by William Shaw
Breen put down the handset he had just been talking on. ‘Sir?’
‘Yesterday. Harewood Avenue. Everything under control?’
‘Fine, sir.’
‘Good man.’ He smiled, tapped on his cigar, then placed it in his mouth again while waiting for the men to settle. Monday’s buzz of conversation was always a little louder than other days’. They had weekend stories to swap, the films they’d seen, the cricket they’d lost at, the girls they had gone with. The men sat on desks, reluctant to start the day’s work.
‘Right. Order, boys. Order,’ Creamer shouted eventually.
The chatter died. Men turned. The day began.
‘Well, Breen?’
Breen walked to the front of the office, where everyone could see him, his back to the secretary’s desk, and pulled open a brown folder and held up a single black-and-white 10-by-8. ‘Lena Bobienski, twenty-six. A prostitute. Murdered, we think, between Thursday night and Friday morning.’
They crowded in, stared at the photograph. Breen raised it so everybody could see.
‘Oof,’ muttered Jones, the youngest constable on the team.
‘Rats,’ explained Breen. ‘She was a professional. Earning a decent amount of money for her line of work, by the look of it.’
‘Got any photos?’ asked Jones.
‘Pervert,’ said another.
‘Toms have photographs, don’t they?’ protested Jones. ‘To advertise their line of work. Nobody’s going to recognise her looking like that.’
‘Fair point,’ said Creamer.
Jones beamed, keen to prove he was just as good as Mint, the bright new boy.
‘A client, I suppose?’ asked Creamer.
‘The pathologist’s preliminary report indicates that she was assaulted before the fatal blow. There is serious bruising on the face and abdomen.’ This morning, he had spoken to Wellington who was still bad-tempered about missing his lunch yesterday.
Wellington would be detailing each bruise now. In the next day or so he would send a more detailed report, but this was all they had to go on, so far.
‘He thinks she would have been conscious during the initial assault, which suggests anger, or sadism, or both. We don’t have an accurate time of death yet.’
All eyes were on him.
‘Weapon?’
‘All we have up to this point is blunt instrument. Wellington reckons a bottle, perhaps. I think it’s relevant that she was dumped in the building. I reckon whoever put her in that position knew she wouldn’t be found till after he got away.’
He reached in the folder and pulled out another photo. ‘She was discovered on top of the lift. The caretaker says it was out of order on Friday morning. But it was clearly working at the time when her body was put on the roof of the elevator compartment. I believe that means that someone killed her late on Thursday night or at some point early the next day, placed her body in that position, then raised the lift to the top floor, so the body would have been concealed. Either the lift then chose that moment to break down, or the killer then disabled the lift somehow. I don’t know how yet. But that way he could get down the stairs and out of the building.’
‘So someone who knew the place?’
It was Mint who had spoken. Breen turned to him and said, ‘Exactly. I’m pretty sure that’s who we’re looking for. So it’s a question of timing. Precisely when did the lift break down? So far, no one remembers. I’ve asked C Department if they have an engineer who could look at the mechanism. We know it was at least forty-eight hours before the body was discovered. If the lift was deliberately broken, so that she was concealed in the loft –’ he picked out another photograph of the body taken from the attic entrance – ‘then was the killer playing for time? Else he’d have just left her in her flat, assuming that’s where he killed her.’
‘One of the residents, then. Or her johns. Someone who knew his way around,’ suggested Mint.
‘Yes. Or the maid. According to Haas, the prostitute worked with a maid, who arrived on Friday night, and let herself in to the dead woman’s apartment. But as far as we know, she didn’t report Bobienski to the police as missing. That would have given her ample time to clean up the scene of crime.’
‘But the maid went to the caretaker and asked if he’d seen her,’ said Mint. Then his eyes widened. ‘Oh…’
‘Exactly,’ said Breen. ‘We can’t rule her out. She may have been covering for the fact that she needed to return to the place to tidy it up after the event. It’s crucial we find her. As for the johns…’ Breen heard the door opening behind him, but ignored it. ‘Her clientele were not the usual lot. Her speciality was dressing up as a little girl. So we’re looking for a type of man.’
He looked up. Something unusual was happening. CID men were predictable. They made lewd jokes whenever there was an opportunity, but nobody had responded to the cue. Instead, the men in front of him were standing up straight.
‘Morning, sir,’ said Creamer. ‘To what do we owe the…?’
Breen turned. Behind him was Superintendet McPhail, arms behind his back and chest puffed out. He had entered the room without announcing himself. A six-footer in his boots, bristle-chinned even in the morning, McPhail had been an infantryman in the war and stood like he was still enlisted.
‘Doing the rounds,’ said McPhail quietly. ‘Doing the rounds. Carry on. Don’t stop for me.’
‘Tea, sir?’ said Creamer. ‘Miss Rasper, make the Superintendent a cup of tea.’ The new secretary was another of Creamer’s innovations; a prim-looking woman who smoked Park Drives and who typed at an astonishing speed.
‘I don’t want tea, Inspector Creamer. Ignore me, men. I’m just watching.’
‘Of course. Carry on, Paddy,’ Creamer said. ‘You were saying?’
Breen nodded. ‘Constable Mint and myself will be interviewing the residents this morning. We’ll also be trying to build a list of Miss Bobienski’s clients. If, as we think, it was somebody who knew both Miss Bobienski and the building, it may have been a regular.’
‘Get on to Vice Squad,’ Creamer said. ‘Find out if they know anything.’
‘Paddy’s already asked me to do that,’ volunteered one of the men.
‘And the local beat constables,’ said Creamer, eager to put on a show for the boss. ‘See if the local shift sergeant can help you there.’
Breen had just been doing that, too, ten minutes before; he had the list of names of the beat men. But, out of kindness to Creamer, he said, ‘Right away, sir.’
‘Door to door,’ Creamer went on. ‘Records of any local deviants. That sort of thing.’
Breen picked up his pad and tried to look interested, for Creamer’s sake.
‘Any significant leads?’ asked McPhail quietly.
‘Too early,’ said Creamer.
‘Can we keep this out of the press, sir?’ asked Breen. ‘There’s a small article in today’s Standard, but it doesn’t have a name. If news gets out, it may scare the customers off, sir. If we’re going to find out who her clients were, it’ll help if we can rule out any who turn up…’
‘Good thinking. I’ll square that with Scotland Yard.’ McPhail wasn’t the sort of officer who thought much of the press at the best of times. ‘Anything else?’
Nobody spoke.
‘Keep me informed with this one. I want to know what goes on.’
‘Absolutely,’ said Creamer. ‘I’ll do it personally.’
‘I’m sure you will,’ said McPhail quietly. He turned on the shiny leather of his soles and left.
‘And this,’ said Breen, pulling out the photograph he had taken from Lena Bobienski’s bedside. ‘Her father was a Polish refugee, by the look of it. Joined the RAF. We’ll need to track down the family.’
He was pleased with the way things went. Creamer had barely interfered. The investigation was already taking a shape of a kind. There were clear suspects, even if their identities were not yet known. Unlike some cases, where you found yourself perf
orming the routine tasks of detection with little sense that they would lead anywhere, this felt like it was in motion already. Some cases were simple. The guilty were easy to find. Maybe this would be one of those.
As he walked down the stairs towards the back of the station, he whistled. At the door he realised it was a pop song he had heard Helen playing in her room.
It was a short walk to Harewood Avenue. Breen walked fast, Mint a pace behind him.
‘What was McPhail doing?’ Mint asked.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Sticking his nose in. At the meeting. I’ve never seen him do that before.’
Breen considered. ‘Just checking up, that’s all. Why shouldn’t he? It’s his station.’
But afterwards, as they rounded the corner into the street, he realised it was a perfectly reasonable question. Why had McPhail appeared so interested in this particular case? It was unusual. He wondered if the confidence he’d felt earlier would see the day out.
EIGHT
The forensic crime scene men had worked late into Sunday night. Their Commer van was still outside the house.
‘I wanted to say, Sarge. About the caretaker,’ said Mint.
‘What about him?’
‘Did you notice? He looked suspicious when I asked if he had an alibi for the weekend.’
‘Suspicious?’
‘Sort of… shifty. I’ve been reading up on psychology.’
‘Psychology. Really?’
‘Yes, Sarge. And I’ve just got quite a good knack with people, telling if they’re dissembling. There are signs. They call it “Pinocchio’s nose”. The things people can’t help doing when they lie. They hesitate. Or they keep moving all the time. Or hold their hand in front of their face, like this.’ Mint demonstrated.
‘Is that so?’
‘The caretaker was avoiding our eyes. That’s a classic sign of lying.’
‘Was he really?’ said Breen.
‘Yes. I noticed it. It’s an indication that he’s concealing something.’
They went into the house. The post had arrived. The caretaker had left the letters in a pile on a small table by the door. Breen leafed through them to see if there was anything there for Miss Bobienski, but there wasn’t.
‘Of course,’ said Breen, ‘it could also be a sign that he’s a Jewish refugee who is nervous around policemen, especially when they ask him to prove that he didn’t commit a crime.’
‘Obviously, yes.’ Mint blinked furiously. ‘It could be that, too.’
Instead of going up to Bobienski’s flat, Breen led the way down the stairs. A technician Breen had met on a couple of other jobs was in the basement shining a torch on the lift’s motor.
‘Anything?’ asked Breen.
The man straightened up. He held a small screwdriver in one hand and had a smudge of grease on his cheek. ‘Haven’t taken it apart yet,’ he said. ‘But smell it.’
‘What?’
‘Go on.’
Breen bent down and sniffed. ‘Burning,’ he said.
‘Electric motor. Load of old crap. Could have burned out any time, anyway, I ’spect.’
‘Fluke, you mean? That the lift is stuck where nobody is going to see the dead body. It’s not likely, is it?’
The man shrugged. ‘Can’t see anything, that’s all. And something this old could just break, ask me.’
‘Could someone have jammed it somehow?’
‘Course.’
‘Jammed the lift itself, so the motor burned out?’
‘Not so likely, but I’ll have a look,’ said the man. ‘You never know.’
Aside from Haas the caretaker’s and the dead woman’s, only two of the remaining flats were currently being used. It was a Monday; Breen would have expected the residents to be out at work, but both flats were occupied.
There were students on the first floor; Breen sent Mint up to interview them. He knocked on the door of the ground-floor flat but no one answered. Breen went to knock again, but Haas said, ‘Give him time. He’s old.’
The man who finally opened the door was dressed in greasy trousers and a woollen waistcoat that was unravelling at the hem. He had the urinous smell the old sometimes have.
‘You had better come in,’ the old man said, after Breen had introduced himself. ‘Did I hear anything out of the ordinary? I’m afraid not. Would you like tea?’
‘I don’t really drink it.’
He said his name was Payne. Breen followed him cautiously. Piles of books all but blocked the hallway. They had to walk as close as possible to the opposite side to avoid kicking them over. When Breen entered the living room, an entire wall was filled with bookshelves bending under the weight of what they carried. Wherever there was room at the front of a shelf, more had been piled, obscuring the ones behind. A smaller free-standing bookshelf, equally crammed, jostled for space with a tiny dining table. Even the floor was a maze; there were narrow pathways between the teetering mountains.
‘Something else? I have whisky.’
‘I’m fine,’ said Breen. ‘You knew her, Miss Bobienski?’
The old man reached out a hand into the air and felt for one of the dining chairs. It was only at that moment that Breen realised he could see nothing. Payne was blind. If he had been a suspect before, he was not one now.
‘I didn’t like her much,’ Payne said. ‘She didn’t like me, either. She’s dead now and I’m sorry for that. Sit down, sit down.’
The only seat left that did not have books on it was a dusty old armchair, whose springs sang as Breen lowered himself onto it.
‘Did you ever see any of her clients?’ Breen asked, and regretted the question immediately. ‘Or hear them?’
‘I’d bump into them, sometimes, coming in the front door. But if you’re asking if I have any idea who would have killed her, I have none at all. A hazard of her profession, I suppose.’
Breen noticed a long yellow toenail pointing through a hole in Payne’s left woollen slipper.
‘Did you ever hear any of their names?’
Mr Payne giggled. ‘They were not the kind of men who gave their names.’
‘You said you didn’t like her. Did you know her?’
‘She was perfectly civil. But she didn’t like old people, I could tell. She always tried to avoid me. Old people revolted her. “An aged man is but a paltry thing”.’
‘There was a woman who worked with Miss Bobienski.’
‘The delicious Florence. The procuress. Her,’ he said, ‘I liked. She has always been kind to me. Sometimes the men brought the unfortunate young girl chocolates. She never ate them, of course. I think she was terrified of putting on the slightest bit of weight. Looking like a half-starved adolescent boy, it’s such a popular look with the girls these days, don’t you think? Or so I’m told. I’m more of a Rubens man, myself. Florence would sneak the chocolates down to me. I adore chocolates. I would happily scoff the lot.’
‘Do you know Florence’s last name? Or her address?’
‘I haven’t the faintest idea. I’m sorry. I never asked her. I considered inviting her for dinner, but I’m not much of a cook and what would she be wanting to go out with me for?’
‘Never mind.’
‘She teased me, in a nice way. “Imagine me naked, Mr Payne. I could be right now, for all you know.” I don’t see very well at all, you see. Would you like to see a painting of her? She gave it to me as a joke, I suppose.’
‘A painting of her?’
‘She is an artist’s model. In the evening, she used to help Miss Julie take her clothes off. In the morning she used to remove her own.’ Mr Payne stood and made his way to the bedroom at the back of the flat.
It was a small dark room with a single bed, covered in a worn eiderdown. As with the living room, its floor was piled with books. Payne switched on the light. ‘There,’ he said.
Above the bed hung an oil painting of a fleshy, middle-aged woman lying on a couch draped with a white sheet. One leg was rais
ed slightly, the other dangled off the sofa; she was presenting herself for the world to see. Her pale breasts spilled sideways. Whoever painted it, thought Breen, had captured the woman’s solidity and the strange way in which light falls on bare skin.
‘One of the painters who did her in the buff gave it to her. She didn’t like it much. She thought it was a little too rude for her own collection. So she gave it to me.’
She was round-faced; in a splash of pink, the painter had captured broken veins on her cheek. ‘Is it a good likeness?’
‘Haven’t the foggiest,’ said Payne. ‘I think that’s why she enjoyed giving me it. She knew I wouldn’t be able to see it properly. She found that amusing. So did I. There she is in her altogether and I can’t see it at all. I wish I could. She used to tell people I kept a naked picture of her in my boudoir. I don’t suppose I’ll see her any more.’
‘Did she get along with Miss Bobienski?’
‘The tart? I doubt it. There was something in the girl that was easy to dislike. It was purely a business arrangement between the two of them.’
‘Did they argue or fight?’
The man hesitated. ‘No. No. Not like that. Florence was feisty, but… no, not like that. No.’
‘You don’t sound certain.’
‘Of course I’m certain.’
‘She has not been seen since Friday.’
The man’s hands were trembling gently as he stood by the door of his bedroom. ‘I don’t suppose there is any particular need for her to be here now, is there?’ he said and looked away, unseeing.
‘I have to speak to her. Do you remember which art schools she modelled for?’
The man shook his head. ‘I don’t think it can have been far away,’ he said, switching the bedroom light off again.
Breen went up two flights of stairs and pushed open Bobienski’s door. ‘Hello?’
‘In here.’
Two men were working in the pink bathroom.
‘Anything?’
‘Nothing. Doesn’t even look like a crime scene, being honest. That or someone cleaned the place up.’
Breen sat on the side of the bath and watched them. One of them opened the bathroom cabinet and started going through the pots of cream and bottles of pills.
