by Len Maynard
“Pipe, Dad?” Rosie handed him the briar.
“What about you, Annie? What can I expect? A massage, perhaps? Or maybe peeling me some grapes for dessert?”
“I’ll scrub your back when you next take a bath if you like.” She smiled. “Well? Did you call into Howard’s?”
Jack chuckled. “Yes, I called in there. The television will be here first thing Monday morning. Can you be here to let it in, Joanie?”
“She’ll be here, Dad,” Eric said.
“I was asking your sister.”
“Of course I’ll let them in,” Joan said. “I’ve already cleared a space for it in the sitting room.”
Jack’s eyes widened. “Phew! You didn’t waste any time, did you? What would you have done if I hadn’t gone in there this morning?”
“I knew you wouldn’t let us down,” Joanie said.
“You never let us down, Dad,” Rosie echoed her older sister.
Jack shook his head. “You all think I’m a pushover.”
Annie got to her feet and wrapped her arms around his neck, kissing the top of his head. “We know you’re a pushover, darling, but you’re our pushover and we love you dearly.”
“Food, woman.” Jack leaned into her embrace. “I need my dinner.”
“Coming right up, oh lord and master.” Annie skipped away to the cooker.
20 - SUNDAY MARCH 22ND 1959
“There’s someone here to see you, Dad,” Rosie said sticking her head inside the greenhouse door.
Jack glanced around at the sound of her voice, taking his attention away from the begonia leaf he was cutting ready for propagation, and nicking his finger with the blade. “Damn!” He stuck the injured digit in his mouth and sucked away the blood. “Who is it?”
“He didn’t say. He just asked me to give you this.” She handed him a folded up page from a newspaper.
Jack took it from her and spread it out on the potting table. It was a page from today’s News of the World.
The headline read, “TONY TURNER AND HIS SCANDALOUS UNDERWORD LINKS.”
Jack briefly scanned the half-page that followed. There was mention of Thomas Usher and Lois Turner, along with inset photograph of Lois as the Cadence Girl, and a head shot of Turner taken from a theatre programme. As he read down he saw his own name. “Chief Inspector Callum, of Welwyn and Hatfield CID said, ‘We have no comment to make regarding these allegations.’”
“This man at the door, is he about thirty, thin-faced, with thick glasses and a protruding Adam’s apple?” Which pretty much described Neil Clarke, the reporter who had visited him at the station on Friday, and whose by-line graced this piece of scurrilous so-called journalism
“No. He’s much older, about your age. He’s got red cheeks and his breath smells of drink.”
“Okay, I’ll come in.” Jack set the knife down on the potting table and followed Rosie into the house, still sucking his finger.
“Can I help you?” he said to the familiar-looking middle-aged man standing on the doorstep.
Charles Somers smiled and stuck out his hand. “DI Charles Somers. Eddie Fuller’s old boss. You can call me Charlie.”
Jack took the proffered hand and shook it once. “You seem to have a flair for the dramatic. You could have just given Rosie your name instead of using the rubbish printed in that rag of a newspaper to get my attention. It would have worked just as well. Better in fact. I thought you might have been that reporter chap again, back for another no comment.”
“But I wasn’t sure it would get your attention. I don’t know what Eddie has told you about me, and my input into your case. So I thought it was time we met face to face.”
“He’s told me enough. You could have gone through official channels and come to the station, during working hours,” he added pointedly. “I would have seen you there.”
“You and everyone else, including the cleaner. I wanted our meeting to be a little more circumspect. It isn’t official.”
“Yes, I’m beginning to realise that.” Jack nodded slowly. “Then I suppose you won’t want to be seen hanging around on my doorstep. You’d better come in.” He opened the door wide. “Come through to the front room. We won’t be disturbed.” Jack ushered him inside and led him along the hall.
In the front room Eric was sitting upright on one of the two armchairs, his head bowed, strumming his guitar, a book open at a page of sheet music and chord charts open on the arm of the chair.
“Can you take your practice upstairs to your room, son?”
“I was up there.” Eric sounded disgruntled. “Joanie told me to come downstairs. She’s lying down, says she has a headache.” There was scepticism in his voice. “It’s amazing how many headaches people seem to have in this house since I bought this guitar.”
“Well, that must tell you something.” Jack smiled indulgently. “Now hop it.” He jerked his thumb at the door.
Grumbling, Eric grabbed his guitar by the neck and left the room.
“Bright lad,” Somers said when they were alone. “How old?”
“Fourteen. Sees himself as the next Tommy Steele.”
“And why not? If it can happen for a cockney sailor like Steele, it can happen for your lad, and it didn’t sound too bad from where I was standing.”
“It seems like any kid with a penny worth of musical talent can make a record these days.”
“You’re not a fan of skiffle and rock and roll, then?”
“You didn’t come here on a Sunday morning to discuss my tastes in music.”
Somers smiled. “I can see why you’re a detective,” he said wryly.
“Take a seat.” Jack pointed at the armchair recently vacated by his son. “And then you can tell me the real reason for your visit. Tea?”
Somers’ smile widened. “Unless you have something stronger.”
“Tea it is then. Sugar and milk?”
“Milk, no sugar.”
“Right. I’ll be back in a moment. There’re magazines in the rack. Help yourself.”
“Who’s your guest, Jack?” Annie said as she sat at the kitchen table peeling potatoes for dinner.
“Eddie’s old governor from his spell at Stevenage. Charlie Somers.”
“And what’s he doing here, on a Sunday?”
Jack poured boiling water into a brown earthenware pot. “I’ll know that once I’ve made the tea and gone back to the front room. Tell the kids that we’re not to be disturbed.”
“No worries there. Rosie’s just gone out for a walk. Eric’s gone upstairs in a huff, and Joanie’s lying down with…”
“With a headache. Yes, I know. Is she all right?”
“One too many Babychams last night.”
“Serves her right then.” Jack put cups, saucers, the teapot and a milk jug on a tray and carried it through to the front room.
When he re-entered the room he found Somers sitting in armchair, legs crossed, reading the article about himself in the Police Gazette. Jack had been perusing it the evening before and had left it in the magazine rack.
“If you hadn’t been aware I was coming to see you, I’d have assumed you’d left this here deliberately.”
“I’m not that devious. I was looking at it last night before I went to bed.”
“So, what do you think?”
“About the article, or the facts?”
“Both.”
Jack sat down on the sofa and poured the tea. “It read like a fair account. Whether it’s true or not I can’t say. I wasn’t involved. Met business, and I left that behind me a long time ago.”
“Do you miss it?”
“Not at all. We have enough crime up here in Hertfordshire to keep me busy.”
“Is there anything about London you do miss?”
“Tottenham Hotspur. I used to go to every home match, work permitting and, when they weren’t playing at home, I used to go to see the reserves play. Watching the up and comers.”
“And the over the hillers.”
“Them too but, whoever was playing, you usually saw a good game.” He handed Somers his tea. “Why have you come to see me, Charlie? Not to discuss football I’d guess.”
“Tommy Usher. The photo I sent obviously prompted you to dig a little deeper. Hence…” He raised the Police Gazette.
“Why did you drop it off anonymously?”
“I wasn’t sure how much Eddie had told you about my involvement and I didn’t want to get the lad into trouble with you. He’s a good’un is Eddie. He’ll go far. I thought that when he first came to work for me.”
“I agree. But not when he goes behind my back. Then I could happily throttle him.”
“Don’t be too hard on the lad. He was using his initiative. He knew of my relationship with Usher and exploited it.”
“Agreed. Do you think Usher could have been involved with Turner’s murder?”
“No.” Somers shook his head. “In his heyday, yes, most definitely, but not now, not since…”
”Not since the stroke.” Jack finished for him. “The oh-so-convenient stroke.”
“You seem sceptical.”
“I am.”
“There’s no need to be. I have it on good authority that the stroke was real enough.”
“So why do you want to talk to me about him?”
Somers uncrossed his legs and sat forward in the armchair. “Usher’s firm was large, packed with dozens of South London’s lowlifes. Has it occurred to you that it could be a member of the firm who’s behind Turner’s death?” He paused and swallowed the last of his tea. “When Usher was rendered incapable and couldn’t continue, there was a brief period, a couple of months, of jockeying for position. People trying to step into his shoes but, ultimately, it came to nothing, and the entire firm imploded, all the members scattering like fleas being sprayed with DDT. Good news for us, of course, but over the last few months we’ve seen factions starting to emerge. Members of the old firm are coming together again to carry on their nefarious ways. The only thing they lack is a figurehead, a leader to drag all the disparate parties under one banner again.”
Jack frowned. “So, what has that got to do with Tony Turner?”
“I understand that Turner was made up to bear a striking resemblance to Tommy Usher. Perhaps he was being used as a kind of totem, designed to unite the troops.”
Jack shook his head doubtfully. “It’s a novel theory, Charlie, but I saw Turner after his death. His disguise may have been effective on the London stage, but it wouldn’t pass muster under close scrutiny.”
“I’m sure there’s a connection to Usher somewhere along the line. I feel it in my water. It has his mucky fingerprints all over it.” Somers voice betrayed a trace of bitterness in his voice.
“Only it hasn’t. Not literally anyway. The murder scene was remarkably clean, even down to the nail they used to pin him to the tree. Not a print, not even a smudged one. Everything was wiped down, to get rid of any evidence. You want Usher to be involved because you hate him, don’t you?”
Somers sagged back into his seat. “With a passion.”
“And you want me to start investigating Usher, because you’ve lost the faith of your superiors, am I right?”
“I heard from Brian Fisher that you were bloody good at your job. A pain in the backside and insubordinate, but bloody good at what you do.”
“Generous of him.” Jack frowned. He still had a nasty taste in his mouth from his last encounter with Scotland Yard’s Chief Superintendent Brian Fisher.
“I want you to dig deep into Usher’s organization and expose it for the rats’ nest it truly is. I’m taking retirement at the end of this year and it would close a very unpleasant, if not final, chapter of my largely unremarkable career.”
Jack looked at Somers steadily. He felt quite sorry for the man and Somers theory about the Usher’s firm might have some validity, but he had enough of his own battles to fight, without taking on anyone else’s.
He stood abruptly and went out to the hall to retrieve his briefcase from the hallstand. Returning to the room he snapped the catch and took out the sheaf of Benny Talbot’s photographs. Flipping through them, he peeled one from the pile and handed it to Somers. “Taken outside The Purple Flamingo. Recognise them?”
Somers shifted in his seat and peered at the photo. He digested it for a moment. “That’s Simon Docherty.”
“And the other chap?”
Somers angled the photograph into the light coming from the window. “Unless I’m mistaken, that’s Isaac Gold. What the hell’s Docherty doing with Gold? You wouldn’t expect to see the two of them sharing a pavement, or anything else for that matter. Two men, both in deep with their respective bosses, passing the time of day outside a nightclub owned by one of the said bosses.”
“From their attitude, they seem to be doing more than passing the time of day.”
Somers bit his bottom lip pensively. “I knew Simon Docherty quite well. He was always dancing around Tommy Usher like a trained monkey, offering titbits of legal advice whether Tommy asked for them or not. I thought he was an irritating little sod, but I never said as much. I knew that Usher liked him and I didn’t want to upset the apple cart.”
“And Isaac Gold?”
“I’ve met him a couple of times but don’t know him well. He has a reputation for cleverness and for being about as ruthless as Albert Klein himself when push comes to shove.” Somers eyed the sheaf of photographs in Jack’s hand. “Have you got any more gems like this?”
Jack handed him the photos. “Take a look. More tea?”
“If I’m not outstaying my welcome.”
“I’ll put the kettle on.”
21 - MONDAY MARCH 23RD 1959
“Your old governor came to see me yesterday,” Jack said as he slid into the car’s passenger seat beside Eddie Fuller.
“Charlie Somers came to your house?” Alarm was flashing in Fuller’s eyes but he had it quickly under control as he started the engine and eased into the traffic. “Why?”
“Don’t look so nervous, Eddie. He had only good things to say about you.”
Fuller gave an audible sigh of relief.
“Apart from the fact that you’re a lousy snooker player. It seems you start well but can’t keep it up.”
“Cheek! But I know what he means. I’m impatient to get to the end of the frame and so I take risks.”
“Sometimes it’s a good thing. I’ve been accused of that myself.”
“So what did he want?”
“Resolution. As far as he’s concerned, the Thomas Usher business is not finished. He took the whole internal inquiry thing very badly. He feels his superiors hung him out to dry.”
“I tend to agree with him.” Fuller indicated and turned left onto a leafy street. “They tasked him to do a job, to get close to Usher, to monitor his criminal activities, and when he started getting results, those same superiors deemed that he was too close to the action and branded him a dirty copper.” Fuller scowled angrily. “Charlie Somers has more integrity in his little finger than they have between them. Granted, he sometimes skirted the borders of legality, but he never once crossed the line, and quite a number of Usher’s gang went down for long stretches thanks to his willingness to put himself in the firing line.” By the time Fuller finished speaking he was gripping the wheel tightly, his knuckles white.
Jack attempted to calm his sergeant. “Okay, Eddie, simmer down. If it means anything, I liked him. He reminded me of me.”
Fuller nodded his head in agreement. “You remind me of him as well.”
“But, I’m not convinced there’s a direct link to Thomas Usher and the murder of Tony Turner. I think it would be quite wrong to blinker ourselves at the moment. We still have a number of avenues we need to check out first. When we get in, tell Myra to come up to my office.”
They swung into the police station car park. “You can tell her yourself. There she is.” He nodded towards the far side of the car park. “Just getting out of th
at car.”
Jack looked across the car park to a dark green Morris Minor that appeared to have limped into work. In between grey patches of body filler, rust peppered the bodywork, and the offside wing was dented.
“Is that car roadworthy, Officer?” Jack said as he approached her.
Myra Banks glanced round at him and grimaced. “Please don’t say anything.” She sighed. “It was my dad’s. He gave it to me when I passed my test last November. It’s taken me until now to get it on the road and to pluck up the courage to drive it. I only picked it up from the garage on Saturday. They did something to the timing. It wouldn’t be my choice for a first car, but you know what they say about never looking a gift horse in the mouth?”
“I also know the one that says beware of Greeks bearing gifts. He’s not Greek, is he, your dad?”
“Welsh actually.” Myra grinned. “Was there something you wanted, sir?”
“Yes, Myra, there is. Come up to my office. I have a job for you.”
“I want you to find out everything you can about Lois Turner née Franklin,” Jack said to Myra when they were seated in his office.
“Everything?”
“Everything. There’s more to that woman than meets the eye, and see if you can find out from her doctor when this condition of hers, the agoraphobia, started.” He handed her the photograph of Lois leaving The Purple Flamingo on the arm of Thomas Usher. “That was taken almost eighteen months ago, so obviously being out and about didn’t bother her too much then.”
Myra stared at the picture. “But that means she was married to Tony Turner, and she and Usher look like they are more than just friends here.”
“Exactly, and that’s another thing I want you to find out. How solid was their marriage. Go and have a chat with Hester Gough at Elsinore. Have a quiet word with their neighbours and anybody else, for that matter, who might have known them.”
