by Len Maynard
“And you had no reason to kill him?”
Lewin shot forward in his seat his hands planted flat on the desk, fingernails digging into the wood. “How dare you?” His eyes were blazing with fury. “I could never hurt Tony. How dare you even suggest that I could?”
Fuller held up his hands. “Then perhaps I’ve been misinformed.”
“Yes, you bloody have. Tony Turner was like a brother to me. We started out together, appeared in rep together.”
“You were an actor then?”
Lewin nodded. “Not much of one, I’ll grant you. I didn’t have a tenth of Tony’s talent. I had the basics, but he carried me through our time together in the theatre, always supportive, always encouraging me, up until the time that I realised that acting was an art I was never going to excel at. When he got the call from the Rank Organization it was a turning point, not only in his career but also in our relationship. He nearly didn’t take up their offer. I had to force his hand.” He was gazing at a spot a few inches away from his face, lost in the past.
“And how did you manage that?”
Fuller’s question brought him back to the moment. He seemed to shake himself. “By quitting the business and moving out of our digs, coming back up here and retraining. I’d always had an aptitude for design at school. I was pretty good at technical drawing, so it seemed an obvious choice to make.”
“So there was no ill feeling when you made the decision to quit acting?”
Lewin shook his head. “No, none at all. I came back here to Welwyn and Tony went on to be groomed by Rank and the rest, as they say, is history. Why on earth would someone kill him?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out. Did you stay in touch with him when you left the acting profession?”
Lewin had drifted into reverie again. “What…yes. Birthdays, Christmas, that sort of thing, but we moved in different circles. Our paths rarely crossed, despite us both living in Hertfordshire, a stone’s throw from each other.”
“When did you last see him?”
Lewin winced, as if stung by the memory. “At Christmas actually. Last Christmas. He invited me to spend a few days with him at Elsinore.”
“And you haven’t seen him since December?”
“No.” Lewin ground out the cigarette in the glass ashtray on the desk and lit another. “It wasn’t an altogether successful reunion and I was in no rush to have a repeat performance.”
“Why was that?”
“I hadn’t seen him for a few years. I’m afraid I’d let things drift somewhat. When we had last met he was married to Polly. I knew her from our days at Birmingham and we used to get along famously. She was a lovely girl. Lois, his new wife, was a different kettle of fish; brash, loud, and a bloody Yank. I clashed with her throughout the holiday. I didn’t like her and she certainly didn’t like me. I think she saw me as some kind of threat to her domestic bliss. A ghost from Tony’s past, if you like, and she made it very plain that I wasn’t welcome at Elsinore.”
“How did he seem to you when you last saw him?”
“What do you mean?”
“Did he seem troubled, bothered about anything?”
Lewin leaned back in his chair and thought for a moment. “He seemed different,” he said at last. “But bear in mind it had been a few years since I’d last seen him and people do tend to change over time. He’d been through a lot dealing with Polly’s illness and then her death, and of course he had Geraldine to bring up, by himself. That couldn’t have been easy.” Lewin paused and took a long pull on his cigarette. “But for all that, there was something about him that I’d never seen before.” Another drag on the cigarette. “I suppose you could call it melancholia.”
“And how did this melancholia show itself?”
“It was Boxing Day morning. He suggested we go for a walk, to get some country air into our lungs. To be quite honest it was a good excuse to get out of the house and away from Lois and her blasted brother who was also spending the holiday with them and was just as obnoxious as his sister. Tony asked Geraldine to come along, but she had a piano exam coming up and wanted to spend the time practicing, so it was just him and me.”
Fuller nodded, encouraging him to proceed.
“I had visited Elsinore a number of times in the past when he’d first bought the place with Polly, and we’d walked the surrounding countryside on many an occasion. We set off on what had become an established route across the fields, mostly keeping to the paths that ran along the side of them. There had been a frost that morning so the mud had frozen. That route also took us through a farm. ‘Squashed Rat Farm’ Tony had Christened it. They farmed cereal crops there. Vermin was a problem and a number of the rodents lost their lives under the wheels of tractors and the like.
“Sure enough we were walking past the grain silos when Tony pointed down at a frozen puddle. Caught in the ice was the flattened body of a rat, preserved like a fly in amber. ‘See that, Mikey,’ he said. He’d called me Mikey from the moment I first knew him. ‘See that, Mikey. That’s a pretty good approximation of how I feel at the moment.’ I tried to joke him out of it, of course. I knew Tony could lean towards the melodramatic sometimes, he was an actor after all, but there was a darkness to his mood that no amount of bantering from me could lift. In the end I gave up trying and we walked home pretty much in silence.
“I didn’t hang around when we got back to Elsinore. Lois and her brother had started on the eggnog and cherry brandy at breakfast that morning and by the time we got back to the house they were both three sheets to the wind and I could tell Lois was spoiling for a fight, so I invented a maiden aunt that I’d promised to spend the Boxing Day with, made my excuses and left.
“And that was the last time I saw him.” Lewin lapsed into silence. There were tears in his eyes and he had reverted to staring blankly into space as doleful memories played behind his eyes.
Fuller decided to leave the man to his misery and stood up. “Just one more thing before I go. Can you account for your whereabouts Tuesday afternoon?”
Lewin looked at him. “Eh? What?”
“Tuesday afternoon?”
“I was here.” The arrogance in his voice was a thing of the past. The news of Tony Turner’s death had shaken him badly. “Sally will confirm that. Have a word with her on your way out.”
“Yes. I’ll do that.” But he knew that Sally, the receptionist, would confirm the alibi. Michael Lewin did not kill Tony Turner. Fuller was as sure of that as he’d been about anything in his life.
19 - SATURDAY
Jack clasped his fingers behind his neck and stretched. He had just finished going through his third box of photographs and so far they had yielded nothing useful. He put the lid on the box and slid it back on the shelf, taking another down and returning to the table.
As soon as he opened this one he realised his luck had changed for the better. These were all shots taken at night on the Tottenham Court Road, showing the comings and goings at The Purple Flamingo nightclub. Familiar faces started to appear in the photographs. There were a couple he recognised from his rare jaunts to the cinema. Douglas Fairbanks Junior was one face that was instantly familiar, Judy Garland another. There were faces from the world of politics and sport. He was pretty sure one of them was the boxer Freddie Mills, but his eyes were hidden behind dark glasses so he couldn’t be sure.
There was one face though that was instantly recognisable. A hooked nose over a pencil-thin moustache, and dark eyes set in a rugged, swarthy face. Thomas Usher. Usher owned the club so his presence there wasn’t that surprising. Unlike the identity of the blonde woman who was hanging on his arm as he left the club.
He put the picture to one side and continued to rifle through the pictures and within twenty minutes had a large pile of 10 x 8 inch black and white photographs that were of special interest and required closer scrutiny under brighter lights than the one in Talbot’s room.
“I’d like to take these with me,” Jack said to Ta
lbot as he walked back into the shop.
“Take the bloody lot with you. They’re no damned use to me. I told you I’m selling up.”
“I wouldn’t deprive you of your son’s legacy. Just these will be fine for now. They’ll help with a case I’m currently investigating.”
“What do you make of these?” Jack dropped the sheaf of photographs down onto Fuller’s desk.
Fuller scooped up the photos, leaned back in his chair and started leafing through them. He came to the one showing Thomas Usher leaving the club with the pretty blonde hanging on his arm. “That’s Lois Turner.”
“Yes, that’s what I thought. Obviously taken before the onset of her agoraphobia.”
“Do you know when exactly?”
“It came from a box of photos marked 1957. I can’t be more precise than that, but it must have been before Usher had his stroke.”
“She was married to Tony Turner then. Do you think she was carrying on with Usher?”
“A picture paints a thousand words, as they say. But we can’t be sure. All I know is that we’ll have to dig a little deeper into Lois Turner’s background. See what other skeletons we can unearth.”
“When do you want me to start?”
Jack shook his head. “Not this time, Eddie. I’m putting Myra on it. She seems to have a nose for this kind of thing.”
“But she’s not a detective.”
“She is in all but name, and more’s the pity, but just because she’s uniform now it doesn’t mean I can’t utilise her services.”
“The chief super will have kittens when he finds out you’re going against his orders.”
“Which is why I won’t be telling him. Will you?”
Fuller made a cupping motion across his lips with his hand. “Speak no evil, hear no evil, see no evil, that’s me.”
“Have a word with the others. Make sure they know, but tell them to keep it to themselves. Take a look at the rest of the photos and tell me what you see.”
Fuller started flicking through the photographs once more. “There’re a lot of famous people in these.”
“Ignore them and look at some of the other faces.” He took the boxing photograph from the file and dropped it onto Fuller’s desk. “See if you can spot any of these?”
After a while Fuller said, “Well Tony Turner seems to be a frequent visitor, as does this bloke.” He pointed to a face emerging from the club.
“Simon Docherty, yes. Keep looking, there’s an interesting one of him with Lois Turner coming up.”
Fuller carried on flicking through the photographs. “This one? It looks like he’s holding hands with her. Quite a girl our Lois, isn’t she? Who is Simon Docherty?”
“According to Bob Lock, Mr. Docherty is an American lawyer who retrained to practice law over here. It seems he’s represented many a low life, Usher included.”
“American, you say? Lois Turner is a Yank. Perhaps he was her lawyer back in the United States.”
“That’s a possibility I want you to look into. In fact I want to know everything there is to know about our Mr. Docherty.”
“These ones speak volumes.” Fuller laid three prints down on the desk.
It was a sequence of shots featuring Thomas Usher. The first had Usher leaving the club with Lois Turner. The second had Usher and Turner in the background as two heavy-set men in suits moved in front of them. In the third photo one of the men was moving across the road, his face a twisted mask of aggression, one of his hands balled into a fist, the other reaching out to block the shot as he came towards the camera.
“Looks like Benny Talbot finally got under someone’s skin, doesn’t it?” Jack said.
“This bloke looks intent on shutting Benny down. I wonder if that includes throwing him under a bus.”
“These photos were some of the last he took. Some ime after he took and developed them he went under the wheels of the number 29.”
“Is The Purple Flamingo club still there?”
“Yes, it’s still there, but I don’t know who owns it now.”
“But it has no connection to Thomas Usher?”
“Not according to Bob Lock. As far as he knows the place changed hands a year or so back.”
“After Usher’s stroke.”
Jack nodded. “So it would seem. We need to find out who’s been looking after Thomas Usher’s business interests since he had the stroke. Who, for instance, was behind moving him abroad, and who is paying for the nursing home he’s at now.”
“You think it might be Simon Docherty?”
“I wouldn’t be a bit surprised,” Jack said. “Not surprised at all.”
“I’m going to have to start charging you rent, sir,” Bob Lock said.
“I have some photos I’d like you to take a look at.”
Lock looked up from his desk and took the sheaf of photographs and started leafing through them.
“Do you see anyone you recognise?”
“Well, that there is Douglas Fairbanks Junior.”
“Ignore the film stars. Focus on the other faces.”
Lock smiled and carried on flicking through. “Well, there’s Tommy Usher. Hardly surprising seeing as it’s his club.”
He reached the shot of the thug with the fist and the hand out to stop the photograph being taken. “And that’s Jimmy Dymond. I’d know his ugly mug anywhere.”
“Who’s Jimmy Dymond?” Jack said.
“Tommy Usher’s muscle. His enforcer. A nasty piece of work and someone the Met has been after for years.”
“And they haven’t been successful?”
Lock shook his head. “No. He’s a slippery one our Jimmy. He’s been arrested more times than I’ve had cups of tea, but he always seems to wriggle out of the charges. Witnesses either change their stories completely or vanish off the face of the earth. I think he either scares them into silence or persuades them to take a holiday, or worse.”
“And I should imagine that if Usher’s paying, Dymond has a very good lawyer.”
“Speaking of whom.” Lock started flicking back through the photos. He took one from the pile and laid it down on the desk for Jack to see. “Simon Docherty, Usher’s brief.”
“Yes, I recognised him from the boxing photograph.”
“Yes, I’m sure you did… but look who he’s talking with.”
Jack picked up the photograph, took it across to the light bulb hanging from the ceiling and peered at it. He shook his head. “The face means nothing to me.”
“Well, I suppose it wouldn’t really. But that is Isaac Gold, Albert Klein’s right-hand man.”
“So why would Usher’s brief be deep in conversation with one of the head men of a rival firm?”
Lock shrugged. “Search me. But you must admit it’s a bit rum. The way they are standing, in the shadows, off the main thoroughfare, hunched in that doorway, it’s almost as if they’re trying not to be seen together.”
“And then along comes Benny Talbot and takes their photo. ‘Say cheese, boys.’ It’s hardly going to make him popular is it?”
“You’re thinking that Talbot may have had some help falling under the bus. But the witnesses…”
“As you said earlier, witnesses can be coerced or threatened into changing their stories.”
“So, what? Are you delving into Benny Talbot’s death now?”
Jack shook his head. “No, I have enough on my plate with Turner’s murder. The Talbot case is closed and besides, it’s outside of my jurisdiction. The boys down in Met land won’t thank me for raking over their closed cases. The last time I had contact with officers from that part of the world didn’t exactly earn me many bouquets, or house points for that matter.”
“So why the interest?”
“Because the more I swim through the murky waters of London’s underworld, the more another secret or unlikely coincidence floats to the surface. There’s a connection, I’m sure, between Tony Turner’s murder and the human flotsam and jetsam I’m seeing in these ph
otographs. I just haven’t found it yet.”
“Well, good luck with that. Many before you have tried and failed to get to the bottom of that particular pool.”
Jack looked at the old collator bleakly. “It never gets any easier, does it, Bob?”
“You wouldn’t want it any other way, sir, would you?”
Jack smiled. “I suppose not. But catching a break every once in a while would be nice.”
“So would Christmas coming along once a week, but it’s never likely to happen is it?”
Jack nodded. “Wise words.”
“Look, leave these with me. Give me a day or so to go through them and compare the faces with those I have on file. I might get a match.”
“That would be good.”
“Not that I’m promising anything mind, but you never know. I might get lucky.”
Jack picked out a few of the prints, rolled them up and slipped them into his pocket. “I’ll take the ones of the people we’ve already identified, but I’ll leave you the rest to go through at your leisure. Work your magic, Bob.”
“Who do you think I am, David bloody Nixon?”
Jack looked at him blankly.
“He’s a conjurer, on the telly. Oh, I forgot, you still live in the dark ages. Still listening to the wireless for your evening’s entertainment.”
“Not for much longer, apparently.”
“Did you manage to call in at Howard’s this morning, about the television?” Annie said almost as soon as he walked into the house that evening.
Annie was sitting at the kitchen table with Joan, Rosie and Eric, all of them regarding him with expectant faces.
“Do you mind if I take my coat off first before subjecting me to the third degree?”
“I’ll pour you a cuppa,” Joan said.
“I’ll fetch your slippers,” said Eric, haring out of the kitchen.
“Do you want your pipe, Dad?” Rosie asked.
“Ye Gods!” Jack shrugged himself out of his overcoat and took it through to the hallway to hang it up. Once hung, he returned to the kitchen, sat down at the table and took a mouthful of tea. Eric came back to the kitchen and dropped the slippers at his feet. Jack bent to untie his laces and took off his shoes, flexing his toes before sliding them into the soft leather of the slippers.
