A Shadowed Livery

by Charlie Garratt

  I almost jumped out of my skin when the phone rang. A police inspector giving his name as Tony Pettifor was at the other end. He asked my name and I told him I was also a copper.

  ‘I’m calling from Spitalfields in London, Inspector. It seems we have a mutual acquaintance, Gerry Costello. Can I ask how you know him?’

  His tone told me there was something seriously wrong. I explained my connection with Gerry and how I’d been trying to phone him all night.

  ‘Then I’m afraid I’ve some bad news for you. A neighbour found him this afternoon. He’s been stabbed several times and it looks like he’s been lying there for a few days. Poor feller’s unconscious and in a pretty bad way. He had your number in his waistcoat pocket.’

  Nineteen

  I was late into the station next morning. Other than preserving my nocturnal visitors’ calling card for fingerprints, I’d decided to leave the mess they’d left until daylight. I may as well have done it the night before for all the sleep I got. My mind had been racing about the stake-out, my wrecked house and the kind message left by the Demmas in my pillow. They’d smashed in my front door, breaking the lock in the process so I’d jammed a kitchen chair up against it which would have proved no resistance to the Sicilians had they come back to finish the job. Not a recipe for a peaceful night and I didn’t drop off until around four a.m.

  As a result I slept in later than normal, then spent a couple of hours tidying up. By the time I did arrive at the station my mood wasn’t enhanced by the jokiness of the desk sergeant. Sid Miller and I had worked together for a time before I was promoted. In fact, he’d been a sergeant long before me, though I’d risen through the ranks to overtake him. Still, he was a solid copper and well suited to his present job.

  ‘Come in sometime, then, Inspector?’

  Needless to say, my reply was less than polite, which only served to encourage him.

  ‘It’s only that while some are sleeping, others are out arresting wrongdoers, that’s all I’m saying.’

  ‘What are you talking about, Sid? Who’s arrested who?’

  ‘Your young friend, Constable Sawyer. Been here half the night, he has. Dragged in that pretty nurse again. She’s locked up in the cells as we speak.’

  I took the stairs to my office three at a time, having shouted back to Miller I’d have his guts for garters if he warned Sawyer I was coming. He obviously didn’t because Sawyer almost jumped out of his skin when I burst in.

  ‘What do you think you’ve been doing, Sawyer? I tell you not to re-arrest Collinge and you go ahead and do it anyway. Just thought you’d take no notice, did you, because you know best?’

  Half of me expected Sawyer to shout back at me, the other half thought he might look sheepish and apologise. Instead, he stood up to his full height, fixed me with his eyes, and spoke calmly.

  ‘There was new evidence, sir.’

  This took the wind out of my sails but I wasn’t going to let him off too easily.

  ‘What new evidence?’

  ‘After I left you, I wasn’t happy about Collinge’s release and thought she was hiding something, so I went over to keep an eye on her sister’s house. As I arrived, Collinge was going inside in a hurry. I hung around to see what she was up to and I didn’t have to wait long. A quarter of an hour later she came back out carrying a suitcase, so I pulled her in. I found her passport and a wad of cash in her case when I got her back to the station. I interviewed her briefly, then left her in the cells until you arrived.’

  Collinge had admitted she’d been up to Grovestock House to beg for assistance from Sir Arthur. She’d told him Tom had been in love with her and she needed to get the police off her back. Sir Arthur had taken pity and given her some money to get away to the continent. She was heading off when Sawyer stopped her outside her sister’s house.

  The young copper was openly pleased at his result. I still wasn’t happy that he’d gone against my wishes, even though he’d shown initiative, and I told him so.

  ‘But sir, we already had her down as a suspect and her running away seems to confirm it. Would you rather I’d have let her hop on a boat to France? Or did you just want to arrest her yourself?’

  Whilst I was waiting for Collinge again to be brought upstairs Tony Pettifor phoned and told me Gerry Costello had died during the night. I rang Terry Gleeson straight away about the call from Pettifor. He said he was sorry to hear about my friend but couldn’t see why I was ringing him about it. My blood was boiling.

  ‘Don’t give me that shit, Gleeson. I know you’re up to your neck in this. I’ve half a mind to go to Dyer right now and tell him what’s happened.’

  Gleeson laughed down the line at me.

  ‘Do what you want, Given. If you had a shred of evidence you’d not hesitate. With what you’ve got, Dyer will see it as what it is, another one of your little theories and nothing to back it up. Let me know when you’ve found something and we’ll go to see him together.’

  ‘You won’t have the chance to come with me by that time — I’ll have you in the clink with the key in my pocket.’

  ‘I’ll look forward to you trying. In the meantime, perhaps you’d best think about what you’re going to do when your mate’s killers come looking for you.’

  Collinge sat glaring across the cell at Sawyer. Despite the way he’d challenged me I was letting him lead on the interview; not strictly procedure considering that he was uniform and pretty junior. So far she’d only reiterated her story from the night before but now Sawyer returned to the day of the Grovestock House killings.

  ‘Tell me again about your movements when Tom and Lady Isabelle were shot.’

  ‘I was in my room. I heard two shots. I thought it must be one of the men killing something close to the house. There’s always vermin in the yard. It was only when I was called down to the garden I found something was terribly wrong.’

  ‘And you were able to confirm that neither of them was still breathing?’

  Collinge covered her mouth as if to stifle a flood of grief.

  ‘It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. Lady Isabelle had no chance of surviving. The back of her head was blown off. But I tried and tried with Tom to find a pulse, anything which would give me the slightest prospect of bringing him back, but there was nothing. Nothing.’

  ‘Then you went back up to your room and calmly began packing again?’

  This was when the glare came.

  ‘What do you know? I was anything but calm. The man I loved had just been shot and was lying dead on the ground outside. I wanted to run and never stop running, to get away from that awful scene.’

  ‘So you packed, then what?’

  ‘I told you before.’

  ‘Tell me again.’

  ‘I finished packing, left the house and caught the bus to my sister’s in Leamington. I didn’t know where else to go but I had to go somewhere.’

  ‘When did you leave?’

  ‘It only took me ten or fifteen minutes to finish clearing my room so I’d have left immediately afterwards.’

  I chipped in. ‘Did anyone see you leave?’

  ‘Perkins, the gardener, was at the front of the house when I was going out. He said I should stay and wait for the police, but I told him I’d be back later, that I needed to go out for a while. I then hurried up to the village and caught the bus into town.’

  ‘What was the hurry?’

  ‘The buses are only every two hours and I knew there was one due at about half past twelve. I didn’t want to miss it.’

  I nodded to Sawyer to join me outside the cell and told him to check Collinge’s story with George Perkins and to contact the bus conductor. Back inside, Collinge seemed pleased that Sawyer had gone. She obviously didn’t like him much. I told her he would be talking to the gardener and if we found she was lying she’d be in serious trouble. In the meantime she’d be staying in the cells.

  It took a while for Sawyer to get answers to back up Collinge’s story bec
ause Perkins had no telephone, so had to be contacted through Jervis at Grovestock House. The gardener corroborated the nurse had left the house before Jenny was shot. Sawyer also confirmed the timetable information given to us by Collinge but had to wait an hour until the conductor was back in the depot before he could contact him.

  The conductor verified he’d been working on the lunchtime bus from the village and only two people had boarded there, one of them a good-looking brunette with a suitcase. I told Sawyer to let Collinge go.

  ‘I think you’re wrong, sir. Collinge could easily have doubled back after she saw Perkins, killed Jenny Bamford and still made it to the bus stop on time. It would be the perfect alibi.’

  ‘John, “reasonable doubt” is all a jury will need. We have to have it solid before we can charge her with multiple murders. Now, just confiscate the passport from her and let her go. If anything else turns up we can soon drag her back in.’

  ‘If you’re going to release her, Inspector, then you should charge Perkins with wasting police time. He should have informed us that Collinge had an alibi and he didn’t bother.’

  I understood his frustration but nothing was going to be served by taking it out on a gardener.

  ‘Come on, let’s put this one down to experience. Perkins wouldn’t have believed Collinge had anything to do with the murders. Why would he? Seeing her leave the house and then hearing Jenny was killed after the nurse left would only have confirmed that view. In his mind she wouldn’t have needed an alibi.’

  I’d never have thought Sawyer one to sulk if he didn’t get his own way but for a minute he looked like he was on the verge of it. I needed him back on my side and it wouldn’t happen unless I took evasive action.

  ‘You’ve had a long night, John. Even though we didn’t get the right result you did some good detective work, far beyond what might have been expected. Now head off home and get your head down for a few hours, there’s a little job I’d like help with later. And you can have a couple of pints while you’re at it.’

  Twenty

  Same seat in the same pub. Same card players sitting in the same corner, running through a few hands rather than going home to their loved ones. The only difference was that tonight I had Sawyer with me, so the ache to join in the game wasn’t so strong.

  We were discussing an article I’d seen in the Birmingham Post covering the arrest of Alan Haleson on spying charges. It was of considerable local interest due to his connections with the murdered Tom and Lady Isabelle Barleigh, and with the city’s Member of Parliament and Prime Minister, Neville Chamberlain. Haleson had been in custody for well over a week but the news had only just been made public. Doubtless Spencer and Mitchell had needed more time to question him before they’d let the press anywhere near it.

  Sawyer still thought there was a possibility that Haleson was our man. He’d clearly become reconciled to it not being Collinge but his inexperience led him to need a quick result.

  ‘He couldn’t have done away with the Sharp boy because he was locked up, but he had opportunity for the others. There’s no-one who can substantiate his claim he was in the library when the first shooting happened, and on the landing when Jenny was shot. I’m coming to the idea that Billy’s death has nothing to do with the others.’

  ‘If that’s the case, John, then we have at least two other possible suspects and we’re no further forward. You’ve said yourself Billy’s death doesn’t look like an accident so it must be associated in some way. Unless we have two murderers, and I can’t seriously believe that any more.’

  The pub door opened for only the third or fourth time since we arrived and I saw the landlady stiffen when she looked across. I’d warned Sawyer someone might come in who I was looking for in connection with another case and he’d have to follow my lead if they did. I’d left out the details and hoped he wouldn’t ask me too much about it for the time being.

  ‘I think they’re here,’ I whispered, ‘get ready to go after them.’

  Benito Demma was the first to step inside. He was more than ten years older than the last time I’d seen him but I’d have known him anywhere. He shouted a greeting to the landlady and surveyed the room for other acquaintances. In the couple of seconds it took for me to be sure it was him he’d spotted me. He muttered a word to his brother and the pair took a pace in my direction before they saw Sawyer rise at my side. The two of them turned on their heels and shot out of the pub.

  A cheer went up from the card players as we chased out after the Sicilians. The street was dimly lit but their boots rattled on the pavement a hundred yards distant.

  ‘That way, John. You go through the churchyard and try to head them off.’

  He was fitter than me. He was bigger too, so if the Demmas ran into him he’d be able to hold onto at least one of them until I got there. He did as he was told and I followed the brothers in the opposite direction.

  The road ahead rose steeply up the hill and it was my guess they’d be more likely to veer off than be slowed down by the incline. I wasn’t wrong. The sound of their boots disappeared as they turned into a path on the right, with, hopefully, Sawyer waiting for them at the other end.

  The path was lined with large poplars and the left side opened out onto a large expanse of greenery known as Abbey Fields. Beyond the trees on the right were the back walls of the cottages bordering the street we’d left. It was pitch black. I could see hardly anything and automatically slowed down as the darkness enveloped me. Up ahead I sensed a slight movement. It was then I realised Sawyer wouldn’t have been able to get through if the church gates were chained.

  ‘Who’s there?’

  A silhouette stepped from behind a tree and stood full square in front of me.

  ‘Good to meet you again at last, Given. Shame you didn’t bring your friend with you.’

  A sound behind made me spin round, hoping Sawyer had managed to double back and catch up. Instead, it was Pàulu, Benito’s younger brother. He lit a cigarette and in the flare of the match I caught the reflection of the bright steel knuckledusters on each hand.

  Twenty-One

  Dyer stood at the end of my hospital bed, awkwardly holding a shopping bag which appeared to have been thrust on him by his wife. You can tell those men who are married and never go to the shops themselves; they always seem to hold the basket or bag stiffly and at an angle, rather than relaxed by their side.

  He asked me how I felt, and told me how concerned everyone was at the station about me. Then he cut to the chase and wanted to know how I’d ended up in hospital. I told him Sawyer had dragged me in after he’d found me battered and unconscious in the street, and chased off my attackers.

  ‘That much I’m aware of, James — Sawyer gave me the bare bones after he left you here last night. What I want to know is, who did this to you, and why?’

  ‘It’s a long story.’

  ‘Well, neither of us is going anywhere so you might as well, as the Red King puts it, begin at the beginning and go on till you come to the end.’

  So I told Dyer the relevant bits of my life. The boss listened attentively without interruption as I went through it all, except when he wanted further explanation.

  ‘I was on a boat in the Atlantic. We’d had a good trip, and I’d won a few bob, then the two Sicilians, Benito and Pàulu Demma, muscled in. They’d joined the boat in Naples on the outward trip and had soon showed themselves to be bully boys. I didn’t like them one bit, but thought I might be able to take a few shillings off them. I preferred games of skill like crib and gin rummy, but they insisted we play poker. They kept raising the stakes and I was too naive to resist. Before I knew it I’d lost all my earlier winnings and was heavily into my savings. I couldn’t figure out what was going on.’

  ‘Were they cheating?’

  ‘Too right they were. The night before we docked I figured out how they were doing it. They’d devised an elaborate set of signals to give them the advantage they needed. Benito was forever scratching his f
ace and his hands, Pàulu kept massaging his neck and his wrists. What I hadn’t seen for days was that there was a pattern.’

  ‘What sort of pattern?’

  ‘Well, I didn’t get it all, but every time Pàulu had a good hand, for example, he’d look at his watch and rub his wrist with his thumb. Benito would then fold, or raise the pot and fold next time around. It sounds obvious, but they were very, very good at it.’

  ‘So did you stop playing with them?’

  ‘I wish that was all I’d done but, as I said, I was too young and too rash for my own good. I was losing heavily and accused them of cheating.’

  ‘Never a wise thing to do.’

  ‘Indeed. I threatened to report them to the captain if I didn’t get my money back. They huffed and they puffed but knew he’d force them to do it so handed it over. Next morning, as we entered the port, one of my playing companions told me he’d overheard the Sicilians talking about how I’d insulted them and they were going to jump me in Cherbourg to teach me a lesson.’

  ‘But what’s all this to do with you being attacked in Kenilworth and ending up in here?’

  ‘I told you it was a long story. I got out of Cherbourg as fast as possible and headed down to Le Havre. A couple of nights later, Benito and Pàulu bashed down the door of my lodgings and I had to jump from a first floor window as they chased up the stairs. I’d moved quickly from village to village through Normandy and Picardy, covering my tracks everywhere, before making a run for the coast and over the Channel to Dover. I’d already decided the New York voyage was going to be my last and I needed to do something else with my life.’

  Then came the hard part. I told him about how I’d found Heather murdered by the Demma brothers. Soon after she and I moved north I’d gone into town and heard two foreigners were looking for me. When I got back, Heather had disappeared and one of the fruit pickers told me she’d gone off with two men about an hour earlier. I found her in the undergrowth at the edge of the orchard, naked and covered with blood. I suspected she’d been raped before they stabbed her to death. I went to the police but they took no notice. Why would they? Fights, arguments and worse were rife amongst the pickers and, anyway, who cared? The migrants were the lowest of the low as far as the locals were concerned.