Four Thousand Days, page 9
Pitching his voice high and holding his nose, Reid said, ‘Sorry, caller, this line is needed for an urgent call. Sorry for any inconvenience.’ He rattled the mouthpiece against the table and made whistling noises out of the corner of his mouth. ‘Sorry, Morrison,’ he said in his normal voice, but holding the mouthpiece as far away as his arms would allow. ‘This line seems to …’
Smiling, he reached for his reading glasses and pulled out his notepad and pen. Bradshaw’s was a start, but this journey would need planning and if there was one thing that Edmund Reid enjoyed, it was a plan.
SIX
Abel Turner had had a good night when the lads came home. He had another one the following night when everybody was still in a party mood, and free drinks were on offer. There was one old Temperance killjoy who carried a placard and warned everybody about the pitfalls of the demon drink but he was hopelessly outnumbered by the contingent in khaki and gave up a little before midnight.
It was a little after that that Turner became aware of a shadow following him. The rent collector was used to this. Any number of wide-shouldered trassenos knew his calling and knew that the little man often carried cash. Because of that, and because he was little, Turner also carried a cudgel, studded with lead at one end, tucked into a special pocket in his long coat. The party spirit was drifting away from him and by the time he’d crossed Ludgate Circus and was making his way up the hill towards Paul’s, he felt decidedly alone. Whoever was behind him had followed him from the Queen’s Head, via the Cornucopia and the Old Lud, and was now just out of sight behind his left shoulder.
Turner toyed with cutting northwards, to the tangle of alleys around Amen Corner, but he knew those streets to be dark and narrow; better stick to the light. He wasn’t as young as he was and he couldn’t be sure of out-running anybody these days. On the other hand, he only had one and three ha’pence on him, so what was worth stealing? On the other hand, did his shadow know that, or even care?
Suddenly, there were no other hands left and Turner felt a large fist grab his collar and spin him round. The cosh was in his hand and immediately out of it again as a hard rap cracked his knuckles and sent it flying. A wooden truncheon, Metropolitan Police, for the use of, was jabbed under his chin and pushing him on to his tiptoes.
‘Now you could,’ said his assailant, ‘take this opportunity to knee me in the balls and do a runner. If you don’t mind being unable to walk for a couple of weeks, that is.’
Turner let out a half-strangled cry. ‘It’s Constable Crawford, isn’t it?’ he managed.
Crawford released his grip, but only slightly. ‘I’m flattered you recognize me without the helmet,’ he said. ‘Sorry to bother you, Mr Turner, but I wasn’t up to playing cat and mouse all over London.’
‘Indeed.’ Turner’s smile had turned to a rictus grin. ‘To what do I owe the pleasure?’
‘I didn’t have a chance, the other night, to enquire too much into the affairs of the deceased, Alice Groves.’
‘Dear Alice,’ Turner said. ‘I was always very fond.’ He should have felt easier now he knew his shadow was a police officer but there was something in Constable Crawford’s face and Constable Crawford’s truncheon that made that impossible.
‘I’m sure.’ Crawford smiled. ‘You knew she was on the game, of course.’
‘Er … yes.’ Turner shrugged. ‘I try not to judge, Constable Crawford. We all have to earn our crust, don’t we? These are hard times.’
‘Aren’t they, though? Who’s your boss?’
‘Eh?’
Crawford notched the truncheon a little higher. ‘The man you work for,’ he translated for Turner’s benefit. ‘The man who owns the premises at fourteen, Storey’s Yard.’
‘What about him?’
‘In British law, Mr Turner,’ Crawford said, ‘ignorance is no defence. There can’t be many people in this fair city of ours who are more ignorant than you, but, you see, it’s not going to save you from me taking your knee-caps out.’
‘Jack Daventry,’ Turner squawked above the truncheon.
‘Address?’
‘Thirty-six, Firtree Road, Isleworth.’
‘Isleworth.’ Crawford smiled. ‘Delightful suburb.’ He let the truncheon fall. ‘Well, don’t look so worried, Mr Turner; as you see from my civilian attire, I’m off duty tonight. Oh,’ he paused as he turned away. ‘I should try to find that cosh of yours if I were you. You can’t be too careful. There are some really unpleasant people about at this time of night. Mind how you go.’
Adam Crawford knocked on the door at thirty-six, Firtree Road, Isleworth as early as he thought decent the next day. He suspected that Mr Daventry was not a working man as most people would understand it, but even so, it seemed churlish to knock him up betimes. After a short wait, he heard footsteps on the linoleum of the hall and a moustachioed face appeared as the door creaked open an inch or two.
‘Yes?’
‘Mr Daventry?’ Crawford tipped his hat. ‘Mr Jack Daventry?’
Jack Daventry took in the stranger – tall, broad, shoulders like wardrobes. He hadn’t seen him before but that hardly mattered; new muscle was turning up on doorsteps all the time. ‘That depends,’ he said, cagily.
‘On what?’ Crawford pushed the door open and barged his way in.
‘’Ere,’ Daventry shouted. ‘I’ll have the law on you!’
‘Oh, the law’s already here, Mr Daventry. But I can call for reinforcements, if you like.’
‘What?’ All Daventry could do was to follow Crawford into the living room. ‘Look. What the bloody ’ell’s going on?’
Crawford took in the surroundings. Rich without being tasteful, heavy on the chintz and the candelabra. ‘Nice,’ he said, ‘but how much of it comes from immoral earnings, I wonder?’
‘Immoral …? How dare you? Are you a copper?’
Crawford clicked his fingers. ‘I hoped it wouldn’t show,’ he said. Daventry’s eyes swivelled to his rolltop desk. ‘And if there’s a gun or a chiv in there, I really wouldn’t recommend it. Fourteen inches of hardwood wins every time.’ He patted the truncheon discreetly tucked into his trousers. Then he sat down, wincing. ‘Of course,’ he said, ‘such weaponry does have its down side.’
‘What do you want?’ Daventry narrowed his eyes at his visitor.
‘It doesn’t look like I’m going to be offered any tea, so I’ll come to the point,’ Crawford said. ‘A number of apartments at number fourteen, Storey’s Yard, Westminster.’
‘What about them?’
‘You own them, I believe.’
‘I do.’ Daventry sat down too, facing the uniform-man-turned-detective. ‘What of it?’
‘The ground floor apartment, to the right as you go in.’
‘Yes?’
‘The tenant was one Alice Groves.’
‘If you say so.’ Daventry leaned back, a little more relaxed now. ‘I can’t say I actually know my tenants. I have people for that.’
‘Abel Turner,’ Crawford nodded, noting Daventry’s reaction. If he had landed the rent collector in any hot water, he really couldn’t care less. ‘Miss Groves is dead.’
‘Oh, yes,’ the landlord said. ‘I had heard something along those lines. Suicide, wasn’t it?’
‘Murder,’ Crawford corrected him.
‘Murder?’ Daventry didn’t like the direction this conversation was taking.
‘You knew that Alice was on the game,’ Crawford said. It was a statement, not a question.
‘No.’ Daventry spread his arms and did his best to look innocent. ‘No, I wouldn’t allow that. All my tenants have the very best bona fides.’
Crawford chuckled. ‘I’m sure they do,’ he said. ‘Ready to go?’ He stood up.
‘Go where?’ Daventry asked.
‘The nick.’
‘The nick?’ Daventry’s eyebrows threatened his hairline.
‘I have to caution you,’ Crawford said, ‘in connection with the unnatural death of Alice Groves.’
‘I don’t know what the bloody ’ell—’ but Jack Daventry’s planned list of expletives never got off the ground because the door to the living room swung open and a stoutish woman stood there, unpinning her second-best marketing hat.
‘I don’t know why we pay a cook,’ she was muttering as she came in. ‘That butcher robs us blind … Oh!’ She stopped when she saw Crawford standing there. ‘I beg your pardon; I didn’t know we had company.’
Daventry blustered. ‘This isn’t company, Ada, it’s Mr …’ he looked at Crawford wild-eyed.
‘Crawford,’ Crawford obliged.
‘Crawford, yes. He’s here to discuss the rents at … at Storey’s Yard.’
Ada narrowed her eyes at her husband. She knew what side her bread was buttered so she seldom rocked the marital boat, but she hated being taken for a fool, by her husband, the butcher or the cook. ‘I thought it was Mr Turner who collected those rents,’ she said.
Crawford clicked his tongue. ‘Old Abel, eh?’ he said, with a chuckle. ‘He’s a card. He asked me to pop in for him; he’s a bit busy at the moment and didn’t have time to come all this way.’
Ada Daventry’s face softened. What a kind young man; and not hard on the eyes, either. ‘How thoughtful,’ she said, looking around and noticing a dearth of teacups. ‘Jack! Why haven’t you got Mr Crawford a cup of tea?’
‘No, really, Mrs Daventry,’ Crawford said. ‘I was just going.’
‘Are you sure? Because it’s no trouble. I need to see Cook about something else, anyway.’ She smiled at him but the way she jabbed her hatpin into the holder on the sideboard made Crawford wince.
‘No, really.’ Jack Daventry was quick to intervene. ‘I’ll just see Mr Crawford out, dear. I wouldn’t mind a cuppa, though.’
Ada Daventry looked her husband up and down. She had thought him quite a catch when she married him; she had, after all, buried two husbands who hadn’t quite come up to snuff, so she thought she knew what was what. But, money or no money, he looked a poor thing next to Crawford, pigeon-chested, belly out to who-knew-where. But still, at least no one else would want him. She made up her mind. ‘I’ll get the kettle put on,’ she announced and swept out of the room.
Crawford loomed over Daventry, taking advantage of the man’s naturally cowed condition after the arrival of his wife. ‘You have a lovely wife, there, Mr Daventry. A nice armful. I don’t expect you would ever need to look elsewhere.’
Daventry gulped and eased his collar.
‘So I don’t expect that you ever had to visit Alice Groves or any of her fallen sisters in a … professional capacity. So you wouldn’t know if she had a client list or anything similar.’
‘Client list?’ Daventry shook his head. ‘What’s one of those?’
Crawford smiled and patted the man’s arm in a friendly fashion and almost knocked him flying. ‘I’m sure I can’t imagine,’ he said.
Daventry ushered him down the hall and opened the front door. He looked over his shoulder but there was no sign of his wife, just the muffled sound of a good haranguing coming from beyond the baize door. He lowered his voice even so. ‘I should talk to that bloke upstairs at number fourteen,’ he said. ‘I have reason to believe he was getting a free one out of Alice.’ He looked startled as he realized what he had said. ‘Not that I have any way of knowing it was free … or whether she …’
Crawford looked at him with his head on one side. It was a similar view to the last one a worm has when the blackbird has it in its sights.
The door slammed and, chuckling, Adam Crawford walked down Firtree Road, heading for Storey’s Yard.
Edmund Reid rather enjoyed trains. So much of his life had been lived at the pitch of high drama, whether it was a ballooning escapade, a magic show or a solo performance as a tenor – only once, on a very memorable occasion, all three at once – or the cut and thrust of being a senior policeman in the largest and arguably most crime-ridden city in the world. Being taken somewhere by a snorting, steam-belching behemoth at the engine’s own pace and on a route he couldn’t change was really rather soothing. He disliked Victoria station and had arrived almost at the moment of his train’s departure. He had balanced the spending time at the building site which Victoria always seemed to be but with a smooth journey, against the airy delights of St Pancras and the journey from hell with a change at Tilbury and Victoria, and speed won hands down. And he had made the right choice. Apart from a drop in steam pressure at Faversham, the journey was faultless and he was ready for anything when he alighted at Canterbury East.
The station was surprisingly busy for a mid-morning, but he quickly learned from the lugubrious porter that it was Market Day, and to be expected. This also, for reasons which Reid could not quite fathom, explained the complete lack of any cabs for hire. And in any event, the porter told him, there were at least six houses called The Limes in Canterbury; didn’t he have a street as well?
‘I just have “The Limes”,’ Reid said. ‘The name of the family is Barker, if that helps.’
‘Oh, glory be!’ The porter actually smiled and it looked as if it hurt him. ‘That bastard. Well, good luck to you, sir, that’s all I can say.’ He suddenly looked perturbed, far closer to his normal expression. ‘I’m assuming you’re not a friend of his, as you don’t know where he lives, and all.’
‘I just have some business,’ Reid said cagily.
‘Lor’ love you,’ the porter said. ‘Count your fingers when you’ve shook hands with that one. As crooked a man as ever walked, is Mr William Barker.’ He sucked his teeth and looked thoughtful. ‘Wife’s a nice woman, though. Daughter is a bit of an eyeful an’ all, but she’s not been seen round here a good while. They say there’s a scandal there, but I wouldn’t know anything about it.’
Reid loved to hear that phrase. It usually meant he was about to hear everything, with knobs on. It was just a case of deciding which knobs were genuine and which were embroidery.
‘Scandal? I hadn’t heard that.’ He extracted a half crown from the watch pocket of his waistcoat and twirled it in his fingers.
‘I got this from my missus, mind,’ the porter said, upending his trolley and leaning on the handles, ready for a chinwag. ‘She goes to the Mothers’ Meeting at the Methodists once a week. Not that we’re Methodists, mind.’ He was anxious to make sure Reid made no judgements which might cause the coin to dive back into his pocket. ‘But they do the best cake.’
Reid nodded, smiling. Cake was important.
‘Anyway, according to the missus, who got it off the sister of the woman who does for Mrs Barker’s next-door neighbour …’
Reid held up his hand while he processed the information, then nodded for the man to continue.
‘According to her, there was an almighty bust-up, ooh, when would it be? Years ago, anyway, when the girl was about eighteen, just back from school in Switzerland.’
Reid was impressed. ‘I didn’t realize that the Barkers were in that league, financially,’ he said.
‘Lor’, yes,’ the porter said. ‘Like I say, crooked as a …’ He couldn’t think of a metaphor, so coughed and changed tack. ‘Been in Switzerland four years, she had, or thereabouts. Come home and I reckon she were up the spout.’
Reid’s eyebrows almost dislodged his hat.
‘What else would make her take off like that? Her ma, she was in a taking on, didn’t come out of the house for munfs, then she come out bit by bit and now, you’d hardly think they ever had a daughter.’
‘So, the girl has never been back?’ Reid checked.
‘Well, I never seen her and I see most people what come into town. But that don’t mean to say that she hasn’t come back some uvver way.’ The porter spoke in the tones of one who could imagine no other way.
‘Where is their house?’ It was the final piece of information that he needed.
‘Not far,’ said the porter. ‘Out of here, turn left and it’s about the fifth or sixth on the right. Big place. Trees in the front.’
‘Limes?’ Reid liked precision in his directions.
‘Monkey puzzles, mainly,’ the porter said. ‘But you can’t call a house Monkey Puzzle, could ya? Be stupid, that.’
‘Well, thank you very much,’ Reid said, and flipped the coin in the air. The porter held out his hand to catch it, but it never arrived in his palm. He looked up, wonderingly, into the sky as Reid went out of there and turned left.
The Limes was easy to pick out from among its fellows. It had been a large house to start with, built in that most elegant of times, the Georgian period. Since then, many hands had wrought havoc to its beautiful lines, with gargoyles, dragon finials and extended wings aplenty. Edmund Reid judged homes by their comfort as a rule and not by their appearance, but The Limes had jangled his nerves even before he rang the doorbell.
A neat little maid with a smart white cap on her smoothed-back hair opened the door and stood there, looking helpful.
‘I would like to speak to Mr and Mrs Barker, if I may?’ Reid doffed his hat and gave her his best smile.
She gave him her best smile back. ‘Who should I say is calling?’ she asked politely.
Reid hesitated. He had always disliked people who clung to ranks and prefixes long after the event, but he sensed that in this case, it wouldn’t hurt. ‘Tell them Inspector Reid, Scotland Yard,’ he said.
The girl’s eyes widened and she looked alarmed but she collected herself enough to ask him in. ‘If you’ll just wait in here, sir,’ she said, opening a door immediately inside the front porch. It was clearly a room for putting visitors of dubious standing in, neat but not too comfortable, the chairs just one step up from the arse-numbing wooden ones in the hall. Reid walked around the room, looking at the pictures hanging on cords from the rail. They were all fakes of one kind or another – they might fool some people, but Reid knew that a businessman in a dodgy mucked-up house near a station had never had an ancestor painted by Gainsborough, no matter what the signature said.
