by Len Maynard
Beside him, standing with one foot resting on a scruffy looking tea chest was a thin boy of a similar age dressed in jeans and a plaid shirt open at the neck. Attached to the side of the tea chest was a broom handle. A thin cord snaked up from a hole in the chest and appeared to be tied to the top of the handle. The thin boy had his eyes closed and was pulling back on the broom handle whilst, at the same time, plucked at the thin cord with a leather-gloved hand, making the thumping sound Jack had heard as he’d walked in through the front door.
In the corner was yet another boy, who he recognised as Philip Langton, son of the local butcher. On his knee was a glass washboard. He had metal thimbles on his fingers and he was moving them quickly them over the corrugated glass of the washboard, making a percussive, rattling sound that jarred the filings in Jack’s teeth.
His daughter, Rosie, two years older than Eric and pretty enough to turn heads in the street, got up from the armchair. Eric, still strumming, nodded to her and she started to sing a bouncy skiffle song about a freight train in a voice as clear as a bell. She looked across at Jack and stopped singing halfway through the verse. “Oh, hello, Dad,” she said. “What do you think?”
“I didn’t know you could sing.” Jack raised his voice to make himself heard above the din.
Rosie blushed. “I can’t, not really. I’m just helping Eric out. This is his skiffle group.”
“So I gathered.” Jack stared at his son who grinned back at him. The other boys stopped playing and looked to Jack for signs of approval.
Jack smiled indulgently. “Very good,” he said to them and turned to Eric. “Mother asked me to tell you that dinner will be in forty five minutes, so you might want to think about packing this in soon.”
Back in the kitchen, he sat down at the kitchen table and poured himself a cup of tea from brown earthenware pot. “Was it really such a good idea letting him have a guitar?”
“You should be pleased he’s so enthusiastic,” Annie said. “It’s just a hobby.”
“So is stamp collecting…and it’s quieter.”
“Don’t be such a grouch.” Annie came across and kissed the top of his head.
“Rosie’s got a set of pipes on her,” he said.
“You would have known that if you’d ever managed to get to one of her school concerts.”
Annie’s comment stung him. “It’s work. Crime doesn’t stop just to accommodate my social life.”
“No, but it would be nice if it did, just once in a while.” Annie wrapped her arms around his neck. “I’m not nagging, Jack. I just don’t want you to miss out on our children growing up just because people are beastly to each other. I sometimes wonder what’s the matter with them all.”
“I do that on a daily basis.” He changed the subject. “That stew smells marvellous.”
“It won’t be long.” She hugged him briefly and went back to the cooker.
Eddie Fuller pushed open the swing doors of the Dog and Duck and made his way to the bar. There were a few of the regulars in there drinking, even this early in the evening. His sometimes girlfriend, Judy Taylor, was pulling pints with her usual aplomb. She looked up as Eddie strolled towards her. “Hello, stranger,” she said heavily, weighting her words to show her displeasure. “What are you doing here tonight? Is it business or pleasure?”
“It’s always a pleasure to see you, Judy, but tonight it’s business.”
She shook her head resignedly. “Yes, I thought it might be.”
“Actually, I’m meeting someone here.”
“Anyone I know?”
“I doubt it. Charlie Somers, my old guvnor, from when I was a DC over at Stevenage. I was his bagman. He went to work for the Met in ’53, but we’ve stayed in touch.”
“What will you have while you’re waiting?”
“Just a half of bitter. I want to keep a clear head.”
Judy took a half-pint glass from the shelf above her head and pulled down on one of the pumps, filling it at a stroke. “There you go.” She put the drink down on the towelling bar mat. “Is that your friend?” she said as the doors swung inwards and a middle-aged man wearing a Gabardine raincoat and sporting short, neatly clipped grey hair, pushed into the pub.
Fuller glanced around and threw a salute at the man. “Yes, that’s him. You’d better pour a pint of Guinness. I doubt his tastes have changed.” He turned to Charlie Somers and called, “Grab a table, Charlie. I’ll bring the drinks over.”
Somers took off his raincoat, hung it from a stand in the corner and went across to a small round table under the window. Fuller took the drinks across and settled himself opposite, pushing the Guinness across to the older man. “Thanks for coming,” he said.
“Free beer. How could I resist?” Somers picked up the pint and downed half of it with one long gulp. He wiped the creamy froth from his top lip and sat forward. “Now, what is it you wanted to talk to me about that you couldn’t say over the ’phone?”
Fuller sipped at his pint. “Thomas Usher.”
Somers glared at him and pushed the glass away angrily. “Is that what you dragged me up here for? I thought more of you than that, Eddie.” He started to get to his feet.
Fuller stretched out his hand and laid it over the older man’s arm. “Simmer down, Charlie, and sit down. Just hear me out.”
“About Usher? You have to be kidding me. That bastard effectively put the kybosh on my career…at least he ensured I’d never climb higher in the force than DI, and I was already that when I first joined the Met.”
“They say that if you lie down with rats you never get the stink of the sewer off you.”
“The inquiry cleared me of any wrongdoing.” Somers’ glare intensified and for a moment Fuller was concerned that his old boss might thump him.
“But both you and I know that they weren’t in possession of all of the facts,” he said quickly, trying to mollify him.
It didn’t work. “Are you saying I’m dirty, Eddie? Because if that’s what you’re implying, I’ll take your sodding head off.”
Fuller held up his hands. “Christ, Charlie, calm down. That’s not what I’m saying at all. I know you were never in Usher’s pocket, but your connection to him rubbed a lot of people up the wrong way.”
Somers’ eyes narrowed. “Does your current guvnor know that you’re talking to me about this?”
Fuller shook his head. “And I told him I’d never heard of Usher.”
“Do you think that was wise? I know Jack Callum’s reputation. Nothing much gets past him. He made Barry Fisher look bloody stupid last year when the superintendent was up here on a case, and Fisher’s no fool, believe me. Jack Callum doesn’t sound like the type of man you want to cross.” Somers relaxed into his seat and picked up his glass again.
“Look, Charlie, Jack’s a great boss and I think of him as a friend. He told me to get onto Division and find out all I can about Usher, but you’re my friend as well and I wanted to speak to you before I did.”
“Well, you don’t have to bother Division. I have everything you need to know, up here.” He tapped the side of his head. “I suppose you know that Usher’s out of the picture now.”
Fuller nodded. “So I hear.”
“Yeah. A stroke got him. From what I’ve heard, they’ve got him stashed away in a nursing home, somewhere in Kent I think it is. He’s little more than a vegetable these days. Serves the bastard right.” He shifted in his seat and finished his pint. “I’ll have another of those.”
Fuller picked up the glass and took it across to Judy for a refill.
By the time he took it back to Somers his old boss had lit a briar pipe and was sucking on it, watching two of the locals playing a game of darts.
“Those two couldn’t hit a cow’s arse with a banjo,” he said disparagingly. “I hope they’re not in your pub’s darts’ team.”
“They’re not. Just having a bit of fun, that’s all. I remember you used to be quite handy with the arrows yourself.”
; “I gave it up when my eyesight started failing. I need glasses just to drive the sodding car these days.” He took the Guinness and quaffed another half pint. “So why the sudden interest in Usher? He was never really in your bailiwick.”
“No, but his business partner was.”
“Usher had lots of business partners. Anyone I know?”
“The actor, Tony Turner. We found him yesterday evening, nailed to a tree, tortured, with his throat cut.”
Somers blew out through his lips. “Nasty. I see now why you’re asking about Usher. That kind of thing was his stock in trade. Did Turner still have his conkers?”
“Conkers?”
“Conkers, testicles, gonads…his balls.”
“Yes, I think so.”
“It wasn’t Usher then. Castration was one of Tommy’s chief delights. He made it a kind of trademark; his own personal calling card.”
“I think you’d better tell me everything you know about him.”
“Do you have your notebook?”
Fuller nodded.
“Let’s just hope you have enough pages.”
6 - THURSDAY MARCH 19TH 1959
Jack sat at his desk reading through Tony Turner’s post mortem report.
“Any surprises?” Fuller said as he came into the office and took a seat at a desk alongside Jack’s. Office sharing was Chief Superintendent Henry Lane’s latest cost-cutting measure as he struggled with the county council’s swingeing cuts to the police budget.
“I don’t like it any more than you do, Jack. But needs must…”
Jack noted to himself wryly that Lane himself would not be sharing his office with anyone. He had no real problem sharing his space with Eddie Fuller. They worked so closely together that Annie had once joked they were almost joined at the hip.
He looked up at his sergeant. “Pretty much as we expected really. Cause of death was massive blood loss from a severed carotid artery. The wounds to the body were mostly superficial, as Barry Fenwick said, designed to cause maximum pain without being life-threatening.”
“So, you think that whoever did this knew what they were doing?”
“I would think so.”
“Was Turner castrated?”
Jack flicked over a page. “It doesn’t say so here.”
“It can’t be Usher then.”
“What makes you say that? Oh, yes, you spoke to Division, didn’t you?”
“Yes…yes I did.” Fuller’s cheeks flushed slightly. “Castration of his victims was Thomas Usher’s signature.” He avoided Jack’s gaze.
“Well, don’t keep me in suspense. What else did you find out?”
“In his day, Usher was a thoroughly nasty piece of work. He built himself a crime empire South of the river that stretched up as far as the West End of London. He had his fingers in many pies, all of them illegal. From prostitution to gambling dens, illegal drinking clubs, large scale smuggling of cigarettes and booze, protection racket, in fact, you name it, if it was against the law and guaranteed to bring in cash then Usher was involved. He was linked to several bank robberies, but never arrested through lack of evidence. It was the same story with the murders. Potential witnesses ended up disappearing in suspicious circumstances, but there was nothing to link Usher directly to any of them.
“Of course, he had his legitimate interests as well. He owned a nightclub in Bloomsbury, The Purple Flamingo, and the escort agency he ran with Tony Turner, although the Met were about to look into that when Turner shut it down.”
“And you still don’t think he’s our man?”
“He had a stroke, guv. From what they know, he’s not compos mentis these days, certainly not in any condition to kill anyone, or even to order someone else to do it for him.”
“Which more or less confirms what Laurence Turner told me. I just wanted to check to see if the old man was flannelling me. It seems not. Thanks, Eddie. Good work. I didn’t think it was going to be that easy.”
There was a knock at the door and a uniformed WPC entered the room. It took Jack a few seconds to realize it was Myra Banks.
“Myra? Back in uniform?”
Myra smiled at him tightly. “My secondment to CID ended yesterday, so yes, back in the blues. Orders from Chief Superintendent Lane.”
He could tell from the tremor in her voice that she was less than happy about her situation.
“Doctor Francombe confirmed Lois Turner’s story, and I’ve got new images of Tony Turner and his wife.” She was holding two black and white photographs, and laid them down on his desk.
Jack glanced at them. “Much better. Are you still in charge of the incident board?”
“Until I’m told otherwise.”
He frowned. “Well, that’s not going to happen. You’d better take the photos downstairs and pin them up on the board.”
“Yes, sir.”
“One more thing. What did the chief superintendent say about your application to join CID?”
“He turned it down flat.” She was unable to keep the bitterness out of her voice.
“Did he give you a reason?”
She shook her head. “He just said, not at this time.”
“Best you leave it to me. I make you no promises, but I’ll see what I can do.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
“Well, that’ll be all for the moment.”
Myra stiffened to attention. “Yes, sir.” Her hand moved slightly at her side.
“Myra, if you salute me I’ll have you thrown into one of the cells,” Jack said gently.
A smile was playing on her lips as Myra left the office.
“Why the makeup and the false nose?” Fuller said when they were alone once more. He was reading through the post mortem result and finding nothing new.
“That’s what’s been bothering me. He’d just finished a run at the Lyric theatre and the next thing he had lined up was a film in two weeks-time, so he wasn’t working on another play, and yet there he was wearing makeup to darken his skin, a false moustache and that bloody wax nose.”
“So it was a disguise of some sort.”
“Yes, but one that wouldn’t bear close scrutiny. It might have convinced those in the front row of the stalls, but close to it would have been fairly obvious.” Jack thought for a moment. “But maybe that was the point. It only had to be convincing to someone twenty feet away.”
“For what reason?”
Jack scratched his head. “I don’t know, Eddie. Maybe we’re coming at this the wrong way. Maybe it has nothing to do with his association with criminals like Thomas Usher.”
“The acting world?”
Jack reached into his pocket and took out Lois Turner’s list and handed it to Fuller. “You and Frank start checking out these names. Look into their backgrounds. See if any of them strike you as likely candidates. There are a couple of fairly well known actors on there, but apart from professional jealousy I can’t see any motive for murder. When I met Turner I didn’t like him much, and I can see how he could easily get people’s backs up, but it’s a huge step to take from being annoyed with someone to nailing them to a tree and slitting their throat. I spoke with him about noon on Tuesday and by five o’ clock he’d been murdered. We need to find out what he was doing in those hours preceding his death. I think I’m going to talk to the wife again. See if she can shed any light.”
“Do you want me to come along?”
Jack shook his head. “No, I’ll take Myra with me. She didn’t buy any of that loving spouse stuff, in fact she was quite unsympathetic to the woman. We men are soft touches, easily taken in by a few tears. Myra’s made of tougher stuff.”
“You really like her, don’t you?”
“She reminds me of my Joanie, a marshmallow exterior with a steel core at her centre. She’ll make a fine detective someday. I just don’t know why Lane can’t see that.” He shook his head again. “I’m going to have a word with him, see if I can’t get him to change his mind.”
“Go
od luck with that,” Fuller said. “When Frank Lesser complained to him about having to share an office with Trevor Walsh and Harry Grant he threatened to sack him.”
“He’s under a lot of pressure at the moment what with the cuts in the police budget, and I doubt that the Chief Constable Rix is making life easy for him, setting impossible targets for him just to appease the county council. But I have to try. Myra deserves it. She’s worked hard these past six months.”
Jack walked into Lane’s office. “You turned down Myra Banks’ application to join CID.”
Lane looked up from his work. “Has knocking gone out of fashion?”
Jack glanced back at the door. “It was open.”
“My door is always open,” Lane said blithely, “to those who have a genuine grievance.”
“But I’ve worked with Myra Banks day in, day out, for six months now, and I know she’s got what it takes to make a damned fine addition to my team.”
“Actually, you’ve had her for a little over eight months. I added another two months to her secondment while I monitored her progress. So you should be counting your blessings. I could have had her back in uniform in January.”
“So why now? And why block her application to join CID?”
Lane regarded him steadily for a moment. “Take a seat, Jack.”
“It’s okay, I’ll stand.”
“Sit down, Chief Inspector!” Lane’s voice rose.
Jack pulled up a hard chair and sat.
“Right.” Lane cleared his throat. “Firstly let me say that I don’t have to justify my decisions to you, or to anyone else in this station for that matter.” He took off his glasses, started cleaning them with a handkerchief and inspected them. “Secondly.” He placed the glasses back on the bridge of his nose. “I think Myra Banks is a very fine police constable, but at the moment that’s her level. CID? I think not.”
Jack opened his mouth to speak but Lane raised a finger to silence him.
