by John Creasey
Copyright & Information
Murder, London - Australia
First published in 1965
© John Creasey Literary Management Ltd.; House of Stratus 1965-2010
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
The right of John Creasey to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.
This edition published in 2014 by House of Stratus, an imprint of
Stratus Books Ltd., Lisandra House, Fore Street, Looe,
Cornwall, PL13 1AD, UK.
Typeset by House of Stratus.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library and the Library of Congress.
ISBN EAN Edition
075513608X 9780755136087 Print
0755139429 9780755139422 Kindle
0755137752 9780755137756 Epub
This is a fictional work and all characters are drawn from the author's imagination.
Any resemblance or similarities to persons either living or dead are entirely coincidental.
www.houseofstratus.com
About the Author
John Creasey – Master Storyteller - was born in Surrey, England in 1908 into a poor family in which there were nine children, John Creasey grew up to be a true master story teller and international sensation. His more than 600 crime, mystery and thriller titles have now sold 80 million copies in 25 languages. These include many popular series such as Gideon of Scotland Yard, The Toff, Dr Palfrey and The Baron.
Creasey wrote under many pseudonyms, explaining that booksellers had complained he totally dominated the 'C' section in stores. They included:
Gordon Ashe, M E Cooke, Norman Deane, Robert Caine Frazer, Patrick Gill, Michael Halliday, Charles Hogarth, Brian Hope, Colin Hughes, Kyle Hunt, Abel Mann, Peter Manton, J J Marric, Richard Martin, Rodney Mattheson, Anthony Morton and Jeremy York.
Never one to sit still, Creasey had a strong social conscience, and stood for Parliament several times, along with founding the One Party Alliance which promoted the idea of government by a coalition of the best minds from across the political spectrum.
He also founded the British Crime Writers' Association, which to this day celebrates outstanding crime writing. The Mystery Writers of America bestowed upon him the Edgar Award for best novel and then in 1969 the ultimate Grand Master Award. John Creasey's stories are as compelling today as ever.
1
Old Friend?
“Where’s he from?” asked Roger West.
“He’s an Australian,” Kebble answered.
“Australia’s a big place. What part does he come from?”
In a way, the question was cruel. Kebble’s blue eyes clouded, his lips tightened; for a moment he made Roger think he was going to snap back a retort. That would be a pity. It was late afternoon, it had been a busy day, Kebble was pleased with himself – he was too often, that was his chief weakness – and it was a bad time to have to discipline a sergeant in the Criminal Investigation Department.
“Anything else you need to know about him?” Kebble’s question fell just short of being sarcastic.
Roger, who didn’t know the sergeant well, now tested him for both good humour and a sense of humour.
“Everything!” He grinned. “Age, appearance, colour of eyes, accent if any, general appearance such as breadline or in the prosperity stakes. You know. The lot.”
Kebble was almost laughing by the time the recital was over – a good sign.
“I won’t be long,” he promised, and walked out of the office.
Roger pushed his chair back and stood up. He was a big, powerful man, good looking enough to have been called ‘Handsome’ in his early days at the Yard, and the nickname had stuck. Now his wavy blond hair was streaked with grey, but the overall impression was fair and youthful. He moved with a positive, almost aggressive briskness, and often talked in the same way.
He had risen from the ranks to very near the top.
This was a small room but a room more suitable to a Chief Superintendent of the CID might have more space, but would not command a view over the Thames Embankment as this did.
There were other advantages to a small room; somehow it made formality more difficult.
Kebble was today’s stand-in for Cope, the Chief Inspector who usually shared the office. It was a pity about Cope. He was ill, seriously ill, and the hospital reports weren’t good. He would probably get just well enough to retire early on a pension smaller than he really needed; bad luck, at fifty-one.
Kebble was thirty-two. He had been transferred from one of the divisions on the perimeter of the Metropolitan Police District, one of the superior residential areas. According to his record, he was a bright boy. To reach the top at the Yard one had to have a lot of luck as well as intelligence and skill, however; memory played a more important part than most realised, too. Kebble was certainly having the luck; three men off duty, through sickness, one by accident, two on all day court work, so Detective Sergeant Kebble was sitting in as chief assistant to one of the Yard’s senior officers.
Roger picked up the photograph of a girl and carried it to the window. She was pretty, even in death. It was a good thing the picture did not show her neck.
What turned men into stranglers?
Who was this girl?
It was a puzzle, but not yet a worrying one; yesterday morning she had been found in the back room of a cheap boarding-house, choked to death. Roger West, who had seen her in the morgue, could picture the dark bruises on her neck. He hadn’t the pathologist’s final report yet, but death by strangulation seemed a safe bet.
The morning newspapers had published this picture, with the caption:
‘Do You Know This Girl?’
If so, please communicate with New Scotland Yard, Whitehall 1212, or with your nearest police station.
The man who Kebble felt sure was Australian was not the first who claimed to know her, but none of the many others who had responded had really been able to help. According to them she had seventeen different names and came from a dozen different parts of England.
There was a tap at the door.
“Come in.”
Roger turned his head as Kebble entered. There was something sinewy about him, about his rather long neck with its prominent Adam’s apple, and bony wrists. His eyes were as alert as a bird’s. In fact, he looked vaguely like a turkey.
“What else do we know now?” Roger enquired.
“The man’s name is Benjamin Limm – L, I, double M – he comes from a place called Cowra in New South Wales,” deposed Kebble. “He is a sheep farmer, aged about thirty-five, widower, five-eleven, lean, hardy-looking, grey eyed, and fair-haired.”
Kebble was poker-faced when he stopped.
Roger called it a day as far as ribbing sergeants was concerned.
“Thanks. Do you think he knows our girl?”
“He says he’s positive. He travelled from Australia on a cargo ship with her, and there were only nine passengers. He says this girl is Denise Morrison, who was travelling with her sister, Doreen. He doesn’t seem to have any doubts at all.”
“How long ago was this?” Roger asked.
“Four weeks since they landed at Southampton, ten since they left Melbou
rne,” answered Kebble.
“I’ll see this chap,” Roger said. “I’ll ask him the stock questions, too, including those you’ve asked. Take everything down.”
Kebble nodded.
“Go get him,” Roger said.
As Kebble stalked out of the office Roger studied that picture again. How old was she? Twenty-two? Twenty-three? No more, anyhow. Dark-haired, a little too thin except at the breast, where she was heavy; had been heavy, he corrected himself. He felt uneasy, and that was not a good sign. Thirty years at the Yard – well, nearly thirty – gave one a kind of prescience which the Press liked to call a sixth sense. Every now and again it made itself felt, as it did now, and as it had since the investigation into this crime began. Until this moment he had not allowed himself to admit it, but now the feeling was too strong to be ignored.
Denise Morrison, who had a sister . . .
There was a brisk, almost peremptory tap at the door, and Kebble appeared.
“Shall I bring Mr Limm in, sir?”
“Please.”
Kebble’s description had been good, but missed one important factor: vitality. Limm came striding in, a lean, rangy man with a glint of impatience in his eyes. He was good looking in a lean, long-jawed way, the kind who would probably attract youngish women.
Roger, standing at his desk, held out a hand.
“Mr Limm, I’m glad to see you. Thank you for taking the trouble to come to us about this bad business.”
Limm’s handshake was quick, his hand cool.
“Bad business?” he echoed. “How bad?”
“Don’t you know?”
“No, Superintendent, I don’t. I saw that photograph in a newspaper, and I came to say I knew Denise Morrison. Is she—” He broke off.
Roger said, quietly, “She’s dead, Mr Limm.”
Limm echoed, “Dead.”
All the vitality seemed to be drained out of him.
“Dead?” he repeated, making it a question as if his reason rejected the truth. “Oh, no.”
“I’m afraid it’s true. Push up a chair for Mr Limm, Sergeant.”
Kebble was at hand with an upright chair. Limm dropped into it. The glint of impatience had gone, only shock revealed itself in his eyes and his body. He sat staring at Roger.
“How well did you know her?” Roger asked.
“Er – not so well,” Limm answered. Then he squared his shoulders and his voice strengthened. “As well as you get to know a fellow passenger on a six week sea trip. I suppose that’s knowing her well.” He hesitated, as if there was something he wanted to say but either couldn’t get it out or didn’t know how to put it. “Poor kid. Dead. She was so . . .”
He raised his hands and let them drop on to his knees.
“Full of life,” he finished. “Absolutely full of life. She—how did she die?”
“We think she was murdered,” Roger said very clearly.
Limm caught his breath, formed the word ‘no’ again but did not utter it. Over at his desk now, Kebble was busy with his notes. Outside, traffic seemed very close to the open windows, the occasional roar of an engine changing gear drowned all sounds in this office.
“Mr Limm, did you know Denise Morrison before you joined the ship?”
“No,” Limm said. “No, I didn’t.”
“Are you sure her name was Denise Morrison?”
After a pause, Limm said flatly, “Yes, I’m sure.” He squared his shoulders, and some life seemed.to seep back into him. “I saw her passport. She was on the passenger list, too.”
“Do you know where she came from? And what she did?”
“A town called Dandenong, not far from Melbourne,” Limm answered. “She worked in a dress shop, did some modelling, and the buying. She went to the Melbourne and Sydney houses every season to stock up. Doreen was secretary to a big garage. They’d been saving up for years for this trip.”
Limm’s tone was husky, as if his memory of the dead girl was hurting him. He became suddenly aggressive. “Have you any reason to think she didn’t tell the truth or gave a false name?”
“I’m trying to make sure of her identity,” Roger said mildly.
“You can be sure all right,” Limm said gruffly. “If I wasn’t certain I wouldn’t say so.”
“You should certainly know a girl who’s been a fellow passenger for six weeks,” Roger agreed. “But that isn’t legal evidence, of course. Identification from a photograph never satisfies a coroner.”
“Coroner?”
“There has to be an inquest, and I’m afraid we’ll need your testimony, unless we can find someone else who knew her better,” Roger explained. “The inquest isn’t likely to be delayed very long. Can you find time?”
Limm said with a growl in his voice, “If I have to, I have to. What are you really telling me, Superintendent?”
“I would like you to see the body.”
Limm’s lips were set very tightly until he asked in a clipped tone, “Why me?”
“We haven’t yet found anyone else who knows her.”
“What about her sister?”
“We’ve heard nothing from any sister.”
“Does she know—” Limm began, only to break off as if in astonishment. “You mean you don’t know where Doreen is?”
“We didn’t even know she existed.” Roger stood up and moved slowly towards the window. “The body – Denise – was found yesterday morning by the landlady of a boarding-house in South Kensington. She had registered as Mrs Brown – was she married?”
As he flashed that question, Roger spun round.
“Not – not as far as I know.”
“Was she engaged?”
“Not as far as I know,” Limm repeated. “Superintendent, just tell me the whole story, will you? Don’t jump about so much – I want to understand the situation properly.”
Kebble glanced up at Roger, with a near grin.
“I can’t tell you the whole story because I don’t know it,” Roger replied. “But I’ll tell you what we do know. She had given her name as Mrs Brown. She said she was expecting her husband to arrive later. The landlady heard her go out about nine o’clock on the night of her death. She came back after midnight with a man whom no one saw, as far as we yet know. No one heard the man leave. At ten o’clock in the morning the landlady went to see if the young woman wanted anything. She was lying on her back, in her nightdress, dead.”
Limm was twisting round in his chair and watching Roger closely; he didn’t speak.
“That is all and everything we know about the girl you call Denise Morrison and who called herself Brown. She may have been really married for all we know. She wore a brass wedding ring.”
“Brass?”
Roger moved to his desk and picked up a small plastic bag, tied at the neck, and labelled. Inside was a ring which looked as if it could have been made of gold for the plastic dulled the brashness of the brass.
“Except for her clothes, everything else had been taken away.”
“Everything!”
“Handbag, money – if she had any – make-up, the lot. She had a new Dacron and wool suit, made by the tens of thousands, new shoes, new stockings. Her girdle and brassiere were old – our experts here haven’t yet identified the place of origin or manufacture. There’s our problem, Mr Limm – to find a man we believe to be a murderer, and to find out why this young woman was murdered.” He spun round. “Did you ever get the impression that she was frightened of anything?”
“Frightened?” echoed Limm. “That girl didn’t know the meaning of fear. She and her sister had saved every penny they could for this trip. They were going to work where they could, hitchhike through England and then the continent. She had so much courage it almost scared me.” He stood up. “If anything fr
ightened her, it was something that happened after she reached England. I’ll stake my reputation on that.”
“Did she tell you who she was going to see in England?”
“No,” Limm answered. “I took it for granted she didn’t know anyone. Three years ago her mother died – the father had been dead for a long time. They had no relatives in Australia, and as far as they knew none in England.” Limm began to walk about the room. “This is the most awful thing I’ve ever heard of.” He stopped in front of Roger. “Her sister – that’s the part I can’t believe. Doreen worshipped Denise, she was like a watchdog. She was the practical one, held the money, carried out the plans; Denise made the plans, then left everything to her sister. Denise was the good-looker, too, but Doreen had the brains. Wherever Denise was, Doreen wouldn’t be far behind. Believe me, you’ve got to find Doreen.”
“Have you a photograph of her?” Roger asked.
Kebble’s sniff seemed to reject this question as absurd.
Limm put his hand to his pocket, took out a wallet, thumbed through it, and stopped at some snapshots. He took these out; there were seven or eight, all quite small.
“It’s not much good but it’s all I’ve got,” he said. “One of the passengers took it and sent me a copy.”
There were nine people in the photograph, including Limm. One was undoubtedly the dead girl; another, smaller girl stood next to her, a young couple and an elderly couple, and one man in officer’s uniform. Roger went to his desk and picked up a magnifying glass. It was a good picture and the faces would enlarge well.
“What can you tell me about the other passengers?” Roger asked.
Limm hesitated.
“There was Doreen, of course. Then there were the Donellis, an elderly couple going overseas for the first time since they emigrated about thirty years ago. They own some cafes in Adelaide. Kept themselves to themselves. Then there were Jack and Jill Parrish, honeymooners although they never admitted it. He’s a Queensland banana grower, she’s English – she’d been out to see some relations at Surfer’s Paradise.”
