A Death in Chelsea

by Lynn Brittney

  “She must have a bit of money,” he had said, helpfully, “cos I’ve not seen her in a bit. Look in The Jerusalem Tavern.”

  Tollman and Billy had then set off on a tour of pubs in the area.

  “I get the impression Sydney’s mum has a bit of a drink problem,” Billy had commented sarcastically, after the second pub failed to turn up their quarry.

  “You could say that, Billy,” Tollman had replied. “Every time she went into the workhouse, apparently, she would have a bout of the DTs. But she’s eighty-one and still going strong!”

  “It’s probably pickled her innards, that’s why.”

  They had finally found her in the third pub, The Hand and Shears in Smithfield, and now Tollman had placed her favourite drink in front of her, it was time to talk about Sydney.

  “Where’s your boy Sydney, Violet?” Tollman decided to be direct.

  A cagey look came into her eyes. “What do the coppers want my Sydney for? And tell him to sit down!” – she gestured at Billy – “He’s making my neck ache, looking up at him all the time.”

  Billy took his helmet off and sat down. Violet smiled at him again. “You’ve got big shoulders, like my Sydney. You’ll never be out of work if you’re strong. That’s what I always say to my boy.” She took another long slurp of stout.

  Tollman was patient but insistent. “Violet… Sydney’s in bad trouble.”

  Violet looked frightened. “What sort of trouble?”

  “Ruth’s been killed…”

  “Huh! Not afore time,” was the surprising response. Obviously Violet Baker did not think much of her daughter-in-law. “Someone was going to do her in, one day,” she continued, “I said as much to my Sydney – but he wouldn’t have it. What do you want to take up with that gypsy witch for? I told him she would be trouble. She bewitched him, she did. Put the evil eye on him.”

  Tollman let her rant a little, then he said, “The coppers think Sydney did her in.”

  “NO!” Violet’s outraged shriek temporarily quietened the pub and Billy noted that the landlord was looking over in concern, so he stood up.

  “It’s all right. Nothing to do with anybody here.” The customers nodded and turned back to their conversations. Tollman put his hand over Violet’s, reassuringly.

  “We know that Sydney didn’t do it, but we need to find him so that he can tell us what he knows.”

  Violet nodded. She took another drink and looked at Billy again. “You won’t hurt my Sydney, will you?” she asked the only person she felt could take her son on in a fight.

  “I’ll do my best not to hurt him, missus,” Billy said, honestly.

  Violet leaned forward to whisper. Tollman narrowed his eyes and strained to hear what she said.

  “He was working on the river thing between Farringdon Street station and King’s Cross…”

  “The what?” Tollman wasn’t sure he understood.

  “The thing they’ve built around the old Fleet river,” she said. “He told me he’d been inside it and he’d seen the old river. He was fascinated with it. Gets these obsessions, does Sydney. Always has. Anyway, that was his latest one. Then they moved him to work on another bit of river at Sloane Square station. But he said to me that he wanted to go back and see the Fleet. There were two doors into it, he said. I’m willing to bet he’ll be there.”

  Tollman nodded with grim satisfaction.

  “You won’t hurt him? You promise?” Violet pleaded with them.

  “We’ll do our best,” Tollman assured her and he put some more money over the bar with instructions to give Violet another couple of stouts when she asked for them.

  “Glad the bitch is dead,” muttered Violet, as she raised her glass to her lips. “Now my Sydney can come back to his Ma.”

  It was a short walk to Farringdon Street station and Tollman negotiated with the stationmaster for access to the doors into the Fleet culvert.

  “It means we will have to turn the power off and that will cause complete disruption of the timetable!” the shocked stationmaster said. “I’m not authorised to do that, unless there is an emergency!”

  “This is an emergency,” said Tollman urgently. “We believe there is a man down there who is extremely dangerous.”

  “How dangerous?” asked the stubborn stationmaster.

  “He’s killed several people with his bare hands,” Tollman lied. “Why do you think I’ve brought him along?” He pointed at Billy, who tried to look suitably menacing.

  The stationmaster acquiesced. “All right. I’ll switch the power off for this section after the next westbound train. But, in any event, it’s dangerous down there. We can’t have you wandering about on your own.” He left and returned with a man who was covered in dirt and grease and carrying an armful of equipment.

  “Rubber boots,” said the man cheerfully, dropping a sack full of assorted sizes. “Battery torches,” he continued, giving one each to Tollman and Billy. “If you’re going in the culvert, you can’t carry a storm lamp, the gases could make it explode. These things,” he tapped the torches, “are useful but the batteries don’t last long. You’ll be lucky to get ten minutes out of them. There will be some natural light down there because there are street gratings every so often. So only use the torches if you get a long stretch without them.” He showed them how to switch on the torches and they both nodded. “I’ll carry a storm lamp,” he added, “because I’m not coming in the culvert with you. I’ll wait outside the door. You’re on your own in there.” Again, they nodded.

  “Face cloths,” he said, and demonstrated by tying one round his nose and mouth. “It stinks down there. There’s sewage and rats and all sorts. Put gloves on and you’ll have to have a strip wash when you come out.”

  He grinned at the expressions on Billy and Tollman’s faces. “You get used to it really quickly and after a while you don’t smell it no more,” he reassured them. He waited while the policemen took their own boots off and found rubber boots to fit. Then he said, “Follow me,” and he led the way down to the Underground platform, making them pause at the end, just as a train thundered into the station.

  The few people on the platform got on the train and one person got off. Once the train had departed, there was a loud clang and the traffic lights in the tunnels went to red.

  “Right. The power to the tracks is off. Here we go,” and he led them down some concrete steps and into the tunnel, his storm lamp held high and casting eerie shadows over the curved walls. Ahead, in the distance, Billy could see daylight coming through, where the railway line was open to the sky. He could remember when the trains on this line ran on steam and the openings were there to let out the accumulated smoke. They weren’t really adequate, though, and a trip on the Underground, as a child, had meant that, at every station stop, the smoke would come into the carriages when the doors opened and make his clothes smell as though he had been standing in front of a coal fire all day.

  “Here’s the first door,” said the man, pointing at a metal door in the wall. “Do you want to go in here, or the one further up?”

  Tollman said it made no difference and they might as well go in here. The man nodded. “Inside, there is a short metal ladder down to the concrete walkway that runs alongside the river. If you turn to your left, when you are facing the ladder, you will eventually end up at the River Thames by Blackfriars. If you turn to your right, it will take you as far as Camden Town, before the river breaks into two tunnels. The Fleet itself should be way below the walkway because we’ve not had much rain for the last month. Try and avoid ending up in it, if you can. It’s not nice. It’s a sewer, basically. We never go down there unless we need to repair it and then we usually get some casual labour in to do the job, cos no one wants to do it.”

  Yes, like Sydney Baker, the poor sod, thought Billy. What a way to make a living.

  The door opened with a cla
ng of metal and a creak of rusty hinges. Tollman went first, stepping down on to the ladder backwards, and Billy followed. Once they were down and had switched on their torches, the man stuck his head in and pointed upwards.

  “This is door fifteen,” he said, as they shone their torch beams above the door to see the number. Look for this number when you come back. And, lads, try and be as quick as you can because all the time the power is switched off, the company is losing money.” Then he shut the door.

  “Cor, it doesn’t half stink in here,” said Billy, covering the lower half of his face with the cloth.

  “Well, we were warned,” said Tollman, doing likewise, as his eyes started watering.

  “Which way?” Billy asked.

  Tollman shrugged. “Let’s go towards the Thames first. So, left.”

  The tunnel and the water exaggerated the sounds around them. Billy gave a shudder because he could hear, below them, the squeaks and rustles of rats, running along the water’s edge. Occasionally, the tunnel would rumble alarmingly as they came close to a grating and heavy traffic trundled overhead. As they approached one grating, they were alarmed by several objects falling through and hitting the water below. Then they realised that it was horse manure, from a horse with its rear end conveniently above the grating.

  “Lovely,” murmured Billy. He didn’t dare shine his torch down on to the water, at any point during the journey, for fear of what he might see. Then he sniffed and turned to Tollman. “Can you smell burning?” he whispered.

  Tollman nodded. “And sausages!” he whispered back. He motioned to Billy to turn off his torch and, as they stood there in the gloom, they could just make out the glow from a fire in the distance.

  Tollman tapped Billy on the shoulder, pulled down his face mask, and almost mouthed, rather than whispered, “Take off your helmet and jacket and leave them here. We don’t want to frighten him.” Billy nodded and did so, removing any items from the pockets and putting them in his trousers. “Undo your top button, make yourself a bit more casual.” Billy followed instructions again. “Now,” explained Tollman, “you go ahead and just talk to him normally, as though you’ve just come across him in a park. Just chat. See if you can throw him off guard a bit. I’ll be following on behind.”

  Billy nodded and started to quicken his pace. The culvert was curved at this point and, in about fifty paces, Billy could see the large figure of a man, hunched over a small fire, trying to cook a sausage on a stick.

  Pulling off his face mask, Billy said, “Hello mate, how are you?” as though it were the most natural place in the world for them to bump into each other. The man looked startled and scuttled backwards on his heels, as if in fear. “No, don’t take on, mate. I’m just passing through. I’m not going to bother you.”

  The man seemed to relax. He stood up and faced Billy. They were the same height, but Sydney Baker was about twice as wide across the shoulders. Billy assessed him with a professional boxer’s eye and immediately found his weak spot – the stomach. Sydney was strong in the arms and legs from lots of manual work, but he had a flabby belly. Billy reckoned that a swift jab to the stomach would floor Sydney. Shame I can’t follow it up with a combination though, he thought, cursing his gammy left hand.

  He decided to carry on with the charm, so he did an exaggerated double take and said, “Hold up! Aren’t you Sydney? Violet Baker’s son?”

  A relieved look came over Sydney’s face and he nodded. “You know my mum?”

  “Know her?” Billy laughed. “I was having a drink with her in The Hand and Shears this morning!”

  Sydney gave a big grin. “Is she all right?”

  “She’s as right as rain,” said Tollman softly, coming up behind Billy. “Hello, Sydney. Remember me? DS Tollman?”

  Sydney looked confused for a moment and then, suddenly, he bolted, running as fast as he could towards the River Thames.

  “BILLY!” shouted Tollman, but Billy was already in hot pursuit after the fast disappearing Sydney.

  For a big man, Sydney could run very fast indeed and Billy struggled to keep pace. Besides, the walkway was slippery in places; years of damp had caused mould and fungi to form in the cracks.

  “We’re not here to hurt you, Sydney,” shouted Tollman, barely able to break into a canter at his age. His shout echoed around the cavernous tunnel. It was as much as he could do to keep fugitive and pursuer in sight.

  Suddenly, Sydney slipped and fell into the Fleet river below. There were alarmed squeals from packs of rats that had been grazing through the detritus at the edge of the culvert. Sydney thrashed around for a moment in panic, until he realised that the water was barely two feet deep, then he regained his feet and began wading – not back to the walkway, but through the water and towards the Thames. “Bugger,” said Billy, catching his breath and pulling his face mask up before he jumped into the water to follow Sydney.

  “Sydney! We’re gonna get sick from this water, you pillock!” Billy shouted, trying not to retch from the appalling smell.

  Tollman puffed around the bend of the culvert and shouted, “We know you didn’t kill Ruth!” Sydney suddenly stopped and turned around.

  “I wouldn’t touch a hair on her head!” he said, beginning to cry and dropping to his knees in the foul water. “My Ruthie…” he moaned, “someone killed my Ruthie…” Sydney looked up at Billy who had, by now, caught up with him and his face was a picture of anguish. “My beautiful Ruthie…” he moaned, the tears coursing down his dirty face and making white tracks in his skin.

  “Don’t you want to help us catch the person who killed Ruthie?” panted Billy softly. Sydney nodded, wiping his snotty nose with the back of his big hand.

  Tollman had caught up on the walkway by now and was breathing heavily.

  “I expect you’d like to see your mum, wouldn’t you, Sydney?” The big, simple man nodded and stood up. “Let’s get out of here then, shall we? Then you can have a nice wash and brush up and a cup of tea down at the Yard, while you tell us all about it.”

  Unfortunately, getting Sydney and Billy out of the river was impossible without Tollman himself getting covered in the stinking water. It was almost more than the fastidious detective could bear and he privately vowed that he would destroy his clothes, once he got clean again.

  The sodden fugitive allowed himself to be led by an equally sodden Billy back in the direction of Farringdon Street station. Tollman kicked Sydney’s makeshift fire into the Fleet river and it provoked a sound of hissing and screaming from rats scrambling out of the way of the falling embers. Billy shuddered again to think that he had just waded through that muck.

  When they stopped to pick up Billy’s helmet and jacket, Sydney looked surprised and said to Billy, “You’re a policeman, then?” as if the thought had never occurred to him. Poor simple sod, thought Billy and he flashed Sydney a smile. “Well, someone’s got to do the job, haven’t they, Sydney?” and the big man nodded and grinned.

  When the police van arrived to pick the trio up, the driver and his assistant at first refused to let them in, they all smelled so terrible. But after the wrath of Tollman was brought down upon them, they relented, although they complained all the way back to the Yard.

  Beech was summoned to the mews around the corner, rather than Tollman, Billy and Sydney being allowed in the building, and when he arrived, he almost reeled backwards at a distance of about five yards.

  “Good lord, men, what’s that smell?!”

  “The River Fleet, sir,” said Tollman, with as much dignity as he could muster.

  “Well, you’ll have to strip your clothes off and have a wash before we can allow you all in an interview room,” said Beech. “Sorry, Tollman,” he said apologetically, then added, “but well done for finding Mr Baker here.”

  So Tollman, Rigsby and Baker were sent into one of the former stables, which now housed cars, made to strip naked
and doused in disinfectant. Then they were given carbolic soap to wash with before being hosed down with cold water. Billy and Sydney laughed through chattering teeth. Tollman merely bore it stoically, in silence.

  Fresh clothes were brought from the prisoner store (although Sydney’s barely fitted) and the three of them, red-cheeked, wet-haired and smelling of carbolic, made their way down to the basement to Interview Room C. Billy noted that they had brought the amiable Sydney into the Yard without the use of any force or handcuffs. He would make sure to put that in the arrest report.

  Hot tea was brought for everyone by Stenton, who winked broadly at them all. Tollman bristled. He had no doubt that this episode would be the talk of the Yard for years to come and he wasn’t happy. Still, he managed a smile when he thought of how Carter’s nose would be put out of joint by the fact that they had found Sidney Baker before he could.

  Beech came in and Tollman immediately asked for a confidential word. Beech reopened the door and they stepped out into the corridor.

  “I just wanted you to know, sir, that Sydney Baker is a simple soul. Bit like a giant child really. He came with us willingly and he is heartbroken about his wife’s murder. We need to take it gently and not frighten him, otherwise he’ll clam up.”

  “Point taken, Tollman. Let’s see what we can do.”

  Beech began the slow, patient business of teasing information out of Sydney. A lot of the time he looked to Billy to take the lead in questioning, as he seemed to have struck up a friendship with the man.

  Gradually, Sydney explained things as best he could. They started with Adeline Treborne. Sydney became upset and said that she was a bad woman who made his Ruthie cry. Tollman thought to himself that he would have liked to see that. The Ruth Baker he had interviewed fifteen years ago was probably the hardest woman he had ever met. The first time that Adeline Treborne visited, Sydney had been at work. The second time she came, to collect money, Sydney had been told to hide and then follow her when she left, to find out where she lived. This Sydney had done and discovered that she lived in Trinity Mansions.