Malice in London

by Graham Thomas

  Powell looked at the young man with a curious expression on his face. “Didn’t she tell you about what happened to her Saturday night?”

  Potter looked puzzled. “She didn’t mention anything. What do you mean?”

  “She had a rather harrowing experience, I’m afraid.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Powell described Jill’s encounter with the stalker on the way home from work.

  Potter held his head in his hands. “I had no idea. I’ve been a bloody fool. I can see that now.”

  Powell wasn’t sure he believed him.

  Later, as he crossed the Tottenham Court Road, he couldn’t help wondering if things might have turned out differently had he taken Jill’s call Monday morning.

  It was early yet, and there were only a few other customers in the Fitzrovia. He was greeted by Celia Cross.

  She smiled. “Afternoon, Mr. Powell.” Then her expression turned serious. “Any word about Jill?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  She shook her head as she filled his glass. “This is so unlike ’er.” She looked at Powell with watery eyes. “I just know something ’as ’appened.”

  Powell told the publican about Jill’s fight with her boyfriend.

  Celia rolled her eyes. “That snob! Swans about like Lord Muck. I can’t imagine what the girl sees in ’im.”

  “That was my initial reaction as well, but I think he’s genuinely worried about her. The point is she may have gone off for a few days to sort things out. These things happen.”

  Celia looked doubtful. “I dunno, I just—” Her eyes suddenly widened as if she’d seen a ghost. She grabbed Powell’s sleeve. “It’s ’im,” she whispered, “the writer!”

  Powell turned and saw a scraggly looking youth standing in the doorway. Their eyes met for an instant, then the man dropped the package he was carrying and attempted to run out the door. Unfortunately for him, a man weighing about eighteen stone was just coming in. It was a collision of notable effect. The young man bounced back and crashed sprawling into a table and chairs. Powell rushed over, grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and hauled him, struggling weakly, to his feet. His bloodshot eyes stared wildly in his pasty face and he reeked of cannabis. Powell couldn’t resist. “Hello, hello, what’s all this then? I’m Chief Superintendent Powell. Who are you?”

  “Get you h-hands off me, you f-facist pig!” the young man protested.

  “An angry young man, by the sound of it, Ms. Cross. Would you mind if I took him down to the Writer’s Bar for a little chat?”

  Celia Cross smiled carnivorously. “Be my guest, Mr. Powell. You can’t ’ear a thing up ’ere.”

  Powell released his charge. “Pick up your package,” he ordered.

  “Sod off!”

  Powell moved in front of the door and slid it over with his foot. “Pick it up, my lad, or I’ll shove it up your bloody arse.”

  This seemed to catch the young man’s attention, and he did what he was told. The package looked to be about nine by twelve by two inches thick, wrapped in grease-stained brown paper and tied with string.

  Powell smiled. “That’s better. After you.” He gestured toward the rear of the pub. “Down the stairs, first door on your left; I’m sure you know the way.”

  Muttering to himself, the young man shuffled off with Powell following close behind.

  CHAPTER 8

  The Writer’s Bar was a shabby room in the basement of the pub where Dylan Thomas, George Orwell, Ezra Pound, and T. S. Eliot used to come to get plastered. The dark-paneled walls were hung with framed photographs commemorating the bar’s former habitués.

  Powell turned his attention to the young man’s driving license. “Now then, Mr., er, Snavely—or would you prefer I called you Simon?”

  There was a sullen silence.

  Powell sighed. “All right, Simon. Why don’t you tell me about yourself?”

  He eyed Powell suspiciously. “Wh-what do you m-mean?”

  “You can start by telling me what you do for a living.”

  “I’m a p-p-poet,” he stammered.

  Powell raised an eyebrow. “A poet, are you? I enjoy a bit of poetry now and again. What have you written?”

  “I haven’t actually had anything p-published, but what I d-do is quite experimental.” He was sulking now.

  And no doubt unreadable as well, Powell thought. “I’m interested in how you keep body and soul together—you know, pay the rent and buy your groceries.”

  “It’s n-none of your f-f-frigging business.”

  Powell sighed heavily. “I’ve got all day, Simon.” He waited patiently.

  Snavely began to fidget in his seat. His hand trembled. “Look,” he said, “I need to g-get out of here. Wh-what’s this all about anyway?”

  Powell considered his disheveled, malodorous charge as if he were something crawling inside a jar—a young man, he surmised, badly in need of a little something to soothe his troubled mind. Powell took out his cigarettes, drew one from the package and lit it with exaggerated precision. He returned the package to his jacket pocket, exhaling slowly. “You haven’t answered my question, Simon.”

  Snavely looked wistfully at the cigarette. “I recite poems on the street c-corner and p-p-pass the hat around, if you m-must know.”

  “Where are your parents?”

  “Birmingham,” he mumbled.

  “What are you doing in London?”

  “I was a s-student at London University for a while. I—I wasn’t learning a f-frigging thing, so I …” He seemed to lose his concentration.

  “So you dropped out to write poetry.”

  “Yeah, something like that.”

  Time to change tacks. “I understand you know Jill Burroughs, the barmaid here.”

  He averted his eyes. “I d-don’t actually know her—”

  “Oh, I think you do, Simon. I understand that you were here at the pub on Saturday night. Is that right?”

  “I m-may have been.” His voice was tight, edgy.

  “Jill was working that night, wasn’t she?”

  “W-what of it?” He swallowed hard.

  “What time did you leave?”

  “Can’t remember.”

  “Do you remember what time you got home?”

  He tried to smile. “Sorry. I f-forget things sometimes.”

  “I’ll get straight to the point, Simon. Jill Burroughs hasn’t been seen since Monday, and we’re starting to get worried about her.”

  “W-what’s it got to do with m-me?”

  “That depends, doesn’t it, Simon?”

  “I don’t know what you’re t-talking about.” There was a look of alarm in his eyes.

  “Oh, I think you do, Simon.” With a sudden violent motion, Powell slammed his fist down on the table.

  Snavely started with a yelp and nearly fell off his chair. “What did y-you do that f-f-for?” he asked indignantly.

  “I don’t like being messed about,” Powell snapped. “Jill told her employer, Ms. Cross, that you tried to follow her home Saturday night. She said you scared the hell out of her.”

  Snavely’s mouth opened and closed soundlessly.

  “Fancy yourself a stalker, do you, Simon?”

  “You—you d-don’t understand!” he managed to blurt out.

  “I think it might be best if we searched your flat.”

  The young man’s face grew even paler.

  Powell smiled without humor. “You should lay off the ganja, Simon. It’ll fry your brain.”

  Snavely shook his head. “You’re wrong—about Jill, I mean. I’d n-never hurt her. I’m in l-love with her.”

  “What?”

  “I followed her because I wanted to g-give her this.” He picked up the brown-paper package.

  “What’s that then?”

  “Poems. For her. I’ve been working on them f-for months.”

  “Open it.”

  Snavely laboriously untied the string, then carefully unfolded the
wrapping paper, revealing a cardboard box of the type in which writing paper is sold. He removed the lid, withdrew a thick sheaf of paper, and pushed it over.

  Powell flipped through the sheets in amazement. There must have been fifty pages, handwritten on both sides. The untidy scrawl was barely legible, but from what he could make out it was a collection of sonnets dedicated to Snavely’s true love. They were written in the Shakespearean style and were quite simply the most dreadful drivel he had ever read. And even worse, each sonnet had only twelve lines, the final rhyming couplet having been forgotten apparently. The standard of education these days. He handed the poems back.

  “Take my advice, Simon, don’t quit your day job.”

  First thing the following morning, Powell and Black met briefly to compare notes. Powell was a bit on edge, having just avoided bumping into Merriman on his way up. He lit a cigarette. “I’ve asked Superintendent Osborne to send over the file on Clive Morton,” he said. “It turns out he had a connection with the development scheme in Rotherhithe that got Brighton in hot water.” He explained about Chez Clive. “It’s a long shot, but we can’t afford to rule anything out at this point. I’ll concentrate on Morton for the time being; you can get started on Brighton’s council colleagues.”

  Black grinned. “About Mr. Morton, sir, you have to admit the garnish was a nice touch. Maybe somebody didn’t like one of his restaurant reviews.”

  Powell grunted.

  “Any word on Miss Burroughs, sir?”

  Powell related the events of the previous day at the Fitzrovia Tavern.

  “A dead end then, sir?”

  Powell shrugged. “Too early to tell. I’ll have Snavely’s flat searched and we’ll see what turns up.”

  “Thou hast the keys of paradise, oh just, subtle, and mighty opium!” Black intoned solemnly.

  Clive Morton’s flat was situated in a surprisingly quiet corner of Mayfair just minutes from Oxford Street. Powell located the redbrick mansion block in Binney Street and buzzed himself up. He was met at the door by Morton’s housekeeper, a frowsy middle-aged woman with bright red lipstick and a sour demeanor.

  “I was just about to leave when my old man rang me and told me to wait for you.” she said resentfully.

  “I am most grateful, Mrs. Hobson,” Powell replied pleasantly. “I’ll try not to keep you too long.”

  “I’ve ’eard that one before,” she grumbled.

  Fussy and ostentatious, Morton’s flat contrasted sharply with the Brightons’. The sitting room was cluttered with antique furniture in the rococo style, making the space appear smaller than it actually was. Powell selected an elaborately ornate wing chair and sat down. “Do sit down, Mrs. Hobson. I’d like to ask you a few questions about your late employer.”

  The unsmiling housekeeper parked herself reluctantly on the edge of an embroidered settee opposite. She sat stiffly with her hands folded in her lap.

  “Now, then, Mrs. Hobson, you might begin by telling me what you are doing here.”

  She looked at him as if he were an escapee from a lunatic asylum. “I was tidying up the place—what else would I be doing? Mr. Morton’s sister is coming down this weekend to go through ’is things.”

  “I see. Tell me, Mrs. Hobson, what sort of arrangement did you have with Mr. Morton?”

  She frowned. “Arrangement?”

  “How often did you come here to clean house?”

  “Three afternoons a week. Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.”

  “Do you have other clients as well?”

  She nodded grudgingly.

  “How long have you worked for Mr. Morton?”

  “Going on ten years now.”

  “I’m sure this has come as quite a shock to you. When did you first hear that he’d been murdered?”

  “Not until I ’eard it on the telly Tuesday evening. When I was ’ere on Monday afternoon, I saw that ’is bed ’adn’t been slept in,” she added quickly. “But I didn’t think nothing of it.”

  “Oh?”

  She tossed him a knowing look. “ ’E often stayed out all night.”

  “Did he now? Do you know if he had a regular lady friend?”

  The housekeeper cackled harshly. “A ’lady friend’? That’s a good one, that is! Who’d put up with the likes of ’im? Tell me that.”

  “What exactly do you mean, Mrs. Hobson?”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Very demanding, ’e was, if you get my meaning. You had to know ’ow to ’andle ’im.”

  Powell detected a note of pride in her voice. “You knew how to handle him, didn’t you, Mrs. Hobson?”

  “Not ’alf!” she snorted.

  “Where do you suppose he was then, on Monday night?”

  “Out with some tart, I expect,” she replied without hesitation.

  Powell raised an eyebrow. “You mean a prostitute, Mrs. Hobson?”

  She stared at him. “What else?”

  “Did Mr. Morton often consort with prostitutes?”

  “Whenever the dirty old sod could get it up, I expect.”

  Powell suspected that Mrs. Hobson would not be asked to give the eulogy at Morton’s funeral.

  “Sometimes he’d bring them ’ere,” the housekeeper continued in a conspiratorial tone. “You wouldn’t believe the things they’d get up to! I’d ’ave to pick up after them. It was disgusting!”

  “The imagination runs wild, Mrs. Hobson. I can’t imagine how you put up with it.”

  Mrs. Hobson lowered her voice. “Once the ’ubby and I were in Leicester Square after the cinema, and we saw Mr. Morton hanging about with all the other punters, chatting up some tart!”

  Powell’s mental antennae began to vibrate. That would be just a stone’s throw from Leicester Court where Morton’s body was found. He leaned forward in his chair. “I’ll let you in on a little secret, Mrs. Hobson, but only if you promise not to tell anyone. Can I count on you?”

  The housekeeper was positively glowing now. “Of course, Chief Superintendent! Mum’s the word.”

  “I’m working on the theory that Mr. Morton was murdered by someone he knew. Can you think of anybody who might have had it in for him?”

  She looked skeptical. “You’re joking.”

  “You did say he was very, er, demanding, Mrs. Hobson.”

  “Yeah, well, I can think of a ’undred people who didn’t like ’im. I didn’t like ’im, come to that, but that’s a different thing than killing ’im, isn’t it?”

  “Very true, Mrs. Hobson, very true. But are you sure there isn’t someone in particular who may have had a score to settle with him?”

  The housekeeper’s face tightened into a state of deep concentration as she considered this possibility. For the first time, Powell became aware of a clock ticking loudly somewhere in the house.

  “If you ask me,” she said eventually, “it was one of ’is bleedin’ tarts.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Back at the Yard, Powell sorted through his mail and discovered that the Morton file had arrived from West End Central. He took it with him to the cafeteria where he hoped he could study it free from interruptions. He paid for a cup of the instant swill that passes for coffee in such establishments and selected a table by a window. He was just starting in on the pathologist’s report when he sensed somebody standing beside him. He looked up.

  It was Detective-Sergeant Sarah Evans, carrying a tray laden with tea things and some sort of seed-infested muffin.

  “You don’t look very glad to see me,” she said brightly.

  Powell sighed. “Sit down, Evans. But spare me the chirpiness.”

  “I hear you’re working with Bill Black on the Brighton case,” she said as she settled herself across from him.

  “Word does get around.”

  “Are you making any progress?”

  “It’s early days yet.” Powell’s eyes rested lightly on her, and he liked what he saw. Bright, capable, and ambitious, not to mention extremely attractive, she had assisted him on the Yorkshire
moors murder, proving her mettle on her first major investigation. “What have you been up to?” he asked.

  She grimaced. “Not much, I’m afraid. I could use a good murder case to get the juices flowing again.”

  “I’ll keep you in mind.”

  “Thanks. By the way, I hear Merriman’s got it in for you.”

  “Charming,” Powell rejoined. “My life is an open book.”

  She laughed. “You should be flattered that I’m interested.” She poured herself a cup of tea from the miniature pot. “Now then, why don’t you tell me all about the case?”

  “I was hoping to get some work done,” Powell said pointedly.

  “Oh, come on. For old times’ sake.”

  “I never could resist your charms, Evans. I will comply with your request if you promise to leave me in peace when I’m finished.”

  She nodded eagerly, whilst attempting to saw through her muffin with the plastic knife that had been provided.

  “About a month ago,” Powell began, “Richard Brighton, the Southwark councillor, was found floating in the Thames without his wallet. The locals are treating it as a mugging but haven’t been able to come up with any suspects—”

  “I remember reading something in the papers about a controversial development that Brighton was involved in—I think it involved the eviction of some council tenants,” Evans interjected. “Maybe he had enemies.”

  “Thank you for jumping in with your ideas, Evans. I find these brainstorming sessions so stimulating.”

  She smiled innocently, ignoring the sarcasm. “No problem. Two heads are better than one, I always say.”

  “As I was about to say, it may in fact be a case of simply being in the wrong place at the wrong time. However, we are considering other possibilities, including the one you mentioned.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it.”

  Evans looked disappointed.

  “There is one other thing …” Powell said mischievously

  “Oh, yes?”

  “I expect you’ve heard about Clive Morton.”

  “The late restaurant critic.”

  “The very one. Found with his throat cut in an alley in Soho early Tuesday morning.”

  Evans looked puzzled. “I don’t see the connection.”