The More Deceived (13 page)

‘It was at a quarter to five this morning that a police constable on his beat noticed something hanging from Chelsea Bridge. He thought at first it was a dummy – a Charlie Chaplin figure dressed in a pinstripe business suit and overcoat with a bowler hat on his head and his umbrella on his arm, or that was what it looked like. In fact, on closer inspection, it turned out the umbrella was hanging from his coat pocket. When he got nearer, he got rather a shock. He saw that it was a body – not a straw guy or something of that nature. It couldn’t be got at from the bridge so the River Police were called.’

Edward felt sick to the stomach. He could so vividly imagine the scene. The pathetic scarecrow figure twisting from a rope over the muddy water.

‘The constable saw no sign of any boat?’ he asked. ‘I gather from Ferguson it is more likely that Westmacott’s body was attached to the bridge from below rather than from the bridge itself?’

‘We think so. Even at five o’clock there were people on the bridge. Someone scrambling about would have been noticed. In any case, you would have to have had the climbing ability of an orang-utang to hang yourself from that girder. Not possible, I would say.’

‘The constable saw nothing suspicious on the river?’

‘No, but that’s not surprising. Unless he had happened to witness the body being hoisted into place – which he didn’t – I doubt he would have been able to see anything suspicious from the shore. A boat’s just a boat, isn’t it? Still, the River Police have already begun a search of boats in the area. My belief is that the constable spotted the body within a few minutes of it being strung up. If it had been there even half an hour, someone would have seen it and called the police.’

‘Yes. It was getting light by five.’

‘We can rule out robbery as a motive for the killing. The murderer or murderers made no effort to prevent us identifiying Westmacott. In fact, they wanted to advertise who it was. His wallet, keys and other personal belongings were still in his pockets.’

Edward grunted in disgust. ‘It’s horrible enough that Westmacott was killed but to hang him like that . . . I wonder if it was meant to ape a judicial hanging. No sign of his briefcase?’

‘Not a trace. That’s the only thing missing. Can you tell me anything about what might have been in it? Ferguson was no help, blast him.’

‘As far as we know, Westmacott was not politically active but we think he had access to secret papers – secrets that worried him. The files in his briefcase are thought to concern businessmen – arms dealers. It’s possible he stumbled on something which made him dangerous to those gentlemen.’

‘Or he was trying to sell secrets to a foreign power?’ Pride suggested, stroking his chin.

‘It’s possible but, on the face of it, the secrets he had access to weren’t valuable enough to interest a foreign power. What I would like to suggest, Chief Inspector, is that I attempt to interview the arms dealers whose names we know were in the missing files. I say “attempt” because most of these men are not based in London and move around the world the whole time. I can also make some inquiries among my friends in the Communist Party. It is possible they may have heard something.’

For a moment, Edward thought Pride was going to say something disparaging but, if he had been, he managed to suppress it.

‘That would be helpful, Lord Edward. I confess I am rather out of my depth when it comes to politics. To my mind, they are all as bad as each other – Fascists and Communists. They’re all troublemakers. Now, ordinary crime I can cope with but this . . . it makes me sick.’

‘I don’t disagree with you, Chief Inspector, but that is the world we live in, I’m afraid. I will get out of your way then. I am sure you have much to do.’

‘I do indeed, Lord Edward. I am also investigating a series of jewel robberies in the Hatton Garden area so I have my hands full. London’s almost overrun with petty criminals. We can only investigate the major crimes.’

‘You’re understaffed?’

‘I should say so! The Met has only 1,400 detectives out of a force of 20,000. We are well under strength. The Home Secretary just won’t find the money.’

‘That bad, eh? I don’t envy you, Chief Inspector. By the way, may I speak to the constable who discovered the body?’

‘Constable Robbins? Yes, of course, but I don’t think he’ll have anything to add to what I have told you.’

‘No, but . . .’

‘He comes off duty at ten. Shall I ask him to come round to you at your rooms or would you prefer to see him here?’

‘Could you ask him to come to Albany about two? No, better make it tomorrow. I may have to spend some time with the Westmacotts.’

‘The Major said, since you have met Mrs Westmacott, you will tell her . . . about her husband.’

‘If I must.’

‘I’ll send a police constable with you in case you need help. She is bound to be . . . very much upset. And there’s a daughter too, isn’t there?’

‘Yes, a little girl aged about ten. Alice.’

‘That’s bad. They must be told at once before they hear it from a reporter. I’ve got a car outside. Tell Mrs Westmacott I will come and see her tomorrow.’

Edward nodded. ‘By the way, have you informed Westmacott’s boss, Desmond Lyall, about finding the body?’

‘Yes. Ferguson informed Sir Robert Vansittart and he has told Lyall. I am interviewing him this afternoon with Sir Robert. What do you think of him? You know him, don’t you?’

‘Sir Robert?’

‘No, my lord, Lyall,’ Pride said, with just a touch of the asperity Edward associated with him.

‘Sorry! Lyall. Yes, I have met him. I don’t know what to make of him. I don’t trust him and he’s certainly not telling all he knows but I don’t see him as a murderer. He’s a bit of a cold fish. The only person he seems to care about is his son, currently with the International Brigade in Spain.’

Pride grimaced. He did not approve of young Englishmen who ran off to fight in a war which was nothing to do with them.

‘His wife died of cancer six months ago. He’s a lonely man,’ Edward said as he rose to go. Pride rose too and put out his hand.

‘It’s good to have your help, sir. I know in the past you may have thought I was not . . . that I did not appreciate . . .’

‘Say no more, Pride. I have always thought you to be a most capable and efficient officer. How would you like me to report to you?’

‘Here is my direct number. I give it only to a few senior officers so I don’t get swamped, as it were. ’

‘Thank you. By the way, talking of Communists – you remember the Cable Street riots?’

‘I do indeed.’ Pride spoke with feeling. Edward was referring to the worst street fighting London had endured for many a year. In October 1936 Mosley, the leader of the British Union of Fascists, had tried to march through the East End of London. The parties on the left – the Communists in particular – were determined to stop him. They had built barricades across Cable Street and, when the police tried to dismantle them, all hell broke loose.

‘That chap, Jack Spot . . .’

‘He led the rioters . . . almost killed one of my officers.’

‘That’s the one. Didn’t I read in the newspapers that he had been sent down for GBH?’

‘Yes, he went to the Scrubs for six months and richly deserved it. He’s out now and I hear he’s mixing with some right villains.’

‘I thought as much. Would it be possible to pass the word for him to get in touch with me?’

‘Why?’

‘I thought I might employ him to find out who was behind this business. We need someone who knows who’s doing what in London’s gangland. Don’t get me wrong, Chief Inspector, I am sure your men will dig up something but, as you say, you are short-handed and this might be a short cut.’

‘I can’t be seen to be employing villains,’ Pride protested.

‘No, of course not, but I can. My status is nebulous to say the least. You can’t be responsible for anything I get up to.’

Pride actually smiled. ‘Very good! I’ll pass the word. Can I hint that money might change hands?’

‘Indeed you can, Chief Inspector!’

The police car set off towards Park Royal at high speed with its bell ringing. Edward had to ask the driver to slow down and turn off the bell. Apart from the fact that he was not in the least eager to reach the Westmacotts’ house, he did not want to scare Mrs Westmacott by arriving noisily and at speed. Bad news could never be too slow in coming.

The moment Mrs Westmacott opened the door and saw Edward with the uniformed constable, she let out a cry and clutched at her throat.

‘He’s dead, isn’t he? My Charlie’s dead.’

Alice came running to her mother and clutched her, looking at Edward with accusing eyes. ‘Where’s my daddy?’ she demanded. ‘You said you would find him.’

‘I am so sorry, Mrs Westmacott. I’m afraid your husband
is
dead. I wish it were not so but . . . may I come in?’

He followed the weeping woman and the little girl into their living-room, leaving the constable outside.

When they were sitting, he told them about Westmacott’s death and how his body had been found. It was one of the worst things he had ever had to do and he wished he could be a million miles away. Briefly, in the car, he had considered telling the mother but not the daughter. However, on reflection, he thought that Alice was in many ways more grown-up than her mother. In any case, he did not want Mrs Westmacott to have to tell the child. She would find it a terrible burden. He knew it would be some time before she could take in the details of exactly how her husband had been killed – at least he hoped so – and he did not want her telling Alice some garbled story or, worse, have Alice read about it in the next day’s papers.

When he had finished Mrs Westmacott was distraught and Alice, too, was very shocked. He decided he could not leave without finding someone to look after them.

‘You ought not to be here alone. Is there any friend or neighbour who could come round?’ he asked gently. ‘I can’t tell you how sorry I am. I can only promise we will do our utmost to bring the people who did this to justice.’

He prayed he would not have to disappoint them again. At the back of his mind was the thought that, if Westmacott had been killed by some international gang, they might never be caught. The killers might already be out of the country or hiding in a foreign embassy.

‘My sister, Georgina. I will telephone her,’ Mrs Westmacott said, trying to control her sobs.

‘If you have the number, I will talk to her if you would like me to,’ Edward said.

The voice at the other end of the telephone was very different from her sister’s. Georgina was clearly one of those horsey, loud women whom Edward generally avoided but who on this occasion filled him with relief. She listened while Edward told his story and then asked to speak to her sister. While they were talking, Edward sat down with Alice.

‘I am afraid you are going to have to be very brave. I promise you that you won’t be left on your own. There will be people from where your father worked who will come and see what they can do to help but I can’t pretend it is not going to be awful for you.’

‘Will you come and see us?’ she asked pathetically.

‘I will come at least once a week until we have caught the people who have done this wicked thing.’

‘You promise?’

‘I promise.’

‘Will they come . . . the men who killed daddy . . . and kill us too?’

‘No!’ Edward said shocked. ‘You mustn’t think that. Your father was in danger because of the work he did. He was doing his duty but he must have known the risks. I think that was why he told you to look after your mother the day he disappeared. He knew secrets and other people – foreigners probably – wanted them, even if it meant killing your father. No one will want to hurt you or your mother. Promise me you won’t frighten yourself by thinking any such thing?’

He put his arm round her shoulders and she cuddled up to him. It was probably not something a real policeman would have done and he was glad he was
not
a real policeman. ‘Your daddy was a very brave man. He died for his country and you are to be very proud of him.’

Alice seemed a little comforted by his words and he prayed that he was right – that Westmacott
had
died for his country, and not for betraying it.

When Mrs Westmacott put down the telephone she had stopped weeping. Her sister, who lived in Weybridge, had promised to come at once.

Edward decided he would wait until she arrived so he went outside and told the constable to take the car back to Scotland Yard. He would find his own way back.

Mrs Westmacott made some tea and they sat talking about her husband. It appeared to ease her to talk and Edward sat back and listened. Alice curled herself up on the sofa and seemed to doze.

He asked her again about the files that her husband had brought home and she said, ‘I have been racking my brains ever since you asked me if I remembered anything about them and, last night, it came to me. I
do
remember something I saw. It was a letter. I didn’t read it but I remember the address because it sounded so nice – like a comfortable hotel – Bawdsey Manor, Felixstowe.’

The name meant nothing to Edward but he made a note of it.

When the sister arrived she turned out to be a plain but sensible woman with rather startling yellow hair, three or four years younger than Mrs Westmacott whom she addressed as Tilly which Edward assumed was short for Matilda. She was called Miss Hay – Georgina Hay – and she took charge immediately. To his relief, Edward was told he might go. Before he did so he warned the two women that they might have a bad time from press reporters and that, if they were a nuisance, they were to ring Chief Inspector Pride at Scotland Yard who would send a constable to keep them in order.

‘I have a better idea,’ Miss Hay said. ‘Tilly, you and Alice can come and stay with me. I have plenty of room and you are best out of here for the moment.’

‘Oh, I don’t think . . .’ began her sister.

‘It’s for the best, Tilly,’ Miss Hay said firmly and Edward backed her up.

‘I am worried about the reporters, Mrs Westmacott. I think, as your sister says, it would be best if you spent a few days with her.’