his face streaked with blood and his head pounding with pain.
*
“Good lord, what happened to you?” said the desk clerk as Billings stumbled into the building.
“Nothing! Leave me alone!”
Billings staggered on towards the gents lavatory where he splashed some water on his face. He lifted his head and looked at himself in the mirror. The man had made a real mess of his face. He looked like a prize fighter at the end of a bloody match. Both his eyes were bruised and swollen and his right eyebrow had been cut. The man must’ve been wearing a sharp ring on one of his fingers. Why did he attack me? he thought. What did he mean by ‘sticking my nose in’ and ‘locking up his son’? Then it struck him. The dirty long hair, the frizzled hat, the long leather coat. It was Barnabas Crooke!
The desk clerk entered the lavatory, with a breathless, panting constable behind him.
“This is PC Smith, sir,” he said. “He saw the whole thing.”
“Cor! Look at your face!” exclaimed PC Smith as he stared with disgust at the wounded detective.
“Did you chase after him?” Billings asked him, ignoring his last comment.
“Yes, I did, sir, but he got away. I chased him all across Westminster Bridge, but I lost him off Lambeth Palace Road. Do you know who it was, sir?”
“No, I don’t,” Billings lied.
“You should get that eye of yours seen to, sir,” the desk clerk suggested. “Do you want me to call the surgeon?”
The door opened again and this time Clarkson walked in, looking at Billings with alarm.
“Cor blimey, Billings! Look at your face!”
“What am I, a freak show exhibit?” Billings yelled.
“Alright, don’t get your dander up. Jacobs sent me to fetch you. He wants to see you in his office straight away. ’Ere, you should get a doctor to look at that eye.”
Billings didn’t reply. He just pushed past Clarkson and the others, stormed out of the gents and marched up the stairs to Jacobs’s office, ignoring the curious looks and snickers of the clerks he passed in the corridor.
Jacobs was sitting at his desk and screwed his face up as Billings entered his office.
“Good grief, Billings! You look like a squashed frog! What happened?”
“I don’t know, sir,” Billings replied. He grabbed a chair and sat at Jacobs’s desk. “A man followed me to work from Battersea and lunged at me on Westminster Bridge. I didn’t seen him coming.”
“Do you know who it was?”
“I think it was Barnabas Crooke.”
“Who?”
“The thug who stole the furs in Sandringham.”
“Why was he following you?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he wanted revenge for his son.”
“His son?”
“Oswald Crooke. We caught him at Sandringham. The Norfolk Constabulary arrested him.”
“Do you think that was the reason he beat you?”
“Yes... at least, I think so. He said something else when he punched me.”
“What did he say?”
“He said, ‘That’s for sticking your nose in.’”
“What did he mean by that?”
“I don’t know, sir, but I’d like to find out. There should be a file on him. He’s a known criminal.”
“Don’t worry, Billings. I�
��ll handle this for you.”
“If it’s all the same to you, sir, I’d rather handle it myself. He attacked me in the middle of a crowded street. It’s a matter of pride with me.”
“Have you seen the surgeon yet?”
“Not yet.”
“I suggest you do so now. That cut looks ugly. In fact, I suggest you take the rest of the day off. I’ll deal with this thug.”
Billings fell silent for a short moment and stared suspiciously at his boss. Was he trying to get rid of him again, he wondered.
“About yesterday, sir,” he said, carefully.
“Not now, Billings.”
“I really need to talk to you about this, sir. I am convinced that there is a connection between Lord Palmer’s murder and the stolen jewels.”
Jacobs frowned and let out a deep sigh.
“If you’d only let me have a look at that file, sir,” Billings persevered. “I’m sure I’d be able to...”
“Billings, you’re going to have to drop this once and for all, do you hear? I’ve given you enough warnings!”
“But I’m convinced Lochrane is innocent.”
“Did you hear what I said?”
“Who was that man I saw in your house yesterday?” Billings asked suddenly. This took Jacobs by surprise and he fell silent. “Was it Bhodan Krym?”
“It’s none of your business, who that was.”
“It was, wasn’t it?”
“This is a complicated case, Billings, and there are certain angles to it which are unknown to you.”
“What was he doing in your house?”
“What do you think you are doing, Billings? Are you interrogating me?”
“I just want to get to the bottom of this, sir.”
“You’ve been wounded, Billings. I order you to see the surgeon immediately and to take the rest of the day off. In fact, take the whole week off. I do not want to see you here again until you are fully recovered. Is this understood?”
“But sir, I...”
“Go now, Billings, or I will get someone to drag you out and escort you back home!”
The Ornamental Hermit Page 19