Parnell blinked away the memory of his own stark white face. “He would have fucking killed me,” he concluded, “if it weren’t for that dog.”
Greenaway studied the afterglow of fear in the other man’s eyes. “But you still got up the next day and did the job with him?” he asked.
“We’re not talking about that,” said Parnell, snapping back to his surroundings. “Though I’ll tell you summat else you will find interesting. The next day, Joe acted like none of it had ever happened. Were even joking with us over the breakfast table about the hangover I must have after all I’d put away. So, I don’t know whether it is all some act with him, or whether he genuinely goes somewhere else when he flips that he don’t remember in the cold light of day.” Parnell gave Greenaway a thoughtful look. “When you arrested him, did he act like he couldn’t remember none of what he’d done then, too?”
“He did,” said Greenaway. “But he overlooked the fact that he did remember to steal his victim’s handbag and bring it back to Mrs Cavendish-Field’s with him to try and sell on. In my book, that makes him bad and not mad.”
“Mebbe he’s both?” offered Parnell.
Greenaway shook his head. “In a court of law, you’re either one or the other, and I’m saying Muldoon’s bad. If he uses the defence of temporary insanity, he might convince a jury to let him off his all-important date with Mr Pierrepoint. Which is where you come in.”
“What?” Parnell assumed the same expression of outrage he had when he was arrested. “But I’ve told you all I know. You said …”
“I said, what happens next depends on how much I liked what I heard. And I liked most of it, so here’s the deal. You appear as a witness for the prosecution. You tell the nice ladies and gentlemen of the jury how Muldoon approached you in the less than salubrious surrounds of the bottle party and asked you to engage in some criminal activity with him,” Greenaway lifted his hand before Parnell could protest. “No mention needs to be made of any cigarette lorries, Mrs Cavendish-Field or any of that. I give you my word.”
Parnell swallowed. “Then what?” he asked.
“Coupons,” Greenaway suggested, “Canadian whisky, rations from his mess – something he’d already had away himself. You try telling him you’re only there for the music, but he’s persistent. So you explain you’re not really the villain that you appear to be, you’re actually a magician, which is why you spend your time hanging round dodgy spielers with showbiz types. That seems to satisfy him, though he still asks you if there’s anyone else in the room might be interested in his nefarious scheme. You tell him nishte, you say goodnight and that’s where it ends. This way, Mrs Cavendish-Field stays out of it, you’ve got no explaining to do to Bluebell, and best of all, I get to prove my point about Muldoon and there’s nothing his barrister can do about it.”
At the mention of Bluebell, the fear returned to Parnell’s eyes.
“What if I say no?” he asked.
Greenaway’s eyelids lowered. “Then I tell the chief of the Flying Squad all I know about the cigarette lorries and I summon Mrs Cavendish-Field to appear in court,” he said. “If it would help to make up your mind, I can take you to the morgue. Have a look at Muldoon’s handiwork up close and imagine it’s good old Edith lying there instead. Which would you prefer?”
28
IT’S A SIN TO TELL A LIE
Saturday, 21 February 1942
Soapy’s was open for business by the time Parnell got back to Brick Lane, Bear keeping guard at the window, Bluebell having his morning shave three hours earlier than usual. Only Bobby was nowhere to be seen.
“Maestro!” Bluebell waved from under his towels as the bell above the opening door rang out Parnell’s arrival. The room smelled of fresh bread and coffee, it made the Maestro’s stomach yawn. “Here at last. I knew that bastard Greenaway could have nishte on you, my boy. Sit down, have a beigel, tell your Uncle Blue what kept you all night.”
Bear shook a brown paper bag in his direction. Parnell lowered himself down beside him, rummaged inside. The beigels were still warm from the oven. As his fingers closed over one, he felt quite sick from hunger and couldn’t stop himself from wolfing down a huge mouthful.
“Coffee?” Bear lifted the red coffee pot from the table between them and poured into a cup that had obviously been set aside for the Maestro’s return.
“How long you all been here?” Parnell asked.
“We followed you up West, hung about Archer Street until it became evident you was in shtuck for the night,” said Bluebell. “And, since my old lady couldn’t lay off with the yammer, we come back here to get some peace and quiet.”
Bear made the alarming grunting noise that was actually his laugh.
“I’m sorry.” Parnell dunked his beigel in the coffee, chased down another mouthful.
“Don’t worry yourself,” Bluebell said. “Finish your breakfast.” He started to hum along to the radio while Soapy applied the razor to his cheeks. For a few minutes, the sound of Parnell’s munching jaws battled with Benny Goodman’s orchestra to be the loudest noises in the shop. Then, having worked off his hunger, the grateful Maestro took a final swig of coffee, wiped his mouth and dusted the crumbs away.
“Remember my old Canadian connection,” he said. “Mr Lucky Strike?”
Bluebell frowned. “The army kid?” he said, leaning forwards to let Soapy remove the towels from round his neck. “What, he’s gone and got you in lumber?”
“No,” said Parnell, “he’s gone and killed a woman, chucked her off Waterloo Bridge. Told you he was a maniac.”
“What?” Bluebell repeated. “When was this?”
“Tuesday just gone,” Parnell informed him. “Greenaway picked him up in Leatherhead, at a place I used to stay back when I were doing me magic act. He took a shufti at the register while he was there, saw my name on it and tried to put two and two together.”
“Oh yeah?” Bluebell examined himself in the mirror. “How far d’he get?”
“Far enough for me to realise whatever hole Joe’s got himself into, he’s not grassed on us. Greenaway knows nishte.” As he spoke, Parnell offered a silent prayer that Greenaway would keep his word and his companions would never find out about his court date. “He were just trying to put the frighteners on, ’cos it seems to me, this whole business of catching murderers has got to him.” Warming to a diversionary theme, he tapped the side of his head. “He’s starting to lose his grip.”
Bluebell projected his bottom lip. “I heard something like that,” he said, nodding thoughtfully. “All this Blackout Ripper grief he didn’t take so well, maybe it brought up some bad memories for him. That and him being on the Murder Squad instead of the Heavy Mob, it fucks with the bastard’s digestive system. You think he’s starting to fray at the edges, Maestro?”
“Oh aye,” nodded Parnell, lips curling into a smile. “Happen I showed him one of me tricks during the course of our conversation – nowt special, just made me cigarette vanish and then reappear again behind his left lughole. Kids’ stuff, really, but it made the bugger jump about ten foot in the air.”
“Mazel tov!” Bluebell clapped his hands. Bear made a noise like a Lancaster bomber starting up its engines. “You’re a mensch, Maestro.” He got down off his stool, put a fresh cigar in his mouth and lit up. “Why don’t you take the rest of the day off,” he suggested, “recuperate your energies? Seems to me you earned it. Meet us back over Archer Street later on, after you had some proper shluff.”
Parnell got to his feet, still wobbly, but thanks to the thoughtfully provided breakfast, now only weak from relief. “Thanks, Blue, think I’ll take you up on that,” he said, shaking the big man’s proffered hand. “Good job we ditched him when we did, eh?”
“That’s right,” said Bluebell, clapping him on the back, watching him make his way out of the shop. It wasn’t until Parnell had disappeared into the throng around the market stalls that Bluebell turned around to speak.
“Did you know ab
out this thing with the woman?”
Bear shook his head. “Not me, boss.”
Bluebell scowled and spat. “We got a month before Sammy gets parole and now all this. What are we paying that gonef Morrie for?”
“Not his tips, that’s for sure,” said Bear.
“OK.” Bluebell’s eyes narrowed as his mind raced at the problem in hand. “I can’t be having this mishegas. We better think what to do next …”
– . –
Despite an overnight drop in attendance, as the murky Brixton afternoon made its gloomy process into night, the ranks of the Campaign Against Capital Punishment began to swell afresh, their singing and chants assisted by the recent arrival of a brass band. Having run the gauntlet of their ringleader’s harangues while his photographer captured the scene on film, Swaffer had retreated to the safe distance of the Governor’s office for a personal lowdown on Miss Bracewell’s tactics.
“About half-past three, a mobile canteen appears on the High Street and makes its way up to our gates, stopping to recruit every shopper in its path,” the Governor told him. “By four o’clock I made fifty-seven recruits to the cause, all familiar faces.”
“What was she feeding them?” Swaffer asked.
“Fish suppers, brown ale and chocolates from Fortnum & Mason, apparently. All paid for by Miss Bracewell, of course, but I suspect she had help with the menu. She’s suddenly getting much better at all this.”
“I think I met her new PR man in the Effra Arms last night,” said Swaffer. “A young chap in a camelhair coat who certainly did seem much more in touch with the tastes and concerns of the local population. What time did the band get here?”
“Four o’clock,” the Governor said. “Along with the second consignment of brown ale. Don’t quote me, but I’d wager that came straight from the cellar of the Effra, too. By then there was about eighty of them out there, looked like a bleeding Hogarth etching. Still, it won’t last. I give it until the siren goes or until the beer runs out, whatever comes first. I doubt she’ll do a repeat performance. Beer or no beer, people round here just don’t stay that interested for long.”
“She’s got what she came for, her face in every paper.” Swaffer stopped scribbling for a minute. “And what of Cummins – does he have any idea all of this is being done in his honour?”
“Oh, Cummins is still playing his Good Chap role to the hilt,” said the Governor. “Spends his days playing gin rummy, telling the guards all about his aerial exploits and trying to convince them he’s some form of minor royalty. Way he’s charmed most of them, I wouldn’t be surprised if word hadn’t been passed along.” The Governor shook his head. “Makes you sick, don’t it?”
“Miss Bracewell once asked me why, as a good socialist, I didn’t support her cause,” said Swaffer. “I told her it was because, unlike her, I had seen the bodies. I wonder how much she would like to be left alone in a room with the people she tries to save.”
“Don’t tempt me,” said the Governor.
– . –
Greenaway was back in the old street, back in the bad old days. Past all the costermongers shouting out their wares, the pens of livestock bawling just as loudly, the air thick with their stink and clamour. It felt as if his feet weren’t touching the ground, he was hovering inches above the cobbles like a ghost. He saw a little girl, aged about nine, her copper hair hidden under a gypsy headscarf, reading palms for ha’pennies. He saw a little boy, aged about six, deftly removing her customers’ wallets from their pockets while they were so distracted. He carried on past both of them, back to the soot-dark slum of a house at the end of the street, the house that had once been his home, passed through the front door without having to open it and glided up the stairs. Greenaway knew where this was leading, to which room and which vistas of horror. “No!” he said in his sleep and rolled over. The vision cleared. He was back on the bridge of the SS Kalomo, in the middle of the last war, the roar and hiss of the waves in his ears.
A hand came down on his shoulder. “You won’t find him there, Inspector.” It was Mrs Cavendish-Field’s voice, plummy and condescending, with a little trace of amusement. “He’ll be on Waterloo Bridge, won’t he?” Greenaway turned his head as her voice changed. It wasn’t Mrs Cavendish-Field after all, it was the same little girl as before, but all grown up and wearing the landlady’s expensive tweeds, mocking him with those same green eyes. At her feet, a brown springer spaniel gave a little whine. “You want to get yourself down there, Ted,” she said, raising an eyebrow. “Before there’s any more …”
“Inspector Greenaway, sir,” a man’s voice cut through her. “It’s seven o’clock.”
Greenaway’s eyelids flickered, then opened on a curtained cubicle in the Turkish Baths. Last night’s work sweated out of his system by a series of saunas, massages and icy plummets, he had at last managed seven hours’ straight kip in the Moorish netherworld of Tottenham Court Road.
“Thanks, Ali,” he said to the attendant, sitting up on his bunk. It was the sound of gurgling waters and hissing stones that had guided the latter part of his reverie, mirroring the feel of the ocean rising and falling as he had once known as he worked the ship’s radio. He took his time dressing, breathing in the smells of amber and musk that permeated the air along with the other, comfortingly male aromas of the baths.
According to Peter Lind Construction’s rota, Morris Spence didn’t start work for another two hours, which gave Greenaway plenty of time to get properly fed before he returned to Waterloo Bridge.
He checked his reflection in the mirror before he left. Despite his restful afternoon, the face that stared back looked huge and strangely white, compared to the mauve smudges under his eyes. Greenaway felt the ground shift beneath his feet, as if he really was back on board his old ship, and wondered for a moment if he was starting to go mad. No, it was just the vibration of a tube train passing close by. The seal was still unbroken on the new bottle he’d put in his murder bag. Despite every provocation of the past two weeks, he hadn’t got there yet.
– . –
Peter Beverley had put a sergeant on watch at the construction site. Greenaway met him amid the huddle of huts on the northeast side of the bridge, about ten feet away from the parapet where Margaret McArthur had dropped to her death. After arranging a signal, they took up flanking positions on either side of the night watchman’s hut. Though they were prepared for a long night, instinct told Greenaway someone would be here as soon as Morris’s shift started.
He checked his watch and sure enough, a familiar, burly figure appeared in his sights, glancing around as he made his way onto the bridge, then proceeded on a direct course to the night watchman’s door.
Two minutes, they had agreed, before they went in after him. Give them the time to catch whatever act was going on in there. As Bluebell began to knock on the door, Greenaway made his signal to the sergeant, turning his torch on and off three times just as his quarry was given entrance. Then he stole forwards into the night.
– . –
“Morrie,” said Bluebell, placing a Gladstone bag on top of the night watchman’s table. “However many of them coupons you still got, put them in here now. And give me the plates while you’re about it.”
“Why?” Morris Spence put down his glass of rye whisky. “What’s going on?”
Bluebell cocked his head, scrutinised the other man with astonishment. “Remind me how you got this job, Morrie,” he said. “Did someone tell your boss here that you was a good lookout?” He leaned forward, across the table. “There’s been a murder on the bridge involving someone we know and you don’t think to tell me?”
Morris opened his mouth to protest and then shut it again as he registered the little, snub-nosed pistol that extended from the sleeve of Bluebell’s coat, pointing in his direction. He opened the drawer of his desk instead. “The petrol coupons?” he asked.
“What do you think?” said Bluebell. “Of course, the petrol coupons. The ones that came from the sam
e place as this did, you gonef.” He tapped the top of the tumbler with the object in his hand. “Stopped by to see you before he chucked her over the side, did he?”
The night watchman looked perplexed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Blue,” he said. “I swear to God, I ain’t seen that one in weeks.”
“Well, that bastard Greenaway has.” Bluebell swiped the tumbler off the table, sent it smashing to the floor. “He’s got him down the nick.”
Morrie jumped in his seat. “You mean – he was the one what done that tart in?” he said, beads of sweat breaking out on his forehead. “Him? The Canadian?”
“Yes! The Canadian!” Bluebell shook his hands in a gesture of exasperation that made his companion fear he might accidentally blow his brains out.
“All right already,” Morris ducked beneath his desk to produce the plates for the portable press he had adapted for the forgery of betting slips to petrol coupons that Muldoon and others had brought him. Bluebell dropped them into his bag, waved the pistol about a bit more.
“The petrol coupons,” Morris muttered, burrowing in his drawers. Sweat rolled down his forehead as he began extracting sheaves of paper and flinging them on the table.
“In the bag, Morrie,” Bluebell ordered.
“I don’t know if …” Morris began and then thought better of it. In his scramble to do Bluebell’s bidding, his nervous, fumbling fingers sent the paperwork flying. He knelt down to pick spilt coupons up from the floor just as the door crashed open and the hut was flooded with shouting.
“What the …” Bluebell spun round and was confronted again by a face from the past.
Without the Moon Page 25
