War Damage (30 page)

thirty-three

C
HARLES WALKED ROUND
to the art annexe. When Carnforth saw him a strange smile crossed his features. ‘Hallam – Charles! This is a surprise. How is your mother?'

Charles knew Carnforth was in his power now. ‘Good news. She's much better. She's coming home much sooner than expected, today in fact. She wants to see you, but it's rather difficult as you can imagine. The idea is I take you to meet her – she hasn't thought of exactly where yet, but I can meet you at Hampstead station on Saturday. My father's on call at the hospital. We'll have sorted something out by then.'

It sounded utterly implausible, but Charles was counting on Carnforth's desperation, and it worked. ‘Thank you. Thank you, Charles. That's good of you. I'm so grateful. I've been worried.'

Charles smiled.

With Vivienne away, work on the house ground to a halt. Lugg and his men dispersed to other jobs. The dust settled. The house was colder than ever.

But now Charles was no longer brought down by the paralysing depression of living in the ruin. His father was at the hospital. Madge had the half day off. No one saw him leave the house.

He arrived at Hampstead underground station ten minutes early and waited just inside. He kept looking at his watch, but it was only five minutes before the lift doors clanked open and Carnforth shambled towards him, his shoulders hunched into his black coat as if to minimise his height, but still Charles had to brace himself against the overpowering bulk of the man.

‘So glad you could make it, sir.'

‘Of course I could – make it, as you say.'

Charles led him out of the station and up Heath Street. He'd tried to prepare some topics of conversation to get them through the walk to the rendezvous, but had no need of them, for Carnforth was eager to talk, stammering his way through a series of futile attempts to get Charles to engage on the subject of religion. ‘I've been praying for your mother, you know. I know you haven't yet experienced the power of prayer, but I do assure you …'

Charles wasn't even listening. It was unbelievable what tripe people talked and he also found it astonishing how people lied all the time, even when they must know everyone knew they were lying. But perhaps they believed their own lies. All this stuff about God was lies. Carnforth just spouted on about it to make himself feel good. It was pure self-importance.

Carnforth walked rather slowly. Charles sauntered along at his side, controlling his impatience, noticing the worn edges of Carnforth's coat, his heavy black shoes, like a policeman's, and, today, his ridiculous homburg hat, shiny and going green with age at the edge.

What on earth had his mother – but he couldn't bear to think of Vivienne and this … hulk, who increasingly reminded him of the convict in the film of
Great Expectations
. Yes, something of the convict clung to him. And Regine's lodger, Phil, knew Carnforth had been locked up in the war. Charles was vague on the details, but he'd definitely been in prison. The Nazis hated everyone who wasn't like them. Yet the curious thing was Carnforth didn't seem like that. He seemed ponderous and slow and in a way quite gentle. Only when he'd started to spout on about Adam Mendelssohn had his words become violent. Then Charles had glimpsed another side of the man. That, he now thought, was the moment when the idea of Carnforth the murderer had first crossed his mind. But he wasn't frightened.

They had reached the main road now. ‘Where are we going?' Carnforth moved his unwieldy head to and fro.

‘It's not far. Just along here.'

Charles had no difficulty finding the path Regine had shown him that day. He led Carnforth down the mud track towards the rusted staircase. ‘There's a garden,' he said. ‘My mother used to come here when Anna Pavlova lived at the house.' This was pure invention, but he liked it. ‘This is where she wanted to meet you.'

It had been a stroke of genius on his part. The place was deserted. No one ever came here. The walkways looked even more neglected than he remembered in the still grisaille of the wintry air. The roses had withered. Yellowed leaves lay scattered along the paving. In the gardens below, flower beds were tangled and overgrown beneath bare, blackened trees. They walked along the balcony as it turned and twisted above the overgrown lawns and terraces.

‘A melancholy place, isn't it, sir,' commented Charles. He wasn't sure what he was going to say when they came to the wall at the end. But he knew what he wanted to do. Now he
was
feeling nervous.

‘What time was Vivienne to be here? Is she late, do you think? Do you think she had trouble getting away?'

‘Oh, she'll be along soon,' said Charles carelessly, but he was shivering with tension.

They reached the dead end. Charles leaned against the last column, near where the coping had broken and been replaced by wooden palings. ‘Look, sir,' he said, ‘even when it's misty like this, and dusk's coming down, the view is amazing.'

Carnforth looked. He gazed northwards, hands in pockets, suddenly an unexpectedly commanding figure, a captain at the prow of his ship. He turned and said:

‘There's something I wanted to say to you, Charles. I know you were angry with me. I know you believe you were fond of Freddie Buckingham. But what he did to you was unforgivable. And I couldn't bear the way he influenced Vivienne, she couldn't see how everything he did was tainted and false and … and artificial. There was a time before the war when she even thought she was in love with him. He came between us – her and me – he turned her against me, you know. I never forgave him for that.'

‘You shouldn't have shown my mother the photograph of … of me.'

‘I had to prove to her what he was really like.'

‘So you
did
show her the photograph.'

‘I had to show her what he'd done to you.'

‘Freddie didn't
do
anything to me,' said Charles between gritted teeth. ‘It's just the way I am. I did it to myself.'

And then it hit him – the implication of what had just been said. ‘How did you get hold of the photograph?' The icy certainty of it was appalling. But it was also liberating. His instinct had been right all along.

Carnforth slowly turned his head. ‘She's late, isn't she? Is she coming? What can have happened?' Carnforth peered along the shadowy terrace.

Charles had planned what to say next: it's a joke, she's still in the mental home, you'll never see her again. But he would play Carnforth along for a little while yet. ‘She may have found it difficult to get away,' he said vaguely, ‘but I'm sure she'll be here soon.' He brought out his cigarettes and lit one. The sense of triumph was ebbing away, because he'd remembered the photos. Everything between his mother and himself was poisoned now for ever. ‘You really shouldn't have shown her that photo of me and Freddie,' he repeated. ‘That was a rotten thing to do.'

Carnforth stood to his full height. He suddenly advanced across the restricted space and Charles felt real, searing fear of this man, a murderer after all. But Carnforth stopped a few paces from him.

‘Don't you see, Charles, how he sinned against you. Someone had to do something. Freddie had to be stopped – and you need help too – don't reject the help I can give you – spiritual help –'

Charles started to shake, but he said coolly: ‘I'm sorry, sir, what did you say?'

‘He had to be stopped, Charles. It had to be stopped.'

So he'd confessed.

The inhaled smoke steadied Charles's nerves. ‘I suppose you killed Freddie because you were jealous. That's why you killed him.'

It was spoken so calmly that Carnforth took a few seconds to take in the meaning of the words. He stared at Charles. ‘I – killed Freddie? You think that?'

Charles stared at him. His smile was insistent, relentless. ‘Who else could have done it?'

Carnforth's face reddened. ‘Does
she
believe that – are they trying to poison her mind against me? Are they?'

He took another step towards Charles. His bewilderment and distress seemed to be turning to rage. ‘She isn't coming, is she? This is all some sort of … joke. Is that what it is? You think it's funny, telling me she's meeting me here? Did you think this up?'

‘Keep away from me! Don't touch me, murderer!' shrieked Charles. ‘Of course she's not coming. She loathes you, she always loathed you!' And driven by a frenzy of loathing he lurched forward and pushed the great bulk of the man away.

Caught off guard, Carnforth staggered back against the wooden rail. There was a frozen moment when he seemed to realise it was giving away and flailed, grasped at the air, grasped at Charles, but Charles leapt backwards in a paroxysm of infantile glee at having got the better of him. With wonderful exhilaration he saw Carnforth topple away out of sight towards the terraces below, the fall forcing from him an eerie howl before he smashed onto the stone.

Silence folded back in on itself. Charles was shaking. His cigarette had fallen to the ground. He stared at it. After a while he bent very slowly, like an old man, and tried to pick it up, but his fingers were shaking too much. He stood up and stamped it out instead. He walked along the colonnade and when he came to the first corner, where the stone of the balcony was more secure, he leant over, but what lay beneath was obscured by bushes. He walked on until he came to a flight of steps leading down to the garden. He stood for a while at the top, then descended slowly and walked back towards the pond. Carnforth lay, horribly huddled and twisted on his side, one eye staring at the sky as a pool of blood seeped from under his head.

Just one little push and Carnforth's great bulk was crumpled and broken. But now the exhilaration was gone, wiped out by an overpowering weariness.

Charles's innards cramped. He gagged, turned away and was sick into the bushes. He gasped, still bent over, then breathing deeply, he stood upright, walked slowly back up the steps again and returned to the dead end of the colonnade.

It would be clear what had happened. An accident – or suicide perhaps. The wooden palings just weren't safe. No one would ever know the truth.

He'd forgotten about the cigarette stub he'd stamped into the ground. He walked slowly away in the gathering dusk. When he reached the main road he crossed onto the Heath. He trudged through the wooded landscape. At the crossing of two paths a man was loitering. He asked Charles for a light. They stood together for a few moments and then together they sought a hiding place in the undergrowth.

thirty-four

‘W
HERE THE HELL HAVE
you been?' Murray almost collided with Plumer as he plunged along the corridor to his superior's office. ‘We've got Roxburgh. His plane was delayed by fog. It was almost accidental – someone from customs and excise recognised him and – I'll tell you later. He's in the interview room. I'm going to see him now. You'd better come too.'

How could this all have happened so soon? Murray let himself be hurried downstairs in a state of stupefied bewilderment.

The way in which suspects comported themselves under questioning always interested Murray. It was an indicator of truth or falsehood if you knew how to interpret small movements, glances and nervous tics, a point made by Hans Gross in his
Criminal Investigation
, the detectives' bible.

Ian Roxburgh was one of those whom Murray would have expected to give a performance of fake upper-class hauteur. But Roxburgh seemed relaxed and was not on his high horse at all. He asked politely if he might smoke.

‘I'm sorry I was rather brusque when you called round, Sergeant Murray,' he said. ‘And I know I gave the wrong impression – as you've realised now, my flight was today, or ought to have been.' He offered them a smile of conscious ruefulness. ‘But I can explain the items found in my luggage.'

This was yet more puzzling to Murray.

‘That's a matter for my colleagues,' said Plumer, ‘we're not interested in that. If you were smuggling art objects or anything else, that will be dealt with. We want to know about your relationship with Frederick Buckingham. I have just returned from seeing his family in Yorkshire. You know they're contesting the will. They have produced a different will and question the validity of the later one, of which you are the executor. I'd be interested to know how it came about that Buckingham made this later will. If he did. I want to know exactly what happened.'

‘Well – I suppose I'd better come clean,' said Roxburgh. ‘The fact is, I found myself in an awkward position,' he said almost coyly. ‘The man known as Patrick O'Connell. Well, the fact is, he tried to blackmail me.'

‘What was your relationship with this man? When did you meet him?'

‘I met him in Manila, late 1945. He was in a bad state. He was called Eugene Smith then, by the way, but let's stick to O'Connell. He'd escaped from Shanghai on a boat with some other crooked pal. Their idea was to deal in cigarettes, medicines … I don't know the details of it, but his friend had lit out back for Shanghai with the money and O'Connell was left stranded. The Americans wanted to arrest him, they didn't believe he was an Irish citizen at first, they thought he was a British quisling – which wasn't surprising as he had a British passport, illegally acquired, no doubt. Anyway, I managed to sort it out for him. In return he put me in the way of useful contacts. Along the way he told me about Freddie Buckingham. He was very bitter about him, said Buckingham had informed on him and so forth, but that I should contrive to get to know him when I got to London, because he moved in wealthy artistic circles – he'd know all sorts of people who'd be interested in what I had to sell.

‘So I looked Freddie up when I arrived in London – I told him I'd met O'Connell. That rattled him. He didn't trust me at first, understandably, but oddly enough Freddie and I got on like a house on fire. But he was, well, he was vulnerable, wasn't he, and I soon found out his major weak spot – he was just mad about the Hallam boy. So – well, I could see ways of benefiting from the situation. One sort of knew about these photos he'd taken of his friends, and I began to think how one could make use of them, if only one could get hold of them. I tried to think of ways – I thought the friendlier we became – let's say I thought there'd be ways round it. I was convinced I'd be able to persuade him to let me have a look at them, and then – but then he was murdered! That upset me. And it made me very nervous. But at the same time – there was my opportunity.' Roxburgh passed his finger to and fro across his moustache.

‘You forged the will,' said Murray. It was a shot in the dark.

Plumer said in his uninterested voice: ‘And where does O'Connell fit in? You were in this together, weren't you.'

‘No, you're wrong there,' said Roxburgh pleasantly, but he looked uneasy. ‘It was a bit of a shock, him reappearing like that, so suddenly. I never thought he'd make it back to Europe. I thought he'd blow his money on gambling and drink or that someone would kill him; or both. But now here he was – and he began to be rather annoying. He began to suggest that some of my activities weren't quite pukka – which is far from being the case, by the way, your colleague who arrested me has got completely the wrong end of the stick – but he was very insistent; a little unhinged, I thought. Men like that make me nervous, and I got even more nervous when I found out the first thing he did when he got to London was link up with the blackshirts. I thought the best thing to do was to pretend to play along with him. I even told him about the photographs, pointed out how useful they could be. And he got in touch with Buckingham. This was not long before Buckingham was murdered.'

‘Why didn't you go to the police at once?' said Murray. ‘Buckingham's death would have been avoided, O'Connell wouldn't have terrorised Mrs Milner – whatever O'Connell did or was trying to do, you were involved, weren't you. You knew O'Connell planned to murder Buckingham, or have him murdered.'

Roxburgh shook his head. ‘No, no, you're quite mistaken. You've got it all wrong. I guessed who was behind it, though, that crazy mad dog, O'Connell.'

‘Conspiracy to murder is a serious matter,' said Plumer. ‘You are already under investigation for other crimes; it might help your case if you were to be a little franker with us than you have been so far.' He spoke with as much emotion as if he'd been reciting some minor by-law. Yet the utter lack of drama with which he spoke was effective, dampening down the tension, lulling Roxburgh into a false sense of security. ‘You were party to this man O'Connell's plans, that's what you're saying, isn't it.'

It was the opposite of what Roxburgh had said, but he hesitated.

‘Tell us the truth, Captain Roxburgh,' encouraged Plumer.

‘I only pretended to go along with the blackmail scheme,' said Roxburgh, ‘and I didn't know about Buckingham. O'Connell just said something about giving him a fright – I think it was meant to look like a queer thing – a proposition that went wrong, just to get Freddie out of the way for a couple of hours so someone could go over and get the photos.'

‘So you must have been pretty frightened when Buckingham ended up dead.'

Roxburgh lit another cigarette. ‘I thought the stupid little bastard had cocked things up,' he said in a low voice. ‘I was
devastated
. And then I began to think that – that he was meant to die all along … but once it had happened there was no point in not …'

‘In not benefiting,' said Murray.

‘And what did you think when Kenneth Barker was killed?' asked Plumer.

Roxburgh swallowed, coughed, looked into the coal of his cigarette as though it held the answer. ‘I don't know anything about that,' he said.

‘And you do benefit,' commented Plumer in his dry, neutral way. ‘Not only do you get the dead man's estate, but with O'Connell you demanded money with menaces from various individuals, including – yes? – a government minister, whose wrongdoing you have heard about from Freddie Buckingham or his friends.'

‘I had nothing to do with Mr Buckingham's murder. I am absolutely innocent on that score.'

Murray pulled the sheet of typed paper from his pocket. ‘I was surprised you didn't ask me why I took a typewriter sample when I was in your office. Or did you think you'd be out of the country by the time we matched it to the envelopes sent to the blackmail victims?'

‘Didn't it occur to you, Captain, that the family was bound to contest the will? It was a hare-brained scheme, wasn't it,' said Plumer.

Murray silently agreed with that assessment. Yet it didn't surprise him. Most of the crooks and conmen he'd encountered were in one way or another stupid. Sometimes they had too much imagination and too little sense. They thought their daydreams had become reality when they were only on the drawing board. Often they deceived themselves almost as much as they deceived other people and most of the more ambitious had delusions of grandeur.

Later, in a pub near the office, Plumer said: ‘No one told you to meet up with Mrs Milner – in fact the whole of your afternoon's activities require explanation.'

But Murray knew he was no longer in hot water. Plumer wasn't angry any more. In fact he was grateful to Murray, who'd diverted attention from Carnforth and changed the direction of enquiries.

‘We'll get Pinelli as an accessory, burglary and so on. That'll put him out of circulation for a while.'

‘What about O'Connell and Mrs Milner, sir? I do believe she is in danger from him. She says he's armed, and she's agreed to meet him again tomorrow. On the Heath.'

‘On the Heath. That's bad. It might be a better idea to go down to Whitechapel and arrest him now.'

But Eugene Smith, alias Patrick O'Connell, wasn't to be found in Rowton House. The overseer, a grim NCO type, had seen him come in, but hadn't seen him leave.

In spite of the rows of small windows in the long, forbidding façade there was a magnificence in the sooted brick, the ogee turrets and the grandiose portico, although whether this was to celebrate the generosity of the donor, Lord Rowton, or to overawe the inmates was impossible to tell. The detectives walked round to the back of the building. There was a back exit, but it was locked. There was also a fire escape.

‘It will have to be the Heath then,' said Plumer grimly.

Murray, wearing a dun-coloured raincoat to make himself, he hoped, less conspicuous, followed Regine at a safe distance onto the Heath. She had told him of O'Connell's habit of appearing where she least expected him and that made it even trickier. Murray felt exposed. There was no cover until they reached the trees.

Murray's supporting officers would have to be stationed well away from the beech trees. And they'd just have to hope that O'Connell turned up as expected and didn't waylay Regine en route.

They'd discussed whether she should have the dog with her. That might lull O'Connell's suspicions, but Regine had said the animal was too unpredictable and it would only complicate things.

In the end, Murray had taken one of the revolvers himself. He shouldn't have done that, but he couldn't rely on armed support in the exposed wastes of the Heath.

The whole thing was crazy. They should never have let her meet the man out here. Her life was in danger and they couldn't protect her.

There was no sign of O'Connell among the beech trees. Regine stopped, looked round, paced to and fro. Murray couldn't see his men. He'd told them to take up a position behind him in the undergrowth some yards from the beeches. He himself was standing shielded by overgrown brambles. Too far away.

Suddenly O'Connell was there. Murray hadn't seen him walking up the hill. He'd appeared out of nowhere, as Regine had said he would.

Murray had to act at once. O'Connell had his back to him. He crept forward. O'Connell was speaking to Regine, in a low voice at first, but then it began to rise. Murray took another step forward, but his foot cracked on a twig. O'Connell whirled round, looked wildly from side to side and then started to run. Murray pulled out his weapon. O'Connell was running and stumbling away down the hill, Regine left rudderless, white-faced, staggering against a tree trunk. ‘Run – run the other way!' shouted Murray as he passed her and plunged after O'Connell.

Where were the others? But now Murray saw them break out from where they'd been hiding further back and to the right. He was in front of them and as he gathered speed O'Connell stopped, took aim and fired. The shot went wide and the Irishman started running again, but he must have hurt his foot when he stumbled, for he'd slowed down and was limping. Murray sprinted down the hill, shouting at him to stop. He was gaining on him fast, but O'Connell was taking aim again. Murray fired first. O'Connell stumbled again and fell. His weapon shot out of his hand.

Now Murray had him at his mercy. He heard his men pelting down the hill behind him. O'Connell looked up at him, cringing. His expression was a mixture of malice and fear. ‘You'll not be kicking a man when he's down.' His tone was almost wheedling. He winced as he moved. ‘I think my ankle's broken. You can arrest me now. I'll come quietly. I don't have much choice.' Now there was a faint, lopsided grin on his face. ‘I know when I'm beaten,' he said.

Murray shot him in the head.