by James Andrew
‘Did they have luggage stickers on them?’
‘Dunno. Oh, yes, I suppose, when I think of it, they had.’
‘You don’t remember what they said?’
‘No. It was him I was looking at. He was scary the way he was looking around him.’
‘Can you tell me any more about him?’
‘He had funny eyes.’
‘Funny eyes? In what way?’
‘I don’t know. I just remember thinking that.’
‘Funny eyes.’ Oh no, Ryan thought. Not someone else who thought they had seen someone with the eyes of a murderer. Was this another fantasy? Probably.
‘So, where did he go after leaving the house?’
‘Up the street.’
‘Which direction?’
‘Towards the square. But I had my rounds to do. I cycled past him and delivered my sausages. Didn’t I say? I was on my bike. I only had a glance at him, which was what was odd, that I noticed him at all when I was passing him quickly like that. But he was strange. Though I didn’t want to come forward and cause trouble. I didn’t want to waste your time.’
‘You haven’t done that, lad,’ Sergeant Ryan said. ‘This could be a great help to us. We’ll get you to put that in a statement.’
‘A statement?’
‘Don’t worry. I’ll write it all down for you and you just have to check it.’
‘Then you sign it, son,’ his father said. ‘Do you see?’ he said to Sergeant Ryan. ‘I told you it was important. I was right, wasn’t I?’
‘Oh yes, sir.’
‘He could have seen the murderer, couldn’t he?’
‘Possibly,’ Ryan replied. ‘Definitely someone we’d want to interview. Now, Alan, you try to think a bit harder about what that man looked like.’
Ryan made his preparations to take the statement.
CHAPTER TWENTY
When Blades and Peacock approached the newspaper seller, he was in full cry. He was a little man, but that voice seemed to fill the street, even if what it was caterwauling out was indecipherable. He was yelling something that sounded a bit like ‘Cwawinow’, and may have started off as come and buy a newspaper or something of the sort, though it did not sound much like it now. The call did draw the attention of passers-by. One gent bought a Times. Then the cry of ‘Cwawinow’ echoed again down the street, then again. And would have continued had Blades not given the man an authoritarian glare and said, ‘We’d like to speak with you,’ as he brandished his card.
‘If it’s about my pedlar’s licence, I’ll just get it out to show you – when I can find it,’ the man said, as he put the newspaper that was in his hand back onto the pile beside him so he could start searching his coat pockets. He was as unprepossessing a person as anyone might care to meet. His hair was lank and greasy, and his coat had seen better days. He had a sniffle which he tried to quell by rubbing his sleeve against his nose.
‘It’s not about your licence,’ Blade said.
‘Though it might be the next time,’ Peacock said.
‘It might?’ The newspaperman looked warily at Peacock.
‘Though I’m sure it’s in order,’ Blades said, and his tone was mollifying. ‘You were good enough to come into Birtleby Police Station with information.’ Blades gave the man a smile.
Then a light dawned with him. ‘Ah, that,’ he said. And he smiled. ‘Only too pleased to help.’
Blades had been interested in the statement the delivery boy had made to Sergeant Ryan but was even more struck by the fact someone else had come into the station saying they had seen a man answering that description at about the same time. The other witness was called Reg Bright, and he sold newspapers in the Main Street at the corner where it met up with the Hainsworth Road, a very handily situated spot to see things associated with the Emma Simpson inquiry, which was why Blades was interviewing him.
The cobbled street was busy. It was a typically Victorian-built street with high, stone buildings on either side, and with tall, ornate streetlamps in black metalwork. There were black railings too in front of the residential houses that lined one side of it. Opposite was a row of shops with broad windows showing wares of differing types under painted wooden signage. Striped awnings jutted out over the windows, to shield the goods from any sun there might be. A coal cart drawn by two weary-looking horses rumbled past, the driver’s face almost as black as the coal in the wagon he drove. A motor bus rumbled past after that. A Morris Oxford clattered past in the other direction. Pedestrians walked past. Blades was wondering if Reg would be able to give a better description than Alan of the man he had seen.
‘He came out of that door like someone trying to avoid a sniper’s bullet.’
‘What do you mean?’ Blades asked.
‘Looking all around him before stepping out, then keeping close to the wall as if looking out for cover.’
Blades supposed he must be exaggerating.
‘Was he someone you’d seen before?’ Blades asked.
Reg thought for a moment. ‘Never seen him before in my life.’
‘And what day was this?’ Blades asked.
‘The Saturday.’
‘The fifteenth.’
‘And can you say what time it was?’
‘There’s no point in asking me anything about time. I don’t even have a pocket watch. But let’s see. About the middle of the day. Mid-day?’
‘Have you sold newspapers on this corner for long?’
‘A couple of years.’
‘Always in the same position?’
‘It’s a good spot. I catch people going in a couple of directions here. And I’m easy to see. It’s a grand place for selling.’
‘He’s not someone you’ve seen before going in and out of that house?’
‘Not that I’ve noticed. And I would.’
There was a definiteness in the tone that appealed to Blades.
‘Was there anything distinctive about him?’
‘A slouch hat. A waistcoat and jacket. Grey.’
‘That’s good,’ Blades said.
‘I couldn’t tell you the colour of his hair. He was wearing a hat. I did notice he had a particularly pale skin. Not like someone who worked outside or anything.’
‘Height?’
‘Tall. Not a six-footer like you, though. A couple of inches shorter maybe.’
‘No moustache or beard?’
‘He was clean-shaven. It was odd the way he kept his head slanted down as if he didn’t want to be seen properly. All the same, he somehow managed to take care to look about him, wanted to know everything that was going on. So, I couldn’t help noticing his eyes.’
‘Why do you mention those?’
‘I’m trying to think about that.’
‘You wouldn’t see the colour of them from that distance?’
‘Now, that might be what was funny about them. As if they weren’t the colour you might be expecting or something. I don’t know. I’m talking rubbish I think.’
‘Just describe what you saw.’
A picture of odd eyes had come into Blades’ mind, the odd eyes of Alfred Duggan, that piercing blue with the unusual streak of brown in the cornea, and the curious light that seemed to shine through them. Was that what Reg Bright was trying to describe? An oddness that he was aware of but couldn’t define, but that Blades, who had studied Duggan from a much closer range, could?
‘Would you recognize the man?’
Reg scratched his chin. ‘Dunno. Maybe,’ he said after a few moments.
‘You said he was carrying cases,’ Peacock said.
‘That’s right. Two of them. They looked heavy. I did wonder what might be in them. They’d too much weight for overnight clothes. Though how would I know? I didn’t get the chance to look in them, did I?’
‘Could you describe the cases?’ Peacock asked.
So, Reg Bright did. And he must have had a good look at them, because his description was precise, and they sounded remarkably like the one
s described by young Alan Atkinson. We know what we’re looking for, Blades thought. He pondered the fact this investigation seemed to be revolving round suitcases. There had been a famous murder inquiry the year before when a suitcase – with a body in it – had been found underneath a seat in an empty railway carriage on the London to Eastbourne line. It had generated numerous newspaper stories as the finder, a middle-aged woman from Croydon who was travelling with twins, had made the most of selling ‘exclusive’ stories to different newspapers. What had made the story even more famous was the fact the murderer had never been found. Was that story why witnesses in this investigation kept remembering suspicious people with suitcases? It could be. Or, it could have given the murderer the idea of using one to transport the remains of his victim. The suitcase they had tracked down already in this case had been a dead end, but that didn’t mean this would be one. If they did turn up Emma’s body, and if Alan Atkinson and Reg Bright could pick out Alfred Duggan in an identity parade, then they could be heading for a trial.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
‘Do you have anything we could remotely consider taking to court?’
Moffat’s look was impatient, which Blades found curious as, despite the latest moment of hope, he knew full well they could still be near the beginning of a complex inquiry.
‘We have managed to establish what the crime is by now, I suppose?’
Blades sometimes thought Moffat delivered sentences in his direction like torpedoes. It could be said it had been obvious from the beginning Emma had been murdered, but he supposed what Moffat meant was whether they had proof that was what had happened.
‘We have two witnesses who saw someone leaving the Roots’ house at about eleven on the morning of the last day that Emma was seen alive. That person was carrying two heavy suitcases. There is human blood in the parlour and in the bathroom. The outlet from the bath contained human flesh. The bath, when examined, showed cut marks consistent with a body being sawn up. It doesn’t take much to work out those suitcases contained Emma’s remains, which were being taken somewhere to be disposed of.’
‘It’s an argument,’ Moffat said, ‘but it’s circumstantial, and there’s no body.’
‘I believe it’ll convince a jury we’re investigating the murder of Emma Simpson, sir.’
‘Without the corpse? Are you sure? And do you have a case against any of the suspects we discussed?’
‘Not without an identity parade, no, which we are arranging.’
‘And who are the witnesses?’
‘A butcher’s boy and a newspaper seller.’
‘Do their descriptions tally?’
Blades took out his notebook to refer to it.
‘Alan Atkinson, delivery boy, states he saw a man with a hat on who was quite tall. He was a man with “funny eyes”.’
‘Not the best description ever.’
‘Mr Reginald Bright, newspaper vendor, states he saw a man in waistcoat and jacket and wearing a hat. He was clean-shaven with pale skin. There was something “funny” about the eyes as if they weren’t the colour you might be expecting.’
‘And I bet he died with embarrassment after venturing that description.’
‘All the same, sir, we have a suspect whom both descriptions might fit – Alfred Duggan. Tall, lean, wears a hat. Might or might not wear a waistcoat, though we could search his wardrobe to confirm.’
‘Everyone wears a hat. If he’d been a man not wearing a hat that might have been more helpful.’
‘And, having met Alfred Duggan, I can testify to the fact he has “funny eyes”.’
‘You can?’ Moffat gave Blades a questioning look.
‘The colour is odd.’
‘Didn’t they see him from a distance? They wouldn’t notice the colour of his eyes unless they were close up to him, if then.’
‘Duggan’s eyes are a striking shade of blue and, on top of that, there’s a streak of brown in the cornea of both that is odd and very noticeable.’
‘Which doesn’t change my argument.’
‘He’s used to holding people’s attention with those eyes. When he looks at people, they notice it, probably without realising what it is they’re noticing.’
‘Vague and unconvincing, Blades. I thought you were better than that.’
‘Perhaps I’m not describing it well, sir, but both witnesses describe someone with funny eyes and that’s what he has.’ Moffat looked at Blades with a pitying expression. ‘And, if they pick him out in an identity parade, it doesn’t matter what you think of that description of him. We do have a suspect we could put in one.’
Blades and Moffat now glared at each other, Blades with defiance. Then Moffat, Blades noticed, could not resist a slight smile.
‘Don’t mind me, Blades. It’s my job to question you. If you can justify yourself to me, you might even convince a jury when a counsel is doing his best to make you sound as unreliable as possible. But I wouldn’t go with that description of those eyes in court.’
‘Sir.’
‘And so, on to the bigamist. I wonder what would have made him kill her?’
‘We may never know the answer to that. We can speculate. She said no to something. He became frustrated, they had an argument, he struck out, and the blow or blows killed her.’
‘Then he has to cover up.’
‘Fortunately, we don’t have to prove what’s in someone’s head. If he killed her, we know there was some sort of motive. That’s enough.’
‘Thank God for that. It’s difficult enough just proving what they did. Still, you’ve suggested a kind of reason for the murder. Did he have the means?’
‘We don’t know what killed her at the moment. But there was an obvious disparity in size and strength between them.’
‘And opportunity?’
‘She was on her own in the house after the Roots left. We know he knew her. She would definitely have allowed him entry if he’d called. If our witnesses do place him there about eleven, carrying those suitcases, opportunity is proven.’
‘Then you’d better arrange your identity parade.’
‘Sir.’
‘But find the body.’
Blades repressed a groan as he left Moffat’s office; he knew he had acquitted himself badly.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Peacock was seated in the room that had been prepared for the identity parade. The looks he was casting in Blades’ direction were no less discouraging than Moffat’s had been.
‘It’s difficult enough finding six people answering a physical description, never mind checking if they have peculiar eyes. What does “funny eyes” mean, anyway?’ Peacock said.
Blades was tiring of that expression himself. ‘You were there when the witnesses were questioned, so you tell me,’ was his response.
‘The witnesses didn’t know what they meant.’
‘But they both said the same thing.’ Blades hoped his face held an expression that contained more confidence than he felt.
Opposite them stood six young, lean men, and none of them, as far as Blades could see, had strange eyes except Alfred Duggan, who was standing there in what was obviously a cold sweat. His eyes looked shifty as well as odd as they flicked nervously about. The eyes of the other five ‘suspects’, he knew, had different colours, brown, grey, blue – even green – none of which stood out in any way, and, from where he was sitting now, Blades could not swear to the colour of anyone’s.
Blades looked gloomily ahead as Alan Atkinson was led in by Sergeant Ryan. Alan studied every man in the line, then walked back to the fifth man, laid his hand on his chest, then stepped back and away. Blades looked down at the notes in front of him. Who was that man? Ernest Snodgrass, car mechanic, with no known links to either the Roots or to Emma Simpson, and, what’s more, who was working in a garage on the day of her disappearance, which was testified to by three different people. Blades shook his head and looked at the floor.
Alan was led out of the room and Reg Bright w
as led in. There was a nonchalance to him as he walked past the men. Was he taking this seriously? Perhaps it was just a welcome break from standing on a corner selling interminable newspapers. Then, having walked from one end of the row to the other too quickly as far as Blades was concerned, Reg proceeded to walk back down it again at a slow pace that Blades could find no fault with, but with brows which were now furrowed with uncertainty. Blades had decided the identity parade had failed again when Reg turned, walked smartly to Alfred Duggan, stopped in front of him and placed a decisive hand on his chest. Then Reg stepped back and Sergeant Ryan led him out of the room. A defeated look appeared in the ‘funny eyes’ of Alfred Duggan.
Blades sat back with a satisfaction on his face that stayed there only briefly. ‘That might mean nothing,’ he muttered.
‘Sir?’ Peacock replied.
‘As you said, how do you find six people with peculiar eyes for an identity parade? There was nothing strange about anyone else’s.’
‘It’s a positive witness identification.’
‘But I can’t take him to trial on that. If both witnesses had picked him out, maybe. But they didn’t.’
‘It doesn’t mean it wasn’t Duggan.’
‘That’s for sure. He’s the most suspicious character we’ve come across. He didn’t care about what he did to any of the women he double-crossed, and that’s typical of a killer’s mind as well as a bigamist’s.’
‘He’s capable of it.’
‘But has no record of violence,’ Blades muttered. He stood up and strode from the room.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Because new information had come to light, Blades decided to interview Russell Parkes again. He interviewed Parkes at the Prudential Office to cause maximum embarrassment.
‘He’s in this morning,’ the middle-aged woman at reception had told Blades and Peacock when they arrived and asked for him – as Blades had previously ascertained their suspect would be. Her look was decidedly wary as she showed Blades and Peacock into the office which Parkes shared with another man. As they entered, Parkes looked up from a desk covered in papers that seemed to amount to columns of figures as much as anything else, presenting a picture that reminded Blades of his first meeting with Duggan.
