The White Feather Killer

by R. N. Morris

  ‘You know that he got the idea of his coat from me?’

  ‘Oh yes. Everyone used to laugh at him behind his back for it.’

  ‘Even you?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘I thought you were his friend.’

  Leversedge shrugged. The blue of his eyes seemed suddenly very cold.

  Quinn held up the unsigned confession. ‘Did you have any hand in this?’

  Leversedge shook his head with emphatic force. ‘No,’ he added firmly, so that there should be no doubt. So much denial could only mean he was lying.

  ‘This is what your case hinged on?’

  ‘Coddington was convinced. He just needed to get a confession.’

  ‘He told me he had a confession.’

  ‘Egger said he could have killed her, he wished he’d killed her, he wanted to kill her. But he never said he actually did it. It was driving Codders mad.’

  Quinn flicked an eyebrow at Codders. ‘Do you believe William Egger killed Eve Cardew?’

  Leversedge shook his head.

  ‘And yet you went along with this?’

  ‘You know Coddington. You couldn’t argue with him. Once he got an idea in his head, you couldn’t shake it out.’

  ‘But you raised your objections? They will be in the file?’

  ‘I told him what I thought, yeah. But I didn’t write it down. There was no point. He was my CO. I had to follow orders. You can’t have men chipping away at your authority, undermining your leadership. You know that.’

  ‘I value a frank exchange of opinions with my officers.’

  ‘Yes, and then you tell us what to do and we get on with doing it.’

  ‘You know that I have released William Egger?’

  ‘I had heard.’

  ‘Do you think that is a mistake?’

  Leversedge shrugged. ‘I heard you fancy someone else for it. So … it makes sense to let Egger go. Who is he, this other suspect?’

  ‘His name’s Felix Simpkins.’

  ‘What put you on to him?’

  ‘Witnesses saw Eve Cardew hand him a white feather on the day she was murdered.’

  ‘What witnesses?’

  ‘It’s a woman called Mrs Ibbott and her daughter Mary. They came to me informally as they know me from—’ Quinn broke off. It was excruciating to bring any detail of his private life into police work, no matter how innocuously. ‘Mrs Ibbott used to be my landlady.’

  ‘You trust them, then? They wouldn’t be trying to fix this Simpkins fella up?’

  ‘They have no motive to do that.’

  ‘You can never be too sure.’

  ‘And yet you arrested William Egger on the basis of the flimsiest of anonymous tip-offs.’

  ‘It wasn’t my doing, I told you. And if you want to know, I said the same to Coddington.’

  ‘I’m sure you did.’

  For a long moment Leversedge stood looking at Quinn without saying a word. The sarcasm in Quinn’s remark was inescapable. Leversedge was calculating how to respond to it. Everything seemed to hang on what he said next.

  ‘Look, you know what it’s like in here. Or maybe you don’t. You’ve been up in that attic of yours for so long. This is a tribe. These men, they’re not clever like you, most of them aren’t anyway. They don’t think things through. They don’t see the big picture. They’ve got instincts, that’s all. That’s what they act on. That’s what drives them. Instincts. Emotions. Call it what you like. Now you may think DCI Coddington is a prize chump, but the men … the men liked him. He was one of them. Of their tribe. He was the chief of the tribe. The instinct here is loyalty.’ The smirk returned to Leversedge’s face, as if he was aware of the irony of him of all people talking about loyalty. Or perhaps he was simply laughing at the fools who placed such store by it. ‘Now you, you’re clever, you’re a great detective, no one’s disputing that. But the men don’t like you. Sorry and all that, but that’s just the way it is. They don’t like you because they don’t know you. As far as the tribe’s concerned, you’re an outsider. And the tribe doesn’t like outsiders. They specially don’t like outsiders who’ve done the dirty on the old chief so they can take possession of his hut.’

  Quinn thought about challenging that ‘done the dirty’ but he was too interested in what Leversedge had to say. He nodded for him to go on.

  ‘The way I see it, you need the men on your side. You can’t bring this Felix Simpkins fella in on your own. Or not just you and Inchball. You need the men. And you need me to bring them over to you.’

  ‘And how will you do that?’

  ‘If I tell them you’re all right, that’s enough for them.’

  ‘Why would you do that?’

  Leversedge’s expression became serious, almost sinister. ‘One good turn deserves another, don’t you think?’

  Quinn felt a tight compression around his heart. It was the grip of corruption. There were days when he hated his fellow policemen and there seemed little difference between them and the criminals they pursued. It disgusted him to think that he might become tied to Leversedge in some loathsome bond of reciprocal favours. All the same, it was useful to know where one stood with these types. ‘What particular good turn did you have in mind?’

  ‘Listen, I want to help you, guv. I really do. I’m not interested in stirring up trouble. I’ll deliver you the respect of the men. All I’m asking in return is that you show me a bit of respect. I’m not Coddington. I’m my own man. Let me in. Let me work with you on this. We’ll get the bastard who killed that girl.’

  ‘You were there when Sergeant Macadam was shot.’

  ‘A regrettable incident. But I have to say, and it pains me to say it, Sergeant Macadam was acting without due authorisation from either myself or DCI Coddington. If he’d stuck to what he was told to do, he wouldn’t have got hurt.’

  ‘Did you see anything?’

  ‘Do you think I would have let Mac go chasing after him on his own if I had?’

  Quinn offered no answer to that.

  ‘Now then, shall I gather the men together for a briefing? You can tell us all about this Felix Simpkins chap.’

  Quinn could not help wincing at Leversedge’s tone of easy familiarity, as if to say that everything was settled between them now, and on a mutually beneficial footing. The final twist of Leversedge’s mouth suggested that he understood Quinn’s discomfort completely.

  FORTY

  There were a dozen or so detectives in the room. Most of them looked like they’d been told to ‘give the new guv’nor a chance’ by a man who winked knowingly as he said it. There was none of the lively banter that usually preceded briefings, the snatches of gallows humour and facile ribaldry. They stood before Quinn in stony silence.

  As for DI Leversedge, he managed to keep his face straight at least. He gave Quinn the briefest of reassuring nods, a sign of the new understanding that existed between them. If he had been playing Quinn, he would have been more effusive in his support. He was eager to make his mark on proceedings, taking control of the situation right from the start. He clapped his hands together to silence a room that was already dumbstruck. ‘Right, you lot. That’s enough of that. You all know why we’re here. You may have thought we had little Evie’s killer banged up, but it turns out we didn’t.’

  There were some grumbles of discontent, which Leversedge was quick to quell. ‘Come on now, that’s enough of that. I know you all thought the world of old Codders. We all did. We all do. But this job isn’t about winning popularity contests. We’re detectives. Our job is to detect. You know me and DCI Coddington were like this.’ Leversedge showed them his two index fingers linked together. ‘Which is why it gives me no pleasure to say this to you. Codders got it wrong. Fair and square. Lucky for us, we’ve got DCI Quinn here to put us right.’

  This provoked a small chorus of half-hearted jeers, which Leversedge met with a stern glance. Someone even called out ‘Quick-fire Quinn?’ derisively.

  Quinn frowned
, as if he was too deep in thought to notice the heckle. ‘Thank you, DI Leversedge. The first thing I will say is that we don’t, in fact, know who killed Eve Cardew. Not yet, we don’t. But we do know who shot Sergeant Macadam.’ Quinn nodded at Inchball. ‘Sergeant Inchball, if you will do the honours.’

  Inchball began to circulate the printed pages that he had had done up by the print office.

  ‘This is Felix Simpkins, positively IDed by Sergeant Macadam as his assailant. When he shot Macadam he was wearing the uniform of a private in the Royal Fusiliers. Inchball?’

  ‘I checked with the regiment. There ain’t no soldier in the Royal Fusiliers by the name of Felix Simpkins. Definitely not one what enlisted on Saturday the fifth of September, which is the day he must have enlisted if he did – which he didn’t – because we know he weren’t no soldier before that date for sure.’

  ‘How do we know that?’ Quinn knew the answer to the question he was asking. But his purpose was to make sure that everyone in the room understood the significance of the next detail that Inchball would reveal.

  ‘Because Eve Cardew gave him a white feather for cowardice that very day.’

  ‘Those of you who have read the ME’s report will know that a white feather was found in Eve’s mouth.’

  A young detective with an earnest face thrust his hand into the air, like an eager schoolboy. Quinn doubted he was a troublemaker, but there was something promisingly dogged about his expression that might get him into trouble all the same. He looked like he might grow into the kind of copper Quinn could work with. ‘DCI Coddington said that wasn’t nothing to get excited about. He said she could have just breathed it in. Just like she might have breathed in an insect.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  The young man looked about him uncertainly, as if he was checking with his colleagues whether he should answer. ‘Detective Constable Willoughby, sir.’

  ‘Well, Constable Willoughby, what do you think of that … theory?’

  Willoughby’s earnestness tipped over into panic, which he swallowed down in a single noisy gulp. ‘Me? What do I think?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  Most likely, the boy had never been asked his opinion before. It would have been drummed into him that he wasn’t there to think, only to do as he was told. So this would be an uncomfortable experience for him, but it would do him good. Besides, he was the one who had brought it up. Not only that, Willoughby couldn’t be much older than Felix Simpkins. Which would mean he was emotionally closer to the suspect than any other man in the room. Quinn waited for him to answer. ‘DCI Coddington …’

  ‘Forget what DCI Coddington said. What do you think?’

  ‘I have swallowed an insect myself upon occasion.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Well, they kind of fly in your mouth, don’t they? Little tiny creatures.’

  There were sniggers from around the room, but Quinn held up his hand for Willoughby to go on.

  ‘But a feather’s different, innit? Especially this feather what was in her mouth. According to the medical report, it was two and a half inches long. I don’t see a feather that big just floating about on the breeze and accidentally blowing into the first open mouth.’

  ‘You don’t? What do you see?’

  ‘I see someone putting it there.’

  ‘And who do you think put it there?’

  ‘The killer.’

  ‘And why do you think he did that?’

  Willoughby screwed up his face in concentration. ‘He wanted her to eat her words.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because she said something he din’ like. Maybe she called him a coward … I dunno.’

  ‘How would that make him feel? A young man insulted and humiliated by a pretty girl he once carried a torch for?’

  ‘Angry.’

  ‘He wants to make her listen, to make her understand …’

  ‘But she just keeps insulting him.’

  ‘Until the only way he can shut her up …’

  ‘Is to put his hand over her mouth and hold it there until she stops.’

  Quinn nodded approvingly at his young protégé’s deductions. ‘Obviously, our first priority is to find Felix Simpkins. We’ll need a search warrant for his mother’s house. DI Leversedge, get on to it. The address is 12a Godolphin Avenue. She says he hasn’t been there since last Monday, but he may have left behind something that will give us some clue as to his present whereabouts.’

  ‘Right, guv. Will do.’

  ‘We’ll circulate the posters to every police station in London and get the flyers in the hands of every detective. If that doesn’t turn up anything, we’ll spread the net wider. In the meantime, let’s find out all we can about his relationship to Eve Cardew. I haven’t seen anything in the case file about Eve’s private life. No diary. No letters. Was nothing recovered from her home?’

  ‘DCI Coddington didn’t see the point, guv. Not once we got the tip-off about Egger. I imagine he didn’t want to disturb the family any more than was necessary.’ It seemed that Leversedge had a talent for disloyalty. It was not a likeable trait, even if the man he was turning against was a personal enemy of Quinn’s.

  ‘Sergeant Inchball and I will go to the house and retrieve any relevant evidence we can find. I am sure we can persuade the family to cooperate.’

  The door to the briefing room opened. Quinn recognized Vernon Kell, the head of MO5(g), from that first meeting in Sir Edward’s office. Kell, once again in khaki, gave Quinn a nod to continue and slipped discreetly to the back of the room. Quinn could hear a sound like sandpaper being drawn lightly and slowly across flesh. It was almost inaudible, but the fact that Quinn had heard it once before attuned him to it. Quinn couldn’t help thinking that Kell’s asthma must have been a disadvantage in his career as a spy. It was certainly distracting. The meeting was coming to a close, but Quinn felt the need to extend it for Kell’s benefit. He also wanted to keep talking to drown out the sound of Kell’s laboured breathing.

  ‘So, to recap, Felix Simpkins is our prime suspect. However, we should not allow that to blind us to the possibility that there may be others involved, or that, despite appearances, Simpkins is innocent and it may be another party altogether. We must keep an open mind, in other words. There are several details that do not, as yet, add up. Simpkins wearing the uniform of a private in the Royal Fusiliers when he shot DS Macadam. But we now know that there is no one by the name of Felix Simpkins in the regiment. This leaves open several possibilities. Either Simpkins signed up under a false name, or he joined a different regiment and Sergeant Macadam was mistaken in identifying the regimental badge. I doubt that, but it’s possible. The other possibility is that Simpkins is masquerading as a member of the Royal Fusiliers. That his uniform is fake. If that is the case, we have to ask ourselves why. And where did he get it? Where did he get the gun with which he shot Macadam? Any thoughts?’

  Leversedge was quick with his, eager to impress the Secret Services observer. ‘Perhaps he was involved in a wider conspiracy? A third party may have supplied him with the gun and uniform. The proximity of the crime scene to the base at Wormwood Scrubs may be the significant thing here. Do we know if he has any Germanic connections?’

  Quinn was reluctant to feed this particular canard but he could not very well refuse to answer the question. ‘His mother is German.’

  There was a general stirring in the room, as if at last something of moment had been said. Quinn couldn’t help being irritated, though quite possibly it was this detail that won them over to his side. It was as if something primal in them was being satisfied. If they had felt cheated at losing one ‘German’ as a suspect, they were being compensated now. As if the suspect’s guilt or innocence was not what mattered to them so much as his nationality. You could swap one murdering Hun for another; it made no difference.

  Quinn saw the same look of ugly satisfaction on almost all their faces, even Inchball’s. There was little point trying to disabus
e them. He resigned himself instead to using their prejudice to motivate them to find Simpkins. He would have to make sure that he kept a tight rein on them when it came to apprehending the boy. There were times, with certain vicious killers, when Quinn had turned a blind eye to the aggressively persuasive methods of interrogation that Inchball was skilled in. But he could not sanction such a procedure with Felix Simpkins. Whatever had driven that young man to kill Eve Cardew, if indeed he was her killer, it did not merit brutality. Something had snapped within him, perhaps. Quinn had the sense of Simpkins as a friendless, loveless individual. Even his own mother disparaged him. He was far more likely to crack and confess all if he was shown a little gentleness.

  ‘We need to catch Simpkins before he does anything else stupid. The circumstances of Eve’s murder were singular and specific. He may not even have intended to kill her. I certainly do not believe we’re dealing with a ruthless multiple murderer here, and hope to God that events will not prove me wrong. I see Simpkins more as a frightened child. A number of witnesses have testified to his timidity. He appears to have been dominated by his overbearing mother. That is not to say he is any less dangerous. He has already fired recklessly at one of our own, endangering Sergeant Macadam’s life. I believe it was fear that pushed him to that. Fear is a dangerous emotion, and it could cause him to lash out again, especially if he feels himself cornered. He may be a milksop mother’s boy, but he is a milksop mother’s boy with a service revolver. So be careful.’

  Quinn gave a stern nod to dismiss the room. The men filtered out, grimly energized.

  The soft, rasping sound of breathing signalled that one man remained. Kell advanced towards Quinn across the newly vacated space. Quinn saw that the other man had a rolled-up newspaper tucked under one arm. The sight of newspapers always made him apprehensive.

  Kell waved the newspaper in Quinn’s face. ‘I hope you know what you’re doing, Quinn.’

  ‘I’m doing what I always do. Building a case based on evidence. It has not failed me to date.’

  ‘You should take a look at this.’ Kell thrust the newspaper out. It was a copy of the Clarion. Quinn took it gingerly.