Dead of Winter jm-3

by Rennie Airth

  ‘Stay here with Hornsby. See to him.’

  He blinked at the chestnut vendor beside him. The man was sitting up. He seemed unhurt. There was no sign of his brazier and pan.

  ‘Three more shots, you say …?’ He struggled to get a grip on his scrambled wits. ‘Come on, then. Let’s go.’

  The smoke had thinned and a stream of people, a few in uniform, but most in civilian dress, was issuing from the pub’s doors. Though there was blood to be seen on faces and hands here and there, they didn’t look to be too badly hurt. Just shaken up. Billy saw Grace was ahead of them, making for the alley at the side.

  ‘Sir … sir!’

  Two bobbies had appeared as if from nowhere, out of breath and panting. Billy recognized their faces. They were the men he’d posted up in the street. He realized they must have run down when they’d heard the bomb go off. He looked about him. There was quite a crowd in front of the pub now. One or two had sat down on the paving stones; they were shaking their heads, probably surprised to find themselves still alive, he thought. Then he noticed that others were drifting off, leaving the site.

  ‘Did anyone go by you?’ he asked the constables. ‘When you came down?’

  ‘Sir …?’ The older of the two answered him. ‘I’m not sure, sir. We couldn’t see, not with all that smoke.’

  ‘Never mind. Wait here. Come if we call.’ Billy looked for Grace and Lofty, but they’d vanished: gone inside. He started down the alley himself and came to the door, which was open. As he moved to enter it, Lofty Cook’s tall figure materialized out of the dust-laden gloom inside.

  ‘Jesus. Billy …! You’d better come and see.’

  Lofty’s eyes were wide, his face pale. Without saying more he turned and led the way back down the unlit passage to the door at the end, which was open and where there was a light burning. As they went in he moved to one side, giving Billy a view of the interior, where the bodies of two men were sprawled on the floor close to a table in the centre of the room. Joe Grace was on his haunches beside them.

  ‘We’ve a couple over here, guv.’ His eyes seemed unnaturally bright. ‘Old friends, these are. But guess who that is …’

  He pointed and Billy saw a third body propped against the blood-spattered wall near the door, head askew, eyes empty and staring. The narrow features looked familiar.

  ‘It looks like Alfie Meeks,’ he said.

  ‘It’s him, all right.’ Grace rose to his feet. He caught Billy’s eye and grinned. ‘Bastard made a clean sweep. He topped ’em all.’

  ‘Solly Silverman, did you say? Well I never.’

  Sinclair bent down to look at the body, which was that of a man in late middle age whose forehead, lightly coated with dust, bore the blackened circular mark of a bullet fired at close range. Silver-haired and distinguished-looking, he was dressed in an expensive woollen coat of prewar cut belted in front, and the chief inspector had to peer closely before he could make out the bloodstained patch in the dark material which showed where a second shot had been fired into his chest. A navy blue silk scarf hung loosely about his neck. His face wore a surprised expression.

  ‘When I think of the years I spent trying to put that old villain away …’

  A second body lay close by, face-down, and the chief inspector turned to examine the back of the skull, which had been shattered, white bone showing through the mat of close-cut black hair.

  ‘Costa, I take it?’ he said to Billy, who nodded.

  ‘You can’t see his features too clearly, sir, but it’s Benny all right.’

  Billy could feel himself starting to sway on his feet and he collected himself quickly. A feeling of exhaustion had descended on him in the past twenty minutes, the after-effects of shock, he reckoned, and he was having to grit his teeth to keep going. He watched as Sinclair bent lower.

  ‘That looks like a shotgun,’ the chief inspector remarked, peering under the body.

  ‘It’s a sawn-off,’ Billy told him. ‘Benny usually brought one with him on a buy. Been doing it for years, by all accounts.’

  ‘A buy? So you think that’s what this was about?’ Sinclair straightened.

  ‘It’s only a guess,’ Billy admitted. But Silverman’s a fence, after all, and I can’t think what else would have got him out and down here on a cold winter’s night. Also, he had a briefcase with him — Pruitt saw it — and it’s not here now, so whoever shot him, shot them, must have taken it. If it was a buy, Solly would have brought cash with him. That’d be the drill. And he’d have had Costa with him as a bodyguard.’

  Relieved to see Sinclair’s nod — he seemed to agree — Billy shook his head to clear it. He’d rung the chief inspector from a telephone in the pub within minutes of their discovery of the three bodies, only to find he’d already left for home, and thereafter had hardly drawn breath as he’d struggled to bring order to the chaos that had soon enveloped the riverside when the rescue services, alerted to the explosion, had begun to pour down the steps on to the narrow embankment. Firemen trailing hoses had jostled with ambulance crews and air-raid wardens, their passage delayed by the White Boar’s customers, who had thronged the terrace, themselves unable to leave the area easily due to the steps being blocked. As it happened, the pub had survived the blast relatively unscathed. The V-1 had come down in the middle of the neighbouring warehouse, rearranging the debris there but causing little other damage. Only one window had been broken, and though it had been blown in with considerable force the combination of taped panes and the blackout blind had cut the amount of flying glass to a minimum. Medical teams who had arrived with the ambulances left on the street above had treated a dozen or so patients, but only two — Hornsby one of them — had been taken to hospital. Firemen had inspected the tiled roof and pronounced it safe. Gradually the crowd on the embankment had thinned.

  Meanwhile Cook and Grace had secured the murder site and prepared it for the forensic squad which Billy had called for when he’d telephoned the Yard. With the aid of two lamps borrowed from the rescue services and set up in the corners, the room was lit now like a stage set; it was possible to make out every detail down to the peeling wallpaper and the thin patina of dust that had fallen from the ceiling in the aftermath of the explosion, covering the table and dulling the pools of blood lying on the bare floorboards beside it.

  Presently Ransom had arrived, summoned from St Mary’s, and Billy had cleared the room so that the pathologist could make his examination undisturbed. In the meantime he’d instructed Grace and Pruitt to interview whatever customers they could find in the hope that one of them might have laid eyes on Alfie Meeks’s companion earlier and to question the landlord of the White Boar, Stan Jewell. But the effort had proved fruitless. A good many of Jewell’s patrons, aware by now of the police presence, had made themselves scarce, and although some of the others recalled hearing the shots that had preceded the detonation, none had witnessed the arrival of Meeks and his associate. As for the landlord himself, in Grace’s words he’d proved, not surprisingly, to be a wise monkey’.

  ‘He didn’t see who went into the back room with Meeks. Doesn’t know what happened there. Says he rents the room for private parties. Private parties …’ Joe had snorted in derision. ‘He even tried to pretend he’d never heard of Silverman, though it’s odds on he moved half the stuff he lifted through Solly when he was a second-storey man.’

  ‘What about Meeks?’ Billy had asked. ‘He’s the one who rented the room. Did he know him?’

  ‘He admits they were “acquainted”.’ Grace curled his lip. ‘I could tell Jewell didn’t think much of him, though. He all but said he couldn’t understand what Alfie was doing there. But he won’t help us, that’s for certain. Like I say, he’s a wise monkey.’

  Grace had also had a word with Barrow, but learned nothing from him. The cellar-man had been below broaching a fresh keg of beer when the bomb had gone off.

  Feeling the need for a breather, Billy had gone outside at that point, and it was while he
was leaning against the stone parapet overlooking the river, smoking a cigarette, that he’d caught sight of a familiar figure advancing briskly, though with a slight limp, along the paved walkway towards him. It was after ten; he hadn’t expected to see the chief inspector that night.

  ‘I rang the Yard before I went to bed,’ Sinclair informed him. It seems you’ve had a busy evening.’ He had looked at Billy closely. ‘How are you feeling, Inspector?’

  ‘Oh, I’m all right, sir.’ Billy had grinned, though the truth was his legs still felt wobbly. In the few moments he’d had to himself since the explosion he’d found himself thinking about his family: wondering how they would have managed without him. We were lucky. It could have been worse. Apart from Hornsby’s cut, none of us was hurt.’ Seeing the direction of Sinclair’s glance, he held up his hand, wrapped in a bloodstained handkerchief. It’s just a scratch, sir.’

  Nevertheless, he’d taken a grip of himself then. There was something he had to tell the chief inspector and there was no point in delaying it.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, but if I’d had my wits about me we could have nabbed this bloke. He took off right after he’d shot them. Ran along the bank to the steps, I’d guess.’ Billy pointed in the direction Sinclair had just come. We heard the shots. We should have grabbed him then and there.’

  Sinclair had said nothing, but Billy could see he was paying attention.

  The two bobbies I posted up on the street missed him, too. I don’t know how that happened, except they were reacting to a buzz bomb coming down, not to a police whistle. They must have thought anyone going by them was trying to get away from the explosion. And then there was the smoke and dust … clouds of it. I don’t want to lay any blame on them.’

  Nor do I, Inspector,’ Sinclair had responded briskly. And you’re not to hold yourself responsible either. You’d just had a close call. I doubt you were thinking clearly. We’re not machines, any of us.’

  I suppose not.’ Billy had been reluctant to agree. He still felt he’d come up short. ‘But it didn’t seem to bother him, did it — that bastard? The buzz bomb wasn’t part of his plan, but he went about his business just the same. Even took advantage of it, I reckon. He shot them just after the siren had sounded — when they must have been waiting like the rest of us to see what would happen next — and then afterwards, when we were trying to gather our wits, he finished the job. Didn’t blink an eyelid.’

  ‘You paint a disturbing picture,’ Sinclair had remarked drily.

  His words returned to Billy now as he watched him slowly scan the room, his glance eventually coming to rest on the third body — that of Meeks — which was partially hidden by the burly figure of Dr Ransom, who knelt beside it peering closely at a wound in the dead man’s temple.

  ‘Chief Inspector…!’ Sensing Sinclair’s gaze on him, the pathologist looked round. A little late in the season to be out with a gun, wouldn’t you say, but a good bag nonetheless. It’s one corpse after another with you fellows these days. I’m tempted to remind you there’s a war on.’

  ‘Thank you, doctor.’ Billy could see his chief was not amused. ‘In the meantime, perhaps you could tell me something about the wounds?’

  ‘The wounds …? Ransom pursed his lips.

  ‘And spare us your wit this once.’

  The pathologist flushed. He peered at Sinclair from beneath his bushy eyebrows. ‘Well, they were caused by bullets, which is plain enough. Small calibre. From a pistol or revolver, I’d say. Each man was shot twice. First in the body — in the chest — and then in the head. At least, I assume so.’

  ‘You assume …?’ The chief inspector scowled.

  ‘I mean, I assume that was the order in which the shots were fired. The ones to the head were all from close range — the powder burns are visible. It looks as though he put them down with body shots first, then gave them the coup de grace.’

  ‘And what do you deduce from that, doctor?’ Sinclair regarded him, head cocked to one side.

  ‘Why, the same as you, I dare say.’ Ransom shrugged. ‘What was done was quite deliberate. It was an execution, pure and simple.’

  11

  ‘Sir, I can’t express my concern about this case too strongly. It’s clear now that we’re dealing not only with an extraordinary situation, but with a very special kind of criminal. Unusual measures are called for; unusual arrangements.’

  Sinclair paced the carpet in front of Sir Wilfred Bennett’s desk. Detained at the crime scene in Wapping until after midnight, he had arrived at his office that morning later than usual to find a message on his desk saying the assistant commissioner wished to see him at once.

  ‘I’m not trying to “commandeer” this investigation. Styles and his team are doing all that can be done. But there’s a degree of complexity here that can’t be dealt with by the detectives on the ground, who in any case have enough to occupy them. I can’t say yet how far this inquiry will stretch, but there are already strong indications that the answers we’re looking for won’t be found here. In England. An overall view of the situation is required, and with all due modesty I feel I’m the person best placed to supply it.’

  The chief inspector paused, as much to assess how well his argument was going down with his superior as to catch his breath. He had found Bennett in a testy mood, quietly fuming over the fact that he seemed to be the last man at the Yard to have learned about what he was pleased to term this massacre in our own back yard’.

  ‘Three men shot dead. Our officers put at risk. Yet if it wasn’t for my secretary I’d still be in ignorance of the whole affair. Miss Ellis heard about it in the canteen. I had to ring down to registry for the detectives’ report. It seems that no one could take the trouble last night to pick up a telephone and let me know what was going on.’

  This last shaft had been aimed at Sinclair, whose attempts at an apology so far had fallen on deaf ears.

  ‘I’m not trying to excuse myself, sir, but when I heard about the flying bomb I rushed over there. I was concerned for our men. I didn’t know if any of them had been hurt. By the time I got to Wapping and discovered what had happened it was already too late to ring you. I thought it best to wait until morning when the situation would be clearer.’

  ‘By the time you got to Wapping …’

  Bennett glared at him. It had not escaped his notice that exposure once more to the raw surroundings of a murder scene seemed to have had an invigorating effect on his old friend and colleague. Despite his long night, the chief inspector’s eye was noticeably brighter that morning, his step more lively. In fact, observing the way he continued to pace up and down, Sir Wilfred was tempted to enquire innocently if his gout had yielded to some miracle cure.

  ‘This is precisely the point, Angus. You’re effectively my deputy, and it was made quite clear when you took the position that you were not to involve yourself in actual investigations. You were to exercise a purely supervisory role. Now I find you’ve been in the thick of it. And, as I say, too busy to carry out your primary duty which is to keep me informed at all times.’

  The assistant commissioner ended his harangue with a muttered phrase inaudible to his listener and then turned in his swivel chair to stare out of the window. But he was unable to maintain his air of displeasure. Before long curiosity got the better of him and he swung back.

  ‘A special kind of criminal, you say? What do you mean, exactly?’

  ‘I mean a man who doesn’t fit into any of the categories we’re familiar with. Before last night all we could say about him with any certainty was that he was a cold-blooded killer; now we know he’s a thief as well. But he still doesn’t match the profile of any criminal we have on record. Not remotely. He seems to have appeared suddenly from nowhere, but that can’t be so. He must have a past.’

  Bennett grunted. He leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling.

  ‘Let me see if I’ve got it straight … This whole business began with the murder of that Polish girl — am I rig
ht?’

  The chief inspector nodded.

  ‘Then there was the French prostitute … she was his next victim. Or so we assume?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘Now you’re telling me he’s killed three men, one of them a notorious fence, shot them in cold blood, and in all probability stolen a large amount of money?’

  ‘That’s the sum of it, sir.’

  ‘Then I have only one question.’ Bennett eyed his colleague. Are you absolutely certain, beyond any reasonable doubt, that it’s the same man?’

  Sinclair let out a long sigh. His smile was rueful.

  ‘Until last night, I’m not sure how I would have answered that,’ he admitted. ‘Starting with the murder of Rosa Nowak, we’ve had difficulty making any sense of this. But things have changed since we last spoke. Clever as this man is, he seems to have made a mistake and it’s given us a lead of sorts, a foothold anyway. You recall the name Alfie Meeks, I’m sure?’

  ‘Certainly.’ Bennett nodded. ‘He came to your notice because he’d been looking for that French girl. I see he was among last night’s victims.’ He gestured towards the typed report lying on his desk.

  ‘It’s become clear now this man hired Meeks. We believe he was paid to seek out Florrie Desmoulins, for one thing, and to set up last night’s meeting for another.’

  ‘You say “clear”. But isn’t this merely supposition? How can you be so sure?’

  Sinclair had paused in his pacing, and before replying he seated himself in a chair in front of Bennett’s desk.

  ‘There’s been a new development, sir. It has to do with a sum of money that was found in Meeks’s pocket. Sixty pounds, to be exact. The bodies weren’t searched until quite late, after the pathologist had done with them, which explains why it’s not in the report you have.’

  ‘Sixty pounds?’ Bennett’s eyebrows went up. ‘A tidy sum. But why is it significant?’