Detective Hayward arrived at seven thirty in the morning with a couple of policemen who boarded up the broken window. He was rather feminine looking for a detective, Jean thought, but she liked his polite manner and his genuine concern over the mess in the living room. After recounting the basic details of how Harry and Phyllis had met, Harry went on to discuss the events of the previous night. He told them about his visit to The Ten Bells and mentioned the first names of the men. When he described the man with white hair, Hayward stopped for a moment and asked for further clarification on the description before writing something in his notebook.
‘Your wife is three months pregnant?’ Hayward asked Harry.
‘Yes,’ Harry said.
‘And all was well with the marriage?’
‘Relatively speaking,’ Harry said. ‘Nothing is ever perfect, is it?’ he said, unconvincingly.
Hayward looked at him for a moment, measuring up the meaning of what Harry had just said.
‘It is important we find your wife quickly. The man you describe fits the description of someone who is known to us, and they are not a light touch. He has worked for some very brutal characters, but I find it difficult to understand why your wife came into contact with him. Do you or your wife have financial troubles or anything that might lead her to ask for help from someone?’
‘No. We’re not millionaires as you can see, but we are comfortably off.’
‘What about the possibility of an affair?’
Harry paused.
‘I don’t believe so.’
Hayward turned to Jean and Jean gave Harry a look before turning back to the Detective.
‘Phyllis isn’t always here. My brother finds this difficult but I believe that she may well be having an affair. She often spends nights away from home.’
Detective Hayward gave Harry an understanding look, which made Harry feel very uncomfortable.
‘I know it’s not an easy thing for a man to admit but it isn’t unknown for wives to lapse in their marital obligations,’ Hayward said.
‘Obligations?’ Jean snorted.
Hayward frowned at her, perplexed by her outburst.
‘Yes, well, whatever you want to call it. Do you have any thoughts on who this fellow might be?’
‘No. I don’t have any idea what she does most of the time. I just want you to find her,’ Harry said, lighting a cigarette because he felt his nerves stretching to breaking point.
‘What about the Italian thing?’ Jean said.
‘Italian thing?’ Hayward said, shaking his head.
‘I went to check a café where Phyllis apparently worked, but the woman working there said she’d never heard of her. I thought she sounded like an Italian but it turns out she was from Malta.’
‘Malta?’ Hayward jumped in.
‘Yes, and then at the theatre this fellow came up to Harry and Phyllis and, from what Harry tells me, he sounded like he might also be Maltese. Harry’s wallet was taken, you see. It sounds like too much of a coincidence to me.’
Hayward nodded.
‘Yes. It does rather. But that troubles me. As I say, the man with white hair is known to us but they are not known for mixing with the foreign criminals.’
‘So they are not connected?’ Jean asked.
‘You better give us the name of the café and descriptions of these two people.’
Jean and Harry did so. She wondered whether to mention Charlie but decided against it.
‘Does Phyllis have any surviving parents?’ Hayward asked. ‘Anyone she might run to in a time of need?’
‘No family as far as I know. She was an orphan you see.’
Hayward stopped.
‘Where did she grow up Mr Clarke?’
‘Somewhere in Stepney I believe.’
Hayward glanced at the police officer and then wrote something down in his book.
‘Hang on a moment. It’s nothing to do with those dead girls, is it?’ Harry said.
Hayward looked pensive.
‘Phyllis is twenty-two, is that correct?’
‘Yes,’ Harry answered, feeling sweat creeping up the back of his neck. ‘It’s those girls isn’t it? They were found naked and…well left like bits of meat, weren’t they?’
‘So your wife was at the Stepney orphanage?’
‘Yes, she was.’
The detective looked a little uncomfortable.
‘What did she do before you met her?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean where did she work apart from this cafe?’
‘A few pubs. I don’t know much more than that.’
‘It’s just the murdered women were known…’
‘For soliciting. Yes, I am aware of that. But I will not conceive that Phyllis was ever involved in that trade. She worked cafes and bars.’
‘But if you can’t account for her whereabouts all the time…’
‘Listen here. Why don’t you just get on with your job and find her?’
Harry’s tone had more bile in it than he intended.
‘That is exactly what I am trying to do Mr Clarke,’ Hayward said, getting to his feet. ‘I suggest that you and your sister leave the premises and find somewhere else to stay, a hotel perhaps. You can phone me on this number and let me know where you’re staying,’ Hayward said, handing them a card. ‘We’ll post a policeman here as soon as we can.’
‘Thank you,’ Jean answered, taking the card.
‘I don’t want to take any chances with your safety. Mr Clarke, you should have a good long think about anything you know about your wife’s contacts. Anyway, we’ll leave you to it. I’m only sorry this weather is so damned awful. We’re working to the bone at the moment just to keep the city moving. Still, the weather always shifts and we’ll find her soon, I’m sure.’
Hayward departed with almost a spring in his step. Jean supposed that he was the kind of man who lived for his work and enjoyed nothing more than a good problem to solve. The experience had traumatised Harry and he wanted nothing more than to curl up under the sheets but Jean set about packing some of his clothes and fetching her own bags.
‘Perhaps she doesn’t want to be found,’ Harry mumbled.
Jean stopped for a moment and considered her brother’s words. She thought about Frank and how she walked out on him. She recalled the note she left.
I don’t feel there is anything else to say to each other right now. I want to be left alone. If you need some supper, the bread is on the second shelf of the pantry and the butter is on the counter.
Jean
The thought hurt Jean because she felt so calm writing it. She did not want to see Frank now, but still she felt he could have at least phoned her brother to check whether she was there or not.
‘Thing is, if we don’t find her, someone else might. Did she ever talk about her time at the orphanage? Perhaps we should go there.’
‘It isn’t there anymore. It was pulled down three or four years ago.’
‘What about those other girls?’
‘What about them?’
‘They were at the same orphanage? Perhaps Phyllis knew them.’
‘Perhaps. But Phyllis was not that kind of woman.’
‘How do you know what kind of woman she was?’
‘I won’t believe it.’
‘Well we need to find her.’
‘Do we?’ he said, flatly.
‘What is wrong with you? You were all fired up a minute ago.’ Jean could feel her voice losing control.
‘I just realized how little I know my wife.’
‘Well there’s no good in thinking like that now,’ Jean said.
‘Perhaps some things are better left undiscovered.’
‘Things? Harry, we are talking about your wife.’
‘Yes, my wife. The great mystery that is Mrs Phyllis Clarke.’
‘What has gotten into you?’
‘Ask me a question and I w
ill answer it.’
‘What?’ Jean said.
‘If you want to know anything, then all you have to do is ask me. I will answer you honestly.’
‘About what?’
‘About me, about Phyllis. Even about you.’
Jean stared at her brother.
‘Did you have an affair?’
‘No.’
‘But she was angry with you?’ Jean persisted.
‘She was always angry with me. Angry or disappointed. She was just like father in that respect. She believes I’m a weak husband. But it’s her. I said I was happy being whatever I wanted to be. But people don’t like hearing that. They use things against you. I think you’re weak too.’
‘Am I?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well then.’
Harry seemed about to burst, but then Jean saw the energy go out of him. He wasn’t ready for a fight and she was thankful because neither was she. The silence to which they were so accustomed fell upon them both. As far as Jean was concerned some people were worth looking for, even if it did mean opening up a whole world of trouble.
SEVEN
They went to a drab but affordable hotel in Bloomsbury. Harry thought of the place because he walked passed it every day on his visits to Michael’s apartment, which was located a few streets away. When Jean and Harry arrived, the concierge was in the process of dressing a squat and rather decrepit Christmas tree with tatty wooden decorations. He seemed almost affronted by the fact that people had walked in off the street to book rooms and in mild confusion he started explaining how the tree was shorter than what they usually had and how the man who sold it to him had conned him because he said it was five feet tall when in actual fact (and, yes, the concierge had found a tape measure to set his mind at rest) it was only four feet nine inches. Still, he reasoned he should put it up because Christmas was coming and the guests liked to have a little festive feeling when they came back from a busy day of shopping. However, Jean thought that this particular runt of a spruce was unlikely to induce any kind of Noel tide gaiety and was far more likely to persuade the patrons of the hotel to drink themselves to death.
‘Yes, well I am sure it will do just fine,’ Jean said, not wanting to be reminded that Christmas was only three weeks away. ‘Do you mind if we book a room?’
‘For tonight?’ the concierge asked.
‘Well, of course,’ she said, feeling that she might easily lose her temper. ‘We’d like to get into the room now if at all possible,’ she continued, wondering if this was really the best hotel her brother could think of when she knew full well the Savoy was within a mile’s walk.
‘Yes, what is the name please?’
‘Mr and Mrs Clarke,’ Jean said.
‘You’re married?’ the concierge asked.
‘No, we’re brother and sister,’ Harry said, as though it were plain enough to see.
‘I was going to say because I didn’t see a ring. You want single rooms or a twin?’
‘A twin will do fine,’ Jean said.
A scrappy young man showed them to their rooms and Harry palmed him a few coins with a smile and a hand on the shoulder, which surprised Jean because the boy had carried their belongings with such a sulky air that she thought he deserved no tip at all. Still, he brightened up soon enough after her brother handed him the money. She checked the room over and went to the window and pulled back a set of heavy green curtains to reveal what was supposed to be an unrivalled view of the British Museum, but the weather was no better and what little light made it through only yellowed the fog so that the air was freighted with a fecund, almost silky gloom. She washed at the sink while Harry kicked off his shoes and collapsed on the bed, the hangover from his scotch-drinking binge still smarting him.
‘You’re not going to sleep I hope,’ she said, looking at his prostrate body through the mirror. ‘I didn’t realize you were a secret drinker.’
‘I’m not. I happened to drink a lot last night and most people would forgive me the excess considering.’
‘You’ve another full bottle ready and waiting when you’ve finished the one you’re on. I looked in your cabinet.’
‘What were you doing going through my cabinet?’
‘I wanted a little glass myself before bed.’
‘Well then. Drinking clearly runs in the family. Father used to knock his fair share back. I don’t know why you want to single me out.’
Jean daubed her face with cold water and a little soap and then scrubbed away at her skin with a rough flannel. She remained silent, feeling that both she and her brother were spoiling for a fight. For a few minutes she worked the grit out of her face and when she was finished she was horrified to see the sink water turned to the colour of ash with all the dirt.
‘I’m sorry about Frank,’ her brother said.
Jean reached for her make-up.
‘You have no idea how grumpy he can be. He can be rotten sometimes, absolutely rotten. Sometimes he ignores me and other times he’s all over me.’
Harry opened his eyes. He looked as though he was thinking hard. ‘Why are you using your maiden name?’
‘Pardon?’
‘You said we were Mr and Mrs Clarke.’
Jean shrugged.
‘I don’t want to use Frank’s name anymore.’ She faltered, watching for Harry for a reaction but he remained still on the bed. ‘I’ve left him.’
‘What?’
‘I want a divorce.’
‘Right,’ Harry said, fumbling for something useful to say. ‘You’re sure about that? Perhaps it’s just the stress of everything in the last few weeks.’
‘No. I don’t think so. I think that has simply confirmed how I feel. Why are you so worried? You don’t think much of him,’ she said, coming away from the mirror and looking down at her brother.
‘I never thought much of any of father’s friends.’
‘Yes, well it was easier for you. The war gave you a good reason to get away. And, if you remember, it was you who told me to leave home.’
‘Yes, but I never thought you should do it by marrying one of father’s friends.’
‘At the time it felt like the only thing I could do. I wish you had stayed.’
‘Well, I’m sorry if you feel it was my fault.’
‘You upset mother and that made it impossibly hard for me. I could deal with father being angry at you, but I couldn’t cope with her crying all the time. She was so happy when Frank came along. The two of us became a sort of project for her. And when the war was done, she became obsessed with wedding arrangements. There were evenings when I’d find myself sitting alone and thinking that it was foolish to marry him because I found him a bore and he was never particularly attractive, but mother could tell I was wavering and she sat me down and explained that passion and looks were not reliable feelings on which to judge a suitable match because they were so short-lived. She even said to me that he was probably the best I could manage and that he had a good deal of money and that there was a lot to be said for companionship. I’ve learned to hate that word. Frank’s companionship has made me feel more alone than ever. If only you had been home more of the time, perhaps I would have found the strength to fight it.’
‘I couldn’t come back home, Jean. Not after the war. I would have gone mad.’
Harry lay very still on his bed.
‘I don’t understand what happened to you,’ she said. ‘You’ve become almost a mute. Even before the war you started treating us all differently. I suppose you thought I was simple minded and not worth bothering with.’
‘It wasn’t that.’
‘But I could tell you thought I was an idiot for marrying Frank.’
‘Quite honestly, I don’t really know the fellow. I just assumed he was a bad sort because of father. It sounds as though he hasn’t treated you very well. You are here after all.’
‘No.’ She paused and realized that her brother was the firs
t person to articulate his impression of Frank. ‘No, he hasn’t treated me well. Or rather he doesn’t know how I want to be treated. And what about Phyllis?’
‘What do you mean, what about Phyllis?’
‘Is she what you expected? Has she treated you well?’
‘I think it’s her who feels cheated.’
‘But she’s been gallivanting around with God knows who.’
Harry was quiet for a moment.
‘Jean, would you say I am a flippant sort of fellow?’
‘Is that what Phyllis thinks of you?’
‘I think she doubts how I feel about her.’
‘And why is that?’
Harry paused.
‘There have been other people in the past. Before we were married. I think she would like to believe that she was the only person I’ve ever been intimate with.’
‘And have you done anything to make her feel distrustful?’
‘I feel like I’ve been branded as a suspect without any real cause. And the trouble is the more she distrusts me, the more I feel ready to live up to it. I have a stubborn streak.’
‘It’s your responsibility to explain your feelings to her. I find most problems arise when people don’t say what they mean. I’m as guilty as anyone of that.’
Harry sat up in bed and stared with dismay at the worn features of the hotel room.
‘There are days when I wish the war was still on, you know? Certain things felt far more straightforward. I just can’t help feeling that we are in more of a mess now,’ Harry said, his finger tracing the shape of the lampshade of his bedside light.
‘We won’t get anything solved by sitting here. Let’s go and see your friends Michael and Joe.’
‘Look, Jean. Why don’t you let me go and speak to them?’
‘I’m coming too.’
‘I think you should let me handle it.’
‘What do you expect me to do Harry? I am sick of waiting around. If I don’t keep moving I swear I will go mad. Now I really must insist you take me along with you or I’ll have to make a fool of myself and follow you.’
The Smog (A Jean Clarke Mystery Book 1) Page 11
