by Roberta Kray
She had spent the journey staring out of the window and seeing nothing. The streets of London had passed by in a blur, her mind too preoccupied by Ivor Doyle to take in anything else. Two strong cocktails hadn’t helped matters. She hadn’t eaten since lunch and the alcohol had gone straight to her head. She felt anger, confusion and resentment, shot through with an unattractive streak of self-pity. Why me? an inner voice whispered over and over again.
Although there was a lamp on in the flat, the curtains were closed and there wasn’t much light. Judith tentatively made her way down the steps, holding on tightly to the rail. It was only when she reached the bottom and was about to start rummaging in her bag for the key that she realised the front door was ajar. She gently pushed it open. ‘Hello? Elsa?’
There was no response.
At first, she wasn’t worried – maybe Elsa had nipped round to a neighbour to borrow some tea or sugar – but as she walked into the tiny hallway, she knew that something was wrong. There was an odd stillness in the air, like the aftermath of a storm. It didn’t feel right, didn’t feel normal. She stood there for a few seconds trying to make sense of the change, to process it, to understand it. And then, when that failed, she advanced into the living room.
She gasped at the scene she was confronted with. The flat had been ransacked, turned upside down, with everything strewn across the floor. The cupboards had been emptied, their contents swept out, the crockery smashed. The chairs, lying on their backs, had been ripped open and their insides disgorged. Nothing had been left untouched or undisturbed. It was all chaos and destruction.
She walked through the debris in a state of shock, the soles of her shoes crunching on broken glass. The Gauguin print had been ripped from its frame and torn. The bottle of whisky lay shattered, its contents having long since seeped into the carpet. A smell of alcohol permeated the air. How could anyone do such a thing? It wasn’t as if Elsa had much to steal. So far as Judith knew, there was nothing of real value in the place, but someone had clearly thought otherwise.
Elsa’s bedroom was in a similar state of disarray, one curtain off the rail, the mattress dragged off the bed, the drawer of the bedside table pulled out and thrown across the room. Her clothes and shoes lay in a tangled heap on the floor. Judith took one look and withdrew.
She had a pretty good idea of what she was going to find when she went to her own bedroom – more of the same. Although she hadn’t brought much with her from Westport, the idea of some filthy burglar’s hands rifling through her possessions filled her with disgust. She took a breath, went over to the half-open door and gave it a push with the tips of her fingers.
If she had thought she was prepared, she was mistaken. Nothing could have prepared her for the horror that was revealed. Elsa was lying on the floor with one arm thrown back. Her dark hair was streaked with crimson. There was a gaping wound in her skull, and blood had pooled around her head and neck. Her eyes were open but glassy, unseeing. There was no doubt that she was dead, murdered, and beyond any help.
Judith’s hand rose swiftly to her mouth, stifling a scream. She backed away, shaking, her legs barely able to carry her. Her heart was thrashing in her chest. It couldn’t be real. It couldn’t be happening. She staggered out of the flat and stumbled up the steps. For a moment she leaned against the railings, thinking she was going to be sick. A dry retching came from her throat.
Frantically she looked up and down the street. It was empty. She turned instead to the ground-floor flat, where a strip of light escaped from between drawn curtains. Lurching to the door, she hammered on it hard.
‘Help me! Please, I need some help!’
The following fifteen minutes were odd, disjointed, dream-like. Somehow she managed to tell the man and his wife about Elsa. The middle-aged woman drew her inside, sat her down, put the kettle on and dispatched her husband to investigate.
‘Billy, you go and take a look, but don’t touch nothin’. Then call the law, or better still, go down to Cowan Road and fetch them yourself.’
Judith drank the hot, sweet tea, her hands clamped around the cup. It was impossible to get what she had seen out of her head, and yet she still couldn’t believe that Elsa was actually dead. She felt mired in one of those nightmares you couldn’t wake up from. Voices rose and fell around her. People spoke, but their words didn’t register. They seemed to come from far away, alien, a foreign language she couldn’t understand.
It was only when the police arrived that reality sank in. She gave a stumbling account of what had happened, of how the door had been open, how she had found the flat in disarray and how she had found Elsa. That was when the tears began to flow, and the faster she wiped them away, the faster they came. ‘Why would anyone do that to her?’
But there was, as yet, no answer to that question.
They asked if she knew if anything was missing, but she had no idea. They asked about family, if there was someone they should contact, but she didn’t know that either. A boyfriend? No, she didn’t think so. She gulped as she spoke, her voice hoarse, almost strangulated. She couldn’t concentrate on what they were saying. All she could think about was Elsa lying dead in the flat below.
With Judith struggling to provide even the most basic of information, Billy and his wife stepped in to fill in the details on how long Elsa had lived there, where she worked and what she was like.
‘She was a nice girl, the poor soul,’ the wife said. ‘Never no trouble. She kept herself to herself. I can’t think of no one who’d wish her harm.’
‘A burglary, then, was it?’ Billy asked the police sergeant. ‘Looking for money, I suppose. They turned that flat over good and proper.’
‘You went inside, Mr Phillips?’
‘Only to check she was … you know, to make sure. I was careful.’ Billy gave a quick glance towards his wife. ‘I didn’t touch nothin’, I swear.’
Mrs Phillips narrowed her eyes at the sergeant. ‘Don’t you be trying to pin this on him. He’s been right here with me all evening. He didn’t have no choice but to go in, did he? What if the girl had still been alive? What if—’
‘No one’s trying to pin anything on your husband, Mrs Phillips. I’m just trying to establish the facts.’
‘I’ll tell you what the facts are, mister: none of us are safe in our beds these days and you ain’t doing nothin’ about it. Those hoodlums are everywhere. They should be locked up, the whole bleedin’ lot of ’em.’
The sergeant brushed aside the rant and turned again to Judith. ‘When was the last time you saw Elsa alive?’
Judith tried to keep her voice steady. ‘This afternoon, but only briefly. It was about … I’m not sure … about a quarter to four, I think. I only came back to get changed and then I went out again.’
‘And how did she seem?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Was she worried about anything?’
‘No. No, why would she be? She was fine.’
‘I saw her come back from work at half two,’ Mrs Phillips said.
The sergeant nodded. ‘You didn’t see her go out again?’
‘No, but that doesn’t mean she didn’t. I ain’t looking out of the window all day and night. She could easily have gone and come back again without my seeing.’
The questions went on for a while longer. Judith could hear the activity outside: the footsteps, the voices, the sound of cars arriving, of doors shutting. Wheels were being set in motion, a murder investigation beginning. Dead. Elsa was dead. A part of her felt numb, another part frantic. Why Elsa? Why her flat? Why had she been the unlucky one in this city of millions?
Eventually the sergeant closed his notebook. ‘We’ll probably need to speak to you again, Mrs Jonson. Do you have somewhere you can stay tonight?’
Judith hadn’t even thought about it. She stared blankly back at him.
‘A relative, perhaps, or a friend?’
Judith shook her head. ‘I’ve not been in London long. I’ll go to a B and B. Do you
know when I’ll be able to collect my things?’
‘Not tonight, I’m afraid – they’ll be sealing off the area – but I’m sure it will all be returned to you in the morning. If you come with me, I’ll find someone to give you a lift.’
‘Thank you,’ Judith said, relieved that she wouldn’t have to walk the streets in the dark. She stood up and thanked Mr and Mrs Phillips too. ‘You’ve been very kind.’
‘We’ve only done what anyone would.’ Mrs Phillips patted her arm. ‘We’ve got to stick together in times of trouble. I’m sure we could find a space for you here if you need somewhere to stay for the night.’
‘No, really, I’ll be all right. But thank you. I don’t know what I’d have done if you hadn’t …’ But a lump had lodged in Judith’s throat and she couldn’t get any more words out.
‘You take care, love, and you know where we are if you need us.’
A small crowd had gathered outside, alerted by all the activity. As Judith followed the sergeant, she thought she caught sight of the locksmith, Jimmy Taylor, but she couldn’t be sure. It was dark, and the faces in front of her swam and merged. She was passed over to a young constable, who escorted her to a squad car and opened the door.
‘Where would you like to go?’
Where Judith would have liked to go was home, away from London, away from this nightmare, but clearly that wasn’t an option at the moment. ‘I think there are some B and Bs on Silverstone Road, aren’t there? One of those will do. It doesn’t matter which.’
‘I’ll take you to Mrs Gillan’s. She’s a good sort.’
Judith got into the car, sat back and gazed out through the windscreen. She felt sick and dazed, unable to shake the image of Elsa from her head. If only she hadn’t gone out to meet Saul. If only she’d been here. Elsa must have opened the door to her killer, or come back while the burglary was in progress and surprised him. Either way, she would have stood up to the man, challenged him, fought him to the bitter end. That was the sort of girl she had been.
Judith stared into the darkness. She thought about Elsa’s plans for the future – all over now, all finished. Somewhere out there was a man who had snuffed out her life in an instant. The police would find him, wouldn’t they? They had to. Her hands curled in her lap, two tight white fists. Her mouth trembled as she said a silent prayer for Elsa’s soul. She would never forget her – and she wouldn’t rest until her killer was brought to justice.
31
Saul Hannah heard about Elsa in the early hours of Sunday morning. He was drinking at a dive in Shoreditch, one ear to the ground, when a reporter called Henry Lake came in and started talking about the murder of a waitress in Kellston. Even before Lake revealed her name, he knew who the victim was. He had that chill down his spine, the gut feeling that something bad was coming.
A call to Scotland Yard confirmed the information. Saul went home, had a bath, poured himself a Scotch and lay on the bed while he tried to figure out what to do next. Oddly, he was not that shocked. Although maybe it wasn’t that odd. The war and his job had inured him to the horrors of death, and there had always been something precarious about the way Elsa chose to live, as though she courted danger, needed it, breathed it in like oxygen.
He raised his glass to her memory, the nearest he would get to an expression of regret. He was sorry, of course, that she was gone – he’d grown used to her company even if he hadn’t always liked her – but he couldn’t quite bring himself to grieve. That emotion was reserved for the woman and child he had lost.
What he was left with now was a dilemma. Did he reveal to the necessary authorities that Elsa had been an informer? There was a possibility, albeit a slim one, that this was the reason she’d been murdered. From what he’d gathered, however, her killing seemed more likely to be the result of a moment of panic, a desperate lashing-out by a burglar who’d been caught in the act.
He knew that the flat would be dusted for fingerprints. If he admitted to having been there in the past, his own prints would be taken as a means of elimination. But it was where they would find them that worried him – not just in the living room, but in the bedroom too. And that could cause major problems. Paying a snout was one thing; having a sexual relationship with them quite another, especially when money was changing hands. Although it would be impossible to prove that he was guilty of anything more than an error of judgement, it could be enough to cast a shadow over his career. With the Ghost Squad about to be disbanded, he might easily find himself sidelined and consigned to some dusty basement for the next five years.
His other option was to say nothing, to pretend he’d never known her and hope that Judith kept her mouth shut. But would she? It was possible she’d already told the police that she’d met him, and not just at the café but at Elsa’s flat too. He wondered how likely that was, bearing in mind that she had found the body and was probably still in a state of shock. Well, there was only way to find out. He would have to talk to her as soon as he could.
Saul had been in touch with a constable he knew at Cowan Road and had managed, with some subtle questioning, to discover that Judith was staying at a boarding house on Silverstone Road. Unless the crime was solved quickly, officers would be bringing her into the station in the morning to try and pick her brains. That was the point where they would start to ask about Elsa’s friends and acquaintances. He would need to get to her first and be armed with a persuasive argument as to why she should help him.
The ideal scenario would be one where he could out Elsa as an informer to his colleagues but avoid the tricky matter of their relationship. He didn’t have to worry about the neighbours on Barley Road. Usually, he’d arrived and left after dark, and even on those few occasions he hadn’t, he’d made sure that his hat had been pulled down over his face. Also, he suspected he hadn’t been the only male visitor to Elsa’s flat.
He stared up at the ceiling, thinking of the approach he would take with Judith. He had the impression that she was, fundamentally, an honest person and wouldn’t take kindly to being asked to lie to the police. Except it wouldn’t be a lie so much as an omission. He checked his watch. It was only ten past three. He had a few hours yet to construct a convincing story.
32
There was a light, tentative knock on Judith’s door at half past seven, as though whoever it was didn’t want to wake her if she was still sleeping. She got up from where she’d been sitting by the window, walked across the room, and opened the door to Mrs Gillan. The landlady gave her an apologetic smile.
‘I’m sorry to disturb you, love, but there’s a policeman downstairs, name of Detective Sergeant Hannah. Shall I tell him to come back later?’
‘No, it’s all right, thanks. I’ll be down in five minutes.’
Judith retreated into the room, relieved to hear that Saul was here. She felt the need to be with someone who had known Elsa and cared about her. He would have some news, perhaps, about the investigation. She quickly ran a comb through her hair and frowned at her reflection in the mirror. Her face was pale and tight: the legacy of a sleepless night. Every time she’d closed her eyes, all she had seen was Elsa’s body.
With her clothes still at the flat, she’d had no choice but to wear the green dress again. She made a half-hearted attempt to smooth out the creases with the palms of her hands – it was hardly a priority at a time like this – and then slipped on her jacket. She hurried down the stairs and found Saul waiting in the hall.
‘I’m sorry to call by so early,’ he said.
‘No, it’s fine. I’m glad you have. Do you have any news? Do the police know who did it yet?’
Saul shook his head. ‘No, but it’s early days. They’ll catch him, I’m sure. How are you? It’s a stupid question, but it’s hard to know what to say in circumstances like these.’
‘How are you?’ she asked, aware that his friendship with Elsa was of far longer standing than her own. ‘You knew her much better than me.’
‘It’s been a shock,’ he s
aid, glancing away from her. His face was grey, unshaven, and a faint whiff of whisky drifted off his breath. ‘Now I just want to get on with catching the bastard who did it. Look, can we go somewhere and talk? I know a place we can get breakfast.’
Judith wasn’t sure if she was capable of eating, but she nodded anyway. She wanted to be doing something, anything, rather than sitting around feeling helpless. ‘All right.’
‘I’ve got the car outside.’
As Saul drove through the East End, he drummed out a beat on the steering wheel. He seemed jumpy and anxious, but that was hardly surprising given what had happened. ‘Is it comfortable where you’re staying?’ he asked. ‘We can find you somewhere else if you like.’
‘No, it’s … it’s as good a place as any.’ Beyond the fact that it was clean and tidy, Judith hadn’t taken much notice of the room she’d been allocated. Mrs Gillan had provided her with towels and soap and a toothbrush. The elderly but still sprightly landlady had been kind and considerate without being intrusive. ‘It’ll do for now.’
Saul wound through the back streets of Bethnal Green until they came to a café called Leo’s. There was a row of black taxis parked outside and he pulled in behind them. ‘You can always tell a good caff by the number of cabbies who eat there. Mind, there aren’t many other places round here open on a Sunday.’
They went inside – it was warm and smoky and noisy – and sat down at a table in a corner. A waitress came over to take their order. ‘Just tea, thank you,’ Judith said.
Saul frowned. ‘Have some toast, at least. You need food. You have to eat.’
Judith was instantly reminded of Elsa saying much the same thing when she’d gone into Connolly’s after coming face to face with Ivor Doyle. The memory, sharp and poignant, filled her with an overwhelming sense of sadness. ‘Toast, then,’ she agreed, not wanting to get into a debate about it.
Saul ordered Spam fritters and eggs for himself. When the waitress had left, he sat back, took out a cigarette, lit it and sat forward again. ‘I need to ask you something. When you talked to the police last night, did you mention me?’
