A Commonplace Killing (19 page)

I
t was almost half past seven the next morning by the time he had finished in the interview rooms. The day had broken in a haze of fierce, shimmering light, but he had no idea about that as he went in search of breakfast. Douglas Frobisher’s clothing coupons had come to the villain by way of Manny Cohen, a fence who operated from out of the back of a barber shop over on Fonthill Road. They would take Manny Cohen by surprise in a couple of hours’ time, just as he opened for business. It was unlikely that he had had anything to do with the murder of Lillian Frobisher, but he had taken possession of her son’s coupon book from someone, and that someone could very likely lead them directly to the strangler.

As he entered the station canteen, Cooper was feeling none of the excitement that a detective on the verge of his biggest break in a murder case might be expected to feel. Far from it: he was feeling more battered and crumpled than ever. He thought of himself, cutting a sad figure, as he plodded hopelessly from one interview to the next – it came to all detectives sooner or later, the awareness that this was their sorry lot in life – and even though he always felt better about himself after a
well-deserved
bashing, he was presently too tired to feel anything other than exhaustion. Policewoman Tring was sitting at a table with DS Quennell, the young idiot who had been spat at by Little Jimmy Dashett on Sunday night, which seemed an
eternity
away. Quennell had lost his boyish demeanour in the
presence
of the policewoman: he had turned his chair around and sprawled his legs either side of it; he was smoking a cigarette and holding forth about something or other. It was gratifying to see that Tring was regarding the whelp with something like amused detachment – not that this deterred Quennell, who was too young, too inexperienced, too cocksure of his powers of attraction, and not yet a good enough detective to notice.

Cooper hoped to pay for his cup of tea and cheese roll before retreating back to his office without her seeing him, but she must have sensed that she was being looked at, and glanced in his direction; and before he could look away and pretend he hadn’t seen her, she was smiling and waving at him, Quennell evidently signalling his dismay, as Cooper saw her pull a face and shake her head discouragingly at the young DS before standing up and inviting him to join them.

“My goodness, sir, whatever happened to you?” Her lovely face was creased with concern, and the sight of it made him suffer pangs of embarrassment on account of his appearance, and desire.

“Rough night was it, sir?” observed Quennell in an offhand way.

“Rather.”

“You poor thing – you look as if you need a good night’s sleep.”

He grinned sheepishly at her and set his roll and tea upon the table.

“Never more so.”

“And look at your poor hand!” The blood that had seeped through the handkerchief he had tied around his busted knuckles had dried in ragged-edged rusty circles. “And,
goodness
, your eye!”

Quennell knocked the ash from his cigarette into his saucer and looked sourly in his guv’nor’s direction. He was young and relatively good-looking, but he knew when he was beaten.

“What time are you supposed to be on duty, Quennell?” inquired Cooper mildly, checking his watch. He was enjoying himself. It was good to be the object of her pity: at any rate, it was better than nothing.

Quennell took the hint. He stubbed out his cigarette on the saucer and picked up his hat from the table. “Let me know about later on,” he said to Policewoman Tring.

“I’ll have to see – it depends on how busy it gets today,” she said. She cast the briefest of glances in the boy detective’s
direction
before returning all of her attention to Cooper. “Why don’t I drive you back to your flat, sir, so you can have a wash and brush-up? It will make you feel so much better. You can’t work through the rest of the day in that state.”

Quennell lingered for a moment and Cooper almost felt sorry for him. He knew how it felt to yearn.

“Cheerio then,” the kid was saying.

“Cheerio,” she said, without looking at him.

“Cheerio,” said Cooper. He slurped his tea and chomped contentedly on the roll as Quennell lurched off, disappointment dogging every step. “Actually,” he said to Tring, “that’s not a bad idea – provided DI Lucas doesn’t need you for anything.” He was suppressing all thoughts of effecting a seduction in the confines of his bachelor rooms.

“Oh, I’m not supposed to be here for another two hours. I came in early to get going on the paperwork; I can easily catch up. It’s much more important that we have the guv’nor in good working order!”

“My char will be there,” he said.

She looked at him curiously, and he worried that he might have seemed presumptuous. “Oh,” she said, “that’s good.”

On the drive to Stoke Newington he told her all about the call in the middle of the night, the silk, the fight, the interviews, the clothing coupons, and the impending visit to Manny Cohen’s.

“You were jolly lucky that they weren’t armed.”

“They weren’t expecting us. It was a tip-off. Someone like Johnny Bristow makes a lot of enemies. Other crooks who don’t care for him queering their patch. They like to slash each other with razors, or snitch to the police.”

“Horrid,” she shuddered. “Weren’t you worried you’d be attacked?”

In all truth, he never thought about the danger when finding himself in these situations, as he did with tedious regularity. One day, he supposed, his luck would run out; but in general, when faced with a gun or ducking a cut-throat razor, he rarely felt a shred of fear. This, he reasoned, had less to do with courage than determined world-weariness.

“No, not really,” he said.

It was bliss to be driven by her, to have the opportunity to listen to her prattle on about how much she was learning and how she had had no idea how much there was to learn and how grateful she was to him for giving her the opportunity, which she was determined not to waste, by the way; how she was more set on a career in CID than ever before. He received all of this in what he supposed was a glow of paternalistic indulgence.

“Of course, it’s early days, I know that,” she was saying. “But I can already tell I’m going to love it. It’s wonderful to be part of something so – so essential. I haven’t felt this excited about anything since I was in Nairobi with the ATS.”

“I do hope that the men are behaving themselves,” he said. “You mustn’t stand for any nonsense, you know.”

She laughed.

“Oh, I won’t, don’t you worry about that!”

“You’re to let me know if any of them try and take liberties.”

“That’s very kind of you, sir; but I can take care of myself.”

“It’s just that I couldn’t help but notice young Quennell there in the canteen…”

“He’s alright; quite amusing, really. I came up against much worse in the services.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

“I’m not without experience…”

He shifted in his seat. The conversation was taking an
inappropriate
turn. He looked out of the dusty window, feeling uncomfortable, yet, at the same time, wanting her to continue with the revelation, the intimacy.

“I suppose you could say I’m a sadder but wiser girl,” she said in a wistful tone which he found irresistible. She laughed lightly, swinging the car expertly into his street. “There was this chap when I was in the ATS, but… well, you know how it is… War time and all that…”

“I’m so sorry…”

She laughed again.

“Oh golly, no – I didn’t mean – that is – he made it through, and went home to his wife… Not that I knew he was married, of course…” Cooper swallowed hard and frowned at the
rubble-strewn
scene beyond the window. Stoke Newington had never before held such a fascination for him. “Oh, but I’m
embarrassing
you!” she exclaimed. “I am sorry, sir; it’s just that you’re so easy to talk to – such a good listener. Most men only want to talk about themselves. Oh, there I go again!”

“This is me,” he said, as they pulled up in front of his building. She parked the car and pulled on the handbrake. “You needn’t wait. I can make my own way back.” He clutched his hat and raincoat to his chest as he opened the door and prepared to step on to the road.

“Oh no,” she protested. “I’ll come up with you. You need someone to dress your hand.”

“There’s really no need…” He sounded feeble. “My char is there…”

He was feeling slightly on edge as she followed him up the stairs to his flat; he made sure that he called out to Mrs Oscar as he unlocked the door. Tring followed him inside.

“Whatever happened to you?” said Mrs Oscar, who was dusting the gramophone. “You look as if you’ve spent the night on the tiles.” She looked Tring up and down as Cooper introduced them to one another, sniffing dismissively before returning to her polish. Tring grinned at him.

“As ever, Mrs Oscar,” he said, “you’re quite right about everything.” He was trying to untie the makeshift bandage with his teeth.

“Let me do that, sir,” said Tring. Mrs Oscar sniffed again. “You need to clean it, otherwise it will turn septic.”

“You’ll find a tin of Germolene in the bathroom cabinet,” said the char.

He had a quick wash and a shave and changed into a clean shirt, and then settled down to let Tring smear his busted knuckles with the antiseptic lotion. Then she expertly bandaged his hand with clean strips of an old pillowslip supplied by Mrs Oscar.

“Terrible waste of a good piece of linen,” the char grumbled. “Would have done for dusters.”

He didn’t dare look up at Tring while she saw to his
injuries
; he kept his eyes resolutely on the back of his hand and contented himself with marking her breathing and the clean fresh scent of her hair.

“You should have been a nurse,” he mumbled shyly.

“It’s a shame steak is so hard to come by,” she remarked briskly. “We could have seen to that shiner as well.”

He was feeling light-headed with tiredness, but somehow more at ease with the world. There was a faint warming, something uplifting about his heart. Let’s not go back to work, he wanted to say to her; let’s spend the day together, get to know one another. Tell me your first name. We could have lunch somewhere decent; go to the pictures; a walk in the park. Anything: only don’t leave; please don’t leave. It was all madness, of course. He was brought to his senses by the
telephone
, jangling on its table in the hall. Mrs Oscar put down the empty fruit-bowl that she was dusting and shuffled off to answer it.

“Are you here?” she cried. “Only Inspector Lucas wants to know.”

Oh hell, he thought, the dismal reality of his life returning to him. All colour, all warmth was draining from his soul. What the blazes is it now?

And hearing the DI’s flat affectless tones on the other end of the line, he was aware of a slow flush spreading across his cheeks; was seized with an irrational anxiety that somehow the entire division would be able to tell that Policewoman Tring was here, in his flat, with him. He told himself not to be such an ass, thanking God that Mrs Oscar had answered the telephone.

“Do you need me to go down to Manny Cohen’s, sir?” Lucas was saying, “Only something has come up here. I can send someone else, but thought I’d better check with you first.”

“No, no, I’ll take it,” Cooper said, “I’m on my way there now.”

He put down the telephone. It was an opportunity, he supposed; a little longer in her company. He knew that he would do nothing whatever with the opportunity, but he could always kid himself that he might, if it made him happy.

“We need to get going,” he told her. “Duty calls.”

She had been chatting to Mrs Oscar about the gramophone collection; now she turned around to face him, and she was smiling.

W
ithin a few moments of leaving the house, it had occurred to her that she had no idea what she was going to do. She couldn’t go back there, not for a few hours at any rate; that was certain. She wouldn’t give them the satisfaction. She pictured herself boarding a Number 43 bus, riding it to Muswell Hill or Friern Barnet, but had no idea what she would she do once she was there. It was too late to look for lodgings, and besides, she didn’t have enough money on her to start over. Walter always kept her short, and she’d spent most of the housekeeping money on shopping. She kept walking with her head down while panic began to mount. There’s the coupon books, she thought; four of them: Mother’s, Douglas’s, Walter’s and her own. She supposed she could try and sell them. She thought of the spiv, Dennis, and wondered whether she oughtn’t to try and find him at the Feathers. Her heart was pounding quite hard, though she couldn’t tell whether this was down to the thought of
committing
a crime or the prospect of seeing the nice-looking young man again. She tried to steady her breathing, which had become a little shallow, making her feel faint. She wasn’t sure whether she ought to sell her own, or whether she could bring herself to sell Douglas’s, so she attempted to calculate whether Mother’s and Walter’s would bring in enough to pay the rent on a
bed-sitting
room for a week or two – just while she looked for a little job in a hat-shop, perhaps, or a nice tearoom; but she had no idea how much coupons went for, so the exercise was futile. Perhaps she should just go to the Feathers now and ask him how much he was prepared to give her, and if it wasn’t enough she would just thank him and that would be it. She had never walked into a pub on her own before; she hadn’t even been in that many pubs with other people, but as things were, it was hard to see what she had to lose. This is a turning point, she told herself. All she had to do was step through the door of the pub and everything would be changed for ever.

It was relatively early and still light, but cooler now; the heat of the day diminished. She slowed down as the reality of what she was contemplating set in. Walter wouldn’t blame her for starting over, not after what he had done. He would see that they were better off without one another. He would probably let her keep the coupons without a second thought: it was the least he could do. She paused, the realisation slowly occurring to her that she would have to tell Mavis to make arrangements for Mother, and Mavis would want to know where Mother’s coupons were. Perhaps she could say they’d been stolen. Coupons were always being stolen. The thought of the police coming and asking her questions caused a small tremor of panic to make her heart shudder. What had she done? What was she going to do? A rivulet of sweat trickled between her breasts, and it came to her that the Holloway Road might as well be the Atlantic Ocean, because she was not going to cross it now; nor was she going to walk into the pub and sell the coupons to the spiv. Whatever had she been thinking? She had been utterly ridiculous and now she wanted to cry. One thing was quite clear: she couldn’t go home, not now. Perhaps she ought to go down to Liverpool Street and catch a train to Clacton. She probably had enough money on her for a ticket and Mavis would just have to pay for the taxi when she got to Jaywick. This seemed like a good plan, but then she thought of how Mavis would have a field day, with “I told you so” – I told you he was a rotten failure. I told you he’s not all there. I told you not to marry him. So did Father. So did we all. On and on and on. She couldn’t bear that. She’d be better off dead than putting herself at Mavis’s mercy.

No, she’d be better off just going to the Odeon, as she had planned to do all along. Richard Greene and Ann Todd. She felt as if she was being pressed to death by a heavy slab of defeat, disappointment. She told herself that she liked Ann Todd, who’d been very good in
The Seventh Veil
. She had played the piano beautifully. Perhaps she would enjoy the picture, and afterwards she could go back to the house and decide what to do next. Her nerves would be better then. And besides, why should she be the one to leave? It was her mother’s house, after all: Walter and Evelyn were only there because of her. She took a few deep breaths to calm herself and considered how she would feel safe in the warmth of the Odeon. Ann Todd had gone mad in
The
Seventh Veil
, and after Herbert Lom had helped her she’d gone off with James Mason, who had a wonderful voice and had been her true love all along. She doubted that this picture would be as good as
The Seventh Veil
, but she started to walk towards the cinema in any case, as if in a dream. Maybe, she thought, maybe the spiv would remember that she was going to the Odeon and would come looking for her there. She looked for him in the line waiting to go in. Perhaps it was a turning point after all. A
hat-shop
. A nice tea-room. She would begin again some place that the war hadn’t touched. She would meet nice men for lunches and for cocktails. She would steady their hands as they reached across to light her. She would go somewhere that wasn’t broken and covered in dust; somewhere that was not haunted by the ghosts of houses, by the remains of vanquished lives. And everything would be nice again, just like it used to be.