Dead of Winter

by Rennie Airth

  Sinclair frowned. He was still not satisfied.

  ‘I’d be happier if we had something more solid to go on. A link of some sort. Evidence to show there’s a connection between these two crimes.’

  ‘Well, I can’t give you that, sir.’ Billy shrugged. There’s no obvious link between them. But there is a common factor.’

  ‘Is there?’ Sinclair’s tone was deceptively mild. ‘I seem to have missed it.’

  ‘It’s something Dr Ransom put his finger on. The way these two girls were topped. Cold-blooded doesn’t begin to describe it. They were disposed of, simple as that. The evidence points to a certain kind of killer being responsible, and the question then is could there be two of them? We don’t think so, Lofty and I. We reckon it’s the same man.’

  Billy sat back. He’d made his case. It was up to the chief inspector now, and as yet he had given no hint as to how he wanted the investigation to proceed. Nor could any clue be deduced from his manner. Sealed by the blackout blinds fixed in the window, his office had taken on the aspect of a cave and the single lamp set low on his desk that of a fire over which he bent like some tribal shaman, his face unreadable in the shadows. After a minute he stirred and looked up.

  ‘Very well. I’ll go along with your judgement. From now on we’ll treat these two cases as one.’

  Billy breathed a sigh of relief.

  ‘But there’ll have to be some changes. This will become a Yard inquiry. Cook can stay on the case, but you’ll be in charge. Will that be a problem?’

  ‘Not for us, sir.’ Billy smiled. ‘We’re old pals.’

  ‘Is there anyone else you want?’

  ‘Joe Grace, if he can be spared.’

  The chief inspector signalled his assent with a nod.

  ‘Now, you’re to keep me informed,’ he continued. ‘Every day, if you can. That means all developments, no matter how minor. Speaking of which, just where do you propose to start? It seems to me you’ve precious little to go on.’

  ‘With this fellow who was asking about Florrie a few days ago.’ Billy had his answer ready. He felt more relaxed now that the decision had been made. ‘At least, we think it was her he was after. He’s got to be tracked down.’

  Sinclair nodded.

  ‘And there’s another line of enquiry we want to follow up. Rosa’s murder didn’t give us any leads, but it’s different this time. Whoever killed Florrie jimmied two locks, and according to Myers it was expert work. It’s likely this bloke is a villain, a professional. We’re going to have to go through the records in detail.’

  ‘And what will that involve?’

  ‘It’s hard to say, sir.’ Billy grimaced. ‘Up to now we’ve been concentrating on men with a history of violence towards women. But that could be a mistake. These crimes aren’t sexual. But whoever this bloke is he’s likely got a record. If we look carefully enough we may find him.’

  ‘And equally you might not. The image of a needle in a haystack springs to mind.’ Sinclair scowled. And there’s another problem. From what the Desmoulins woman said it seems this man’s fluent in French, which suggests he may well have been active abroad, which in turn might explain why we’ve no record of him here. If that’s the case we’re not likely to find out any more about him till the war ends.’

  He sat brooding.

  ‘You realize what you’re asking for? It could prove a huge waste of time. I don’t want either you or the Bow Street CID tied up doing this, and I can’t spare another detective. But if the job’s going to be done properly it’ll require someone who’s familiar with both cases. Someone with a sharp eye, what’s more.’

  Billy nodded sagely. ‘I was thinking the same thing, sir.’

  ‘Oh, you were, were you?’ Sinclair eyed him with suspicion. ‘You’ll be telling me next you’ve got someone in mind.’

  ‘Well, yes, sir – as a matter of fact I have.’

  Billy grinned. He didn’t know if he could get away with this, but he was going to try.

  ‘It’s a uniformed officer stationed at Bow Street. Could be just the person we need.’

  9

  ‘WE KNOW HIS NAME now, sir. It’s Alfie Meeks. But so far we haven’t been able to lay hands on him.’

  ‘And why is that?’ Bennett snapped. He was in a testy mood.

  ‘Because we don’t know where he’s living. Not at this moment. He’s been moving about in the past couple of months. Renting rooms here and there for a week or two.’

  The assistant commissioner had been away – off sick with a dose of flu – and Sinclair was devoting a good part of their initial meeting to bringing his superior up to date on the inquiry into the murder of Florrie Desmoulins.

  ‘But for some days now he hasn’t been seen in his usual haunts.’

  ‘Which are?’

  ‘An open-air market in Southwark, for one. He’s got a stall there, but hasn’t appeared lately. The same applies to the café where he usually eats.’

  ‘Are we sure he’s still in London?’ The assistant commissioner looked sour. ‘Come to that, do we know he isn’t dead?’

  ‘Yes to both questions, sir. He’s been spotted, glimpsed, I should say, but not by a copper, as yet. One of our snouts saw him coming out of the tube station at Chancery Lane yesterday, but by the time Bow Street was alerted Meeks had disappeared. The snout said he seemed to be on his way somewhere; he was in a hurry. By the look of it he’s up to something and as soon as we get hold of him we’ll find out what it is. And who he’s working for.’

  ‘Ah—?’ Bennett showed a flicker of interest at last.

  ‘That’s only an assumption, but a reasonable one. It’s just not conceivable that a character like Meeks could be behaving this way on his own account.’

  The chief inspector was giving voice to a judgement made by Billy Styles and Cook after they had learned the identity of the man who, it was clear from the enquiries Bow Street had pressed, had been looking for Florrie Desmoulins and no other.

  ‘He talked to several girls in Soho and described Florrie to them,’ Billy had reported. ‘He asked first for her address. They wouldn’t give it – they never do, to a stranger – but they told him where her pitch was, in Soho Square. That would have been enough. Whoever killed her could have followed her home. It wasn’t far, just a short walk down Dean Street.’

  Meeks’s name had come from another source.

  ‘He was spotted talking to one of the girls by a character called Clive, who has a business supplying them with cosmetics. He’s been in trouble with us in the past for black-market dealing and so has Alfie Meeks, and Clive thought he was trying to move in on the trade. Told him to shove off, apparently. Anyway, that’s how we got his name.’

  Sinclair had already passed on this information to the assistant commissioner, together with a photograph retrieved from police records. It showed a thin, lined face with narrow eyes topped by a receding hairline. According to the details on his arrest form, Meeks was in his mid-forties.

  ‘He’s an habitual criminal with a record as long as your arm. But it’s all small stuff, petty thieving. He was sent to a borstal for breaking and entering when he was a boy and has been inside four times since then. Twice for receiving stolen goods, once for fraud and once for forging petrol coupons. That was his last stretch: he did two years in the Scrubs and only came out three months ago. What’s interesting from our point of view is that he’s never engaged in violence. Though that’s odd.’

  ‘Why odd?’ Bennett’s tone remained terse.

  ‘I was thinking of his family background,’ Sinclair had replied, pretending not to notice his superior’s grumpy mood, whose cause he’d already guessed. ‘His father was Jonah Meeks. Deceased, I’m happy to say. There’s no reason you should remember him – it’s all of thirty years ago now – but he was one of the worst we had to deal with then. A thug with a taste for violence that scared even his own kind: the terror of Bethnal Green in his day. We put him inside twice for assault with intent to do
grievous bodily harm, and it was only by the grace of God they weren’t murder charges. Alfie’s the fruit of his loins, but hardly his father’s son – not in that respect at any rate. To judge by his record he hasn’t the nerve, which makes his present behaviour all the more peculiar.’

  ‘So you think he’s acting for someone else?’ Bennett asked now.

  ‘That’s what it looks like.’

  ‘Someone who wanted to know the whereabouts of this French girl?’

  ‘And who wasn’t prepared to go wandering about Soho inspecting tarts till he found her. A man who apparently doesn’t want his face seen and remembered. The same might explain whatever it is Meeks is up to now. He could be running other errands for him. Chancery Lane’s a long way from his usual stamping ground. He’s an East Ender.’

  Bennett remained silent. He’d been sitting half-turned in his chair, staring out of the window at the sky, which that morning was unseasonably blue.

  ‘Well, this is interesting as far as it goes, I suppose,’ he said, after a few moments. ‘But what’s it got to do with the other girl who was killed? Rosa Nowak? What’s your justification for linking these two cases?’

  The question was a delicate one and the chief inspector paused to consider his reply.

  ‘I wish I had a better answer, sir. But all I can tell you is I thought long and hard before deciding. It’s virtually certain that the man who killed Rosa is the same one Florrie Desmoulins had words with. Now she’s dead, and we don’t know why: unless we assume that their encounter had something to do with it. We can’t prove there’s a connection between the two crimes. But the possibility’s too strong to be ignored.’

  ‘All right. I’ll accept that for now.’

  Sinclair barely had time to get over his surprise at the mildness of his superior’s response before Bennett had swung round in his chair to face him.

  ‘But I can’t say the same for this other step you’ve taken – and without consulting me, either.’

  ‘I’m not sure I follow you, sir …’

  ‘Did it have to be a woman?’ Bennett glared at him. ‘Were you being deliberately provocative?’

  ‘Good lord, no.’ The chief inspector contrived to look shocked.

  ‘I ask, because there are a good many people in this building who won’t see it that way.’ The assistant commissioner shook a warning finger. ‘Why on earth is a WPC being dragged into this? That’s what they’ll say. And they’ll have a point.’ He shook his head. ‘I’m aware of your feelings about women in the force, Angus. As a matter of fact, I share them. But this is a question that won’t be tackled properly until the war is over, if then. For the present it’s understood that their role is to handle domestic disputes in the main and to deal with prostitutes. Apart from traffic duties, that is. I hate to say it, but they’ve no place in an investigation of this kind.’

  ‘I’m aware of that, sir. But it’s a special case.’

  ‘Is it?’ Bennett’s tone was disbelieving. ‘You say you need this young woman to go through the records. Is that really so important? So urgent?’

  ‘I believe it is.’ Sinclair spoke firmly. He was not surprised to find his decision challenged and had come prepared to defend it. Even though we think this man we’re seeking is implicated in both murders, we’ve absolutely no idea who he is, or even what kind of a criminal he might be. Neither of these assaults was sexual in nature. So what was his motive? This applies particularly to Rosa Nowak’s killing. One place we can look for an answer is the records. But it won’t be obvious, otherwise we’d be aware of it already. It’ll take fine combing, and that means giving someone the sole job of going through files, possibly stretching back years.’

  Bennett frowned. All right, let’s say I accept that for now. But even taking it for granted, isn’t this a job for the CID? For a detective?’

  ‘In normal times, yes. But we simply haven’t the manpower any longer. I’ve already assigned three detectives to the case and I’m reluctant to add another, particularly one who’ll be trapped in what’s essentially a clerk’s job. A clerk with a very sharp eye, mind you.’

  ‘But why a WPC?’ Bennett remained unconvinced. ‘And why from Bow Street? This is a question that’s bound to be asked, Angus. Why not someone from the Yard? We’ve more than enough uniformed officers of our own, if that’s what you were looking for.’

  ‘Ah, well, that’s the crux of it, sir.’ Sinclair nodded wisely. ‘I wanted someone who was familiar with the case, and as it happens Poole was the first officer at the scene in Bloombury when Miss Nowak’s body was discovered. She was also instrumental in identifying Meeks. Cook recommended her to Styles, who’s been equally impressed by her. They say she’s alert, intelligent and persevering. All qualities I associate with good police work. And she’ll know what we’re looking for – that’s the key point. I felt she was the obvious choice.’

  ‘Well, if you insist …’ Weary of the argument, Bennett yielded finally. ‘But don’t imagine you’ve heard the last of it. The commissioner will require an explanation. Can I at least assure him this is not some attempt on your part to put one over on him?’

  ‘Perish the thought, sir.’ The chief inspector chuckled. ‘You can tell him that in all honesty the sex of the officer in question had no bearing on my judgement. I have only one standard in these situations.’

  ‘And what, pray, is that?’

  ‘Why, to pick the best man for the job.’

  ‘Very droll. I only hope the commissioner shares your sense of humour.’

  Bennett sat back in his chair and watched as Sinclair gathered his papers into a folder, preparing to leave. He studied his colleague’s face.

  ‘This case bothers you, doesn’t it?’ he said.

  The chief inspector glanced up, surprised. Yes, it does,’ he replied after a moment.

  ‘Why?’

  Sinclair gave some thought to his answer.

  ‘Well, mainly because we’re in the dark, I suppose, and that’s rare,’ he replied, finally. ‘Crime and mystery don’t go together nearly as often as authors would have us believe. Usually we’ve got a good idea of the whys and wherefores of a murder and can even make an educated guess as to the likely perpetrator. But that doesn’t apply here at all, and it’s disturbing. Something else, too …’ His brow darkened.

  ‘Yes … ?’

  ‘You’d think two murders were enough, but I’ve a nasty suspicion we’ve only scratched the surface so far. That there’s more to come. I feel like the skipper of the Titanic: I can see the tip of the iceberg all right. But it’s what’s hidden underneath the water that worries me.’

  Bennett grunted. He didn’t see it, actually. As I recall, he was asleep.’

  ‘Well, there you are.’ Chuckling, the chief inspector picked up his file. ‘Still, I don’t want to sound too pessimistic.’ He paused at the door. ‘We may well be able to clear this up quicker than I thought. It all depends on what Alfie Meeks has to tell us, and it won’t take long to find him. A matter of hours, I would guess.’

  His words proved to be prophetic. Returning to his own office, he found Billy Styles waiting for him with fresh news.

  ‘We’re on to him, sir. Meeks. Cook’s just had a call from Wapping police station. He was spotted in a pub on the river called the White Boar last night.’

  ‘Last night?’ Sinclair fumed. ‘That’s no good to us. Where’s he now? That’s what we want to know.’

  ‘I couldn’t say for sure, sir.’ Billy grinned. But I can tell you where he’ll be this evening. He’s reserved a room at the back of the pub for a private party.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘A meet of some kind. Must be. That’s what the landlord keeps it for. He’s an old lag called Jewell. We put him away twice for burglary before he went straight. If he ever did. The pub’s well known to the Wapping police. They keep an eye on it through a cellar-man Jewell employs. Another ex-convict called Barrow. He’s one of their snouts. Knows Meeks by sight. He said
Alfie fixed to rent the room and paid Jewell a tenner in advance.’

  ‘A tenner, you say? I wonder where that came from.’ Sinclair sat down at his desk.

  ‘Not out of Alfie Meeks’s pocket, that’s for certain. We may have struck lucky, sir. Our bloke could be there this evening.’

  ‘And who else besides, I wonder.’ Sinclair fingered an earlobe. ‘This is a strange business, and it doesn’t seem to be getting any clearer.’

  He was distracted by a faint creak that came from a small room adjoining his. Little more than a cubbyhole, it was separated from his office by a glassed partition.

  ‘What is it, Constable?’ he barked.

  In response, the door opened and Lily Poole appeared, blushing.

  ‘You weren’t eavesdropping, I hope.’

  ‘Sir—?’ Her cheeks turned a brighter shade of red.

  Sinclair regarded her with a flinty expression. Billy watched. He’d warned the young policewoman not to take any liberties in her new assignment.

  ‘This is a feather in your cap,’ he’d told her when she’d reported to him the day before, ready to be introduced to the chief inspector. ‘But don’t let it go to your head. Mr Sinclair will oversee your work, and I’m warning you now he’s a hard man to please. Old school, too. Know what that means?’ Poole had shaken her head. ‘It means you speak when you’re spoken to, not before. And whatever you do, don’t go calling him “guv”.’ Billy thought he’d better set her straight on that point. ‘He’s “sir” to you, and don’t you forget it.’

  ‘Well, what is it, Constable?’

  Sinclair’s tone was sharp and Billy remembered from his own experience – from the time he had worked with Madden – how disconcerting he had found it. Many months had passed before he had realized, in retrospect, that the chief inspector had been testing him. Seeing whether he could take criticism and harsh treatment and still function. Not buckle under pressure.