War Damage (29 page)

thirty-one

M
URRAY MET JAMES MCGOVERN
in a pub near King's Cross.

‘The man you saw with Pinelli at the demonstration, and who we both saw with Carnforth at the Mosley rally: I've found out a bit about him. He's known as Patrick O'Connell now. He showed up earlier in the year, in the summer sometime. He was in a lot of trouble in the Far East. He was an Irish patriot – if that's what you call it; very anti-British, pro-Nazi. He went under another name out there – or several. So it looks as if he is the husband of the scarlet woman of Hampstead.'

‘You were right about Plumer, you know. He admitted it – there's someone higher up who wants Carnforth left alone.'

‘I told you so. Someone who doesn't want Mosley annoyed.'

‘He wants to arrest and charge Pinelli.'

‘Pinelli's not the murderer, though, is he?'

‘He hasn't got the brains for blackmail, I can tell you that much. I doubt if he can even read and write properly. And the boss knows it really. That's why we haven't been round there already.'

‘Would Carnforth not fit the bill if you were able to touch him?'

‘He has an alibi, although if he paid Barker to do it the alibi isn't relevant. But I'm coming round to the view he did it himself. Then possibly Barker found out and had to be got rid of too. Because I don't think the alibi means much. The couple, they're blackshirts too, they'd stick by him.'

‘You can't just assume that.'

‘I admit he's not the only one with a motive. A lot of people hated the dead man.' Murray stretched towards the Player's packet on the table, then withdrew his hand again. ‘And Ian Roxburgh, the executor – he's threatened Mrs Milner too.' He repeated what Regine had told him. ‘The guv'nor's decided she's led me astray. He's simply not interested in Mrs Milner's husband. I don't think he even believes her story. I think he thinks she's making it all up because she's in a jam.'

Murray's hand crept forward again, and this time he did extract a cigarette. Smoking helped you think, after all. ‘The dead man has left him everything. Roxburgh says there's nothing but debts, but if this necklace exists and is valuable then—'

‘Do you believe Mrs Milner? She hasn't got it?'

‘No – I'm sure she hasn't. She'd have told me.'

‘Perhaps we should go and talk to Ian Roxburgh.'

‘We're not supposed to be working on this together. Plumer's angry enough with me already.'

‘He can't do much, can he, because of what you know – what he told you.'

The friends emerged into the bleak wastes of the Gray's Inn Road and passed the Royal Free Hospital on their way up to King's Cross.

At Bank station Murray saw the
Evening News
headline:
MINISTER RESIGNS
. He paid for a copy and glanced at it as they walked along Cheapside towards the side street where Roxburgh had his office. So Ernie Appleton had bitten the dust. He wondered if it would make a difference to the Buckingham case.

‘It's half past four. He may have left.'

‘How much time does he spend here anyway? He's not a bona fide businessman, is he?'

But when Murray knocked on the glass-panelled door, there was a noise from within and Roxburgh opened it.

‘We've a few more questions. Mind if we come in?'

‘I'm in rather a hurry.'

Roxburgh was clearing out. Papers were scattered on the floor. Filing cabinet drawers hung open. Half-packed cardboard boxes stood on the desk and on a chair.

‘Mrs Milner says you've been threatening her.' As he spoke Murray moved round the office and behind the desk, by the old-fashioned typewriter that hadn't yet been packed. He examined the few abandoned files and letters. He picked up a sheet of paper, wound it between the rollers and typed a few words.

‘I think there's been a misunderstanding. Mrs Milner's rather prone to exaggeration – like so many women. Women tend to be rather emotional, don't they.'

‘She says you and her former husband—'

‘Her legal husband, you mean, I think.'

Murray was still typing as he talked. ‘Eugene Smith, also known as Patrick O'Connell. She says you and he have been demanding the return of some jewellery she doesn't have. You also told us Buckingham had no money, only debts. But if this necklace exists, that changes the picture, doesn't it? Then there's the question of the naughty photographs he took. A number of men have been blackmailed. The vice squad is close to arresting the blackmailer.'

This was a lie; indeed, it was the opposite of the truth, since Ramsgate was concerned only with arresting victims; but Roxburgh wasn't to know that. His pale blue gaze wavered.

‘And now we find you're leaving,' chipped in McGovern. ‘Bit of a coincidence, eh?'

‘Not at all.'

‘I hope you're not planning to leave London, Captain Roxburgh. We'd rather you didn't go too far for the moment, because we will need to talk to you again.'

Roxburgh raised an eyebrow. ‘You forget I'm Buckingham's executor. I'm hardly in a position to leave permanently. But I have family in South Africa and a relative of mine has died.'

‘
South Africa
! That's a long way away. Have you and O'Connell agreed to divide the spoils, then? He'll get the necklace and you keep the photographs?'

‘You shouldn't believe everything Mrs Milner tells you. As I said. And I know nothing about any photographs. If you're really interested in solving the Buckingham business then I suggest you talk to O'Connell. But it doesn't seem as if you
are
very interested. You certainly haven't made much progress.'

After he'd parted from McGovern at King's Cross, Murray went to a telephone kiosk and dialled the Hampstead number. A man's voice answered. Murray silently cursed, but to his relief it was not Neville Milner, but the lodger.

Regine was out. At once Murray imagined her walking on the Heath – but it was too late, getting dark. She was in danger and he couldn't reach her. He started to walk back to the centre of town. He crossed Russell Square and passed the length of the British Museum. He was in that state of mind when frustration and anxiety combine to create a mood of indescribable tension, an almost physical irritation as of the skin burning with eczema, a dreadful discomfort. He couldn't stand it. He had to see her. He would go up and wait outside her house. No, he would telephone again. No – because if she still wasn't there he'd just feel more frustrated.

He stopped at Tottenham Court Road. There was the Corner House. There he'd met her. Now he had no idea where she was. There was nothing he could do. He was not going to see her this evening unless he hung about outside her house and that was too servile, too desperate.

He turned and walked back in the direction of Russell Square and King's Cross, through the yellow pools of light that splashed the prevailing darkness of the acid streets, past the flow of anonymous strangers to which he was so accustomed, bought a ticket and ran down the escalator. There was nothing for it but to go home.

In south London the lights seemed dimmer than ever, the buildings more decayed, the pedestrians more weary and the rows upon regimented rows of terraces more lonesome and endless. As he walked from the station he was gnawed by the conviction that something – everything – the case, Regine, his future – was almost within his grasp, yet tantalisingly beyond it.

thirty-two

M
URRAY WALKED UNDER
the great arch in front of the station and towards the station itself, looking cautiously around as he did so. He had arrived early on purpose. Inside the main station he saw a queue forming for the boat train to Holy-head and thence to Dun Laoghaire and Dublin. He stepped back into the cover of an archway, and scanned the patient line of passengers, but there was no sign of O'Connell. The hands of the huge clock pointed to five to five. He slipped along among the travellers scurrying to and fro and met McGovern, as arranged, by the bookstall.

‘I told the guv'nor he's a member of the IRA,' said McGovern, grinning, ‘which he might be.'

‘She's meeting him in the Euston Hotel,' said Murray. ‘I'd better walk over there.'

‘I'll wait outside and follow him when he leaves.'

Murray walked casually into the hotel foyer. The faded duncoloured wallpaper and shabby green-and-pink patterned carpet had seen better days. The woman at the reception desk glanced at him, but he turned aside towards the bar. It was only five o'clock, but perhaps the hotel had a different licence, for there were quite a few drinkers standing at the counter and they didn't look like hotel guests. Several of the tables were occupied as well. Murray took up a position at the bar and ordered a half pint. He'd purchased a newspaper at the kiosk and from behind it he glanced round the panelled lounge. No sign of Regine.

For a grim moment doubt assailed him. She wasn't coming. It was all some kind of hoax or fantasy or …

She stood in the doorway in a black astrakhan coat and long, red gloves. She looked round the room, then set off across the bar to a table half hidden by a heavy curtain at the nearby window. The man already seated there was the man who'd been with Pinelli and whom Murray had followed to Whitechapel. He couldn't see whether the man's clothes were new or old, well cared for or unkempt, but there was something about the set of his shoulders, his too-long hair and what he could see of his expression in the dim lighting from the electric candelabras suspended high up in the ceiling, that made him look somehow defeated rather than menacing. But then he leaned forward as he spoke to Regine and as she recoiled slightly, Murray had a different impression. O'Connell had a nearly empty glass of beer in front of him and the smoke rose from his cigarette as he spoke intensely to Regine.

When O'Connell approached the bar Murray shielded his face behind his paper. O'Connell stood quite close to him, but showed no sign of being aware of his presence – and why should he, thought Murray – as he ordered an orange squash and a double whisky.

O'Connell carried the drinks to the table. The conversation with Regine continued. O'Connell leaned forward; Regine sat upright, and spoke hardly at all.

Then she opened her bag. So perhaps there was a necklace after all. She drew out an envelope, which she passed across the table. O'Connell didn't look inside it, just thrust it in his pocket.

Murray wondered if he dared attempt to get closer. There was an unoccupied table to the near side of the curtain, which was drawn back from the lofty window with a tie, so that its thickness would have provided a minimum of cover if he moved there, but it was too risky, he decided. O'Connell might notice.

Time passed slowly. Regine stood up. O'Connell stayed seated. Regine passed across the lounge. She didn't look at Murray, but he knew she'd seen him. He glanced back at O'Connell, but O'Connell wasn't watching his wife. He was digging in his pocket for the envelope. It was safe to follow Regine out into the foyer as they'd arranged. Murray just hoped McGovern wouldn't miss O'Connell when he left the bar.

It was another foggy evening. Murray looked back as he caught up with Regine in Euston Square, to make sure O'Connell hadn't followed her out, but figures were indistinct in the mist.

‘Thank you for being there.' Regine looked pale. ‘I saw you in the bar, of course. It was dreadful,' she said. ‘He was angry. I brought him some money, but he only wants the necklace. He's so sure I have it. It's a delusion. I've never had it. He says he's giving me one last chance. And then he started on about how Freddie might have had it and Neville and I might have taken it when we went round to Markham Square. He knew we went there. But how did he know? So I asked him. He knew he'd slipped up then, he was angry, but he didn't pretend or anything. He came right out with it. He said he was watching the house. And – I can't remember exactly the words he used – but the way he said it, it was obvious he knew Freddie had been murdered. I mean
then
, the morning after, before it was in the papers or anything.'

‘Why does he go on meeting you like this? You say he's desperate to get away to Ireland. If that's the case, and if he's so sure you have this necklace you'd think he'd have come to your house, or staged a burglary while you were out.'

‘I think he does it to torment me.'

‘Perhaps he's afraid of the dog.'

‘Oh no!' She smiled sadly. ‘Cato adores him. He's played with him on the Heath. That wouldn't be a deterrent at all.'

Perhaps he was in league with Roxburgh; waiting perhaps for some of the proceeds of the blackmail. And Roxburgh was leaving the country in order to double-cross him …

They had to stop by the kerb as the traffic fled by. She looked right and left. ‘Look – I'm so late. Neville will wonder where I am – I'll have to get a taxi.'

‘But –' He couldn't conceal his dismay. ‘I need to talk to you – to know what he said – is he leaving tonight?'

She flagged down a cab and opened the door. ‘Ride up with me to Hampstead. That way we can talk.'

Disappointed – he'd planned another intimate rendezvous in a bar somewhere – but without hesitation, he climbed in behind her. They sat together in the black leather cell and the confined space itself created a curious intimacy. He closed the glass partition between themselves and the driver and asked in a low voice: ‘What else did he say?'

‘He said he had a gun, I don't know if that's true, I didn't see it – he threatened me – he went on and on about the necklace.'

‘He'd hardly bring out a gun in the middle of a busy bar.'

‘He was in such a strange mood I wouldn't have put it past him. What was so unnerving was his mood seemed to fluctuate, so one minute he was threatening me and then he started rambling on about Freddie and Shanghai.' She leaned back in the cab and glanced sideways at Murray. ‘Do you think perhaps he might be ill? There was something feverish about him. He asked if I'd seen Ian Roxburgh – yes, I think he must be ill. The way he was talking was as if everything's against him, everyone. He seemed angry with Ian Roxburgh as well, he said he'd double-crossed him too, but, you know, the whole world was against him. He was clear about one thing, though. He said he's giving me one more chance. He was angry because he'd had to put off catching the boat train because of me. He's going tomorrow, but if I don't produce the necklace …' She shut her eyes for a moment. ‘It's like a bad dream,' she murmured, ‘there are times I still don't even believe it.'

‘You're to meet him again, then?'

She nodded. ‘On the Heath this time. In the morning.'

That would be more dangerous: few people about, great empty spaces and not much cover. He swore silently.

‘I'll be there,' he said.

‘Promise? I'm frightened. But – wouldn't it be better not to go at all?'

‘Perhaps … but why is he so certain you have this necklace?'

Regine didn't answer. She was playing with her gloves, massaging the soft suede against her hands, pulling the fingers, then smoothing the backs of her gloved hands again.

Unable to resist, he placed his hand on hers. ‘You are telling me the truth? There isn't something else – anything – anything I need to know?'

She looked up at him with such a naked, defenceless gaze that, without intending to, he bent forward and kissed her. To his astonishment the pressure of lips became, shockingly, more, her hot open mouth sending an electric jolt to his groin. He bent further, pressed closer …

The taxi drew to a halt. Flustered, she put her gloved hands to her face. ‘I'll pay – no please, I wouldn't dream of letting you –' and she was on the pavement before he could stop her, only leaning back in through the open door to say: ‘He'll be under the beech trees. At eleven.'

He told the cabbie to drive back to Euston and lay back against the padded seat, stunned.