London Calling

by Sara Sheridan

  ‘Do you know Chief Inspector Green, at all?’ she enquired.

  ‘Miss, the reason the police drink in here is ’cause we don’t say a word.’

  ‘I’ve heard he looks terribly young. That’s all. I wondered what he was like.’

  ‘You need to make up your mind about that yourself. I’m sorry about your mate. I always dislike it when they kill themselves. Being locked up is hard on a man. A trial is better for everyone in the long run, isn’t it?’

  Mirabelle sipped the sherry. ‘Does it happen often, do you know? People killing themselves in custody?’

  The barman regarded the beer taps as if he was drawing inspiration from the metal plates. ‘Odd thing to ask. Whatcha getting at?’

  Mirabelle tore off some bread and carefully placed a blob of chutney and a shaving of cheese on top. ‘It’s a genuine question. I’ve never heard of it before – someone dying in police custody. But you have.’

  She popped the bread into her mouth and gave him a small smile as she chewed.

  ‘Well, it happens all right,’ said the barman slowly. ‘Not too often, but I heard of it. They generally, you know, hang themselves,’ he gestured upwards. ‘If a man’s had enough, he’s had enough, see. Plenty fellas would give up if they thought they was going down for a stretch quite apart from the guilt. That young darkie of yours killed a bird, didn’t he? Maybe it hit him all at once, what he’d done. You want anything else, Miss? It’s only I’ve got to get down to the cellar to see to this tap.’

  ‘Gosh – everyone assumes the girl is dead. No one’s even found a body. Do you think,’ Mirabelle continued smoothly, ‘you might manage a cup of tea?’

  The barman looked nonplussed. ‘Kitchen’s not open yet,’ he said. ‘I can’t do nothing that involves cooking.’

  Outside, Mirabelle headed towards the river. The plane trees were skeletal and the opposite riverbank formed a vague misty outline through the gathering smog. She turned left along the Embankment and then paused in front of the sign mounted on the stone wall: city of westminster. metropolitan police. The building loomed. The door was open. Mirabelle took a deep breath. This was where Lindon died. Further along the Embankment two police horses were making their rounds, the noise of their hooves echoing loudly along the otherwise empty road and across the water. It felt eerie. Had Lindon lost hope in this place? Vesta was convinced he had been murdered, but this morning it was easy to imagine someone giving up here. Even the entrance looked intimidating. Mirabelle braced herself and mounted the steps.

  Inside, the desk sergeant was perched on a high stool. He was out of place, like a caricature of a country policeman. His cheeks were pink as summer plums, and his eyes sparkled. His uniform was immaculate, and Mirabelle reckoned he must be close to retirement. In the grey silence of the Embankment she had expected a shady ghostlike figure, one that might have presided over Lindon’s death.

  Mirabelle gave him her most winning smile. ‘May I speak with Chief Inspector Green, please?’

  ‘No, Madam. He’s not available.’

  ‘A colleague perhaps? Someone involved with Rose Bellamy Gore’s disappearance? I have some information.’ The sergeant’s sharp green eyes sized her up. ‘Give me a moment, Madam.’

  He disappeared into the back and returned a minute later with a fresh-faced youngster who breezed through the swing doors. The officer was in plain clothes, his outfit a pale jumble of worn tweed – a suit and tie but still, shabby in contrast to the desk sergeant’s orderly spit-and-polish appearance. The sergeant headed straight for his reception desk and the youngster stood alone. He didn’t look as if he’d been through a whirlwind exactly but he’d certainly endured a stiff breeze. His shoes, Mirabelle noticed, were scuffed. They looked as if they’d never been polished.

  ‘Madam?’

  ‘Are you C.I. Green?’

  The boy laughed at the apparent ridiculousness of the question. ‘No, Madam. Chief Inspector Green isn’t in the station. I’m Constable Adler. May I get you a cup of tea?’

  ‘Are you working on the Bellamy Gore case, Constable Adler?’

  ‘Yes, Madam. Come this way. There’s an interview room we can use.’

  If anything the boy was younger than Lindon. She realised that was probably why he had seemed so eager. He couldn’t be long out of training college. She was not, however, put off guard by his appearance. During the war some of the country’s sharpest minds had looked as if they had been dragged through a hedge backwards. It was something SOE had joked about. The Nazis were not disposed to take advantage of talent that came in unconventional packages. Jack always said Britain wouldn’t have won the war without its eccentric geniuses – white, black, gypsy and Jewish. Unlike the opposition, all talent was welcome. However, this kid might not be cut from that jib. Mirabelle considered him. He had already made a mistake. He’d invited her in without knowing what she wanted or, for that matter, who she was. It might be that he was simply inexperienced. Whatever it was, his incompetence was a stroke of luck. And it was fortunate that the more experienced desk sergeant hadn’t intervened; no doubt thinking the smartly dressed woman would be no trouble and happy to let the boy get on with it.

  ‘Have you been working all weekend?’ she said.

  ‘Yes, Madam.’

  ‘So you were here yesterday?’

  ‘Yes, Madam.’

  ‘Gosh, you must be exhausted!’

  Mirabelle followed the boy through several doors, down a corridor and into an office containing two desks and four chairs. A coat-stand leaned in the corner with two regulation mackintoshes hanging forlornly from its pegs. She took a seat and the boy went off to make them tea. Mirabelle looked round. She wondered where Lindon’s cell had been. Like most police stations, this building was a warren. Somewhere in here Lindon had given up or had been made to do so.

  ‘Where are the holding cells?’ she asked casually as Adler returned and handed her an over-full cup of milky white tea.

  ‘Downstairs.’

  The tea was so weak Mirabelle wondered if he had administered actual leaves at any stage in the process. It wasn’t even hot. She sipped politely.

  ‘Is there something you’d like to report, Madam? Before we start, I need to take some details from you.’

  Mirabelle decided on shock tactics. She sat back so she was open to him and then crossed her legs elegantly. He was expecting her to be uninvolved. She’d challenge that expectation.

  ‘I’m the woman who accompanied Lindon Claremont to the station in Brighton. I know Detective Superintendent McGregor. I convinced Lindon that he had to give a witness statement, as he was possibly the last person to see Rose alive. Detective Superintendent McGregor handed him over to you on Friday afternoon. When I heard he’d died yesterday I wanted to come in. I felt I had to.’

  ‘What is it that you want, Madam?’

  ‘I’m here to ask some questions about how Lindon died, Constable Adler.’

  The boy hesitated. Mirabelle leaned forward. She did not break eye contact.

  ‘Well,’ he started, ‘it’s not usual procedure …’

  ‘I’m asking you how a person for whom I feel responsible died,’ Mirabelle pressed.

  Adler took a deep breath and his eyes hardened. ‘All right, Mr Claremont hanged himself. The case will go to the appropriate authorities on Monday and there will be an inquest. You’re entitled to attend and to receive a copy of the report. It’s open to the public and all above board. Mr Claremont died here in Westminster so the Coroner’s Court is Horseferry Road. It’ll be held there.’

  ‘How did he hang himself ? Do you know?’

  ‘Madam, I’m not at liberty to give you details. It’ll all be open at the inquest and you can raise any concerns there. They deal with these cases promptly.’

  ‘Please, Constable Adler. I’m racked with
guilt. Lindon is a close acquaintance of a friend of mine. He came to me for help and advice, and I handed him over to his death. I feel as if it’s my fault. I’ve hardly slept since. I keep thinking about it. If I knew what had happened, it would make it far easier. Please.’

  Adler sighed again. It was all due to come out in the inquest, anyway. ‘He tore the blanket. He was in one of the cells here. He rigged up something with the bars on the window. I’m not sure that it’s appropriate, really …’

  ‘Did you see his body?’

  ‘What does that have to do with it? Listen, Madam, I’m sorry, but the Metropolitan Police doesn’t …’

  ‘Had you charged him at the time of his death, Constable Adler?’

  ‘No.’ Adler was searching Mirabelle’s face, trying to figure her out.

  Mirabelle pulled a hankie from her clutch bag. The boy had responded well to her comment about feeling responsible for Lindon’s death. Playing on her femininity and making him feel uncomfortable might be highly effective. ‘I just can’t imagine why he did it,’ she sniffed.

  Adler fiddled with his tie. ‘Guilt?’ he suggested. ‘I’d say it was guilt.’

  ‘Perhaps. However, I’m fairly sure that Lindon Claremont wasn’t guilty.’ Mirabelle blew her nose delicately.

  ‘Why?’ Adler sounded genuinely interested.

  ‘Because I don’t think he left Mac’s with Rose on Thursday night, Constable.’

  ‘We have witnesses to that effect, Madam. That’s a matter of police record.’

  ‘Did you find out where they went?’

  ‘The investigation is still ongoing.’

  ‘So you haven’t located the girl?’

  ‘We’re still looking,’ he said in an exasperated tone.

  ‘If I were Chief Inspector Green, I’d be wondering why Lindon kept the cigarette case. I mean, honestly, what kind of a fool would keep something like that if he’d committed a violent crime? It links him straight to it.’

  ‘People do, Madam, with all due respect. I admit it’s not thinking straight but people do.’

  ‘Lindon told me he was warned. He was at Mac’s and the doorman told him the police were after him. Might that have happened?’

  ‘Word can get around London at night pretty quickly. But he wasn’t there. He didn’t go back after he assaulted Miss Bellamy Gore.’

  ‘How do you know he assaulted her?’

  The boy bit his lip. He knew he shouldn’t be answering these questions but he was finding it hard to control the situation and eject this smart and upset lady from his office. Still, the question cut to the chase. Just as he looked as if he was about to jump to his feet and insist she leave, Mirabelle realised she’d gone too far. She changed tack.

  ‘I just wonder what made Lavinia Blyth concerned when Rose left the club, that’s all. Rose was a confident young woman. She had, I’m sure, an air about her – she knew what she was doing. I don’t understand it. And Lavinia didn’t leave. She didn’t follow her friend. She didn’t go home. She went back into the club to dance. Doesn’t that seem strange to you if she was so concerned about Rose? What made her report it, do you think?’

  ‘Well it’s not usual behaviour, is it? A society girl like that leaving with, well, he was a Negro musician, Madam. Miss Bellamy Gore was in danger. She was very young. Lavinia Blyth might have saved her friend’s life.’

  ‘Constable Adler, I do hope you’re not suggesting that a black musician is more inclined towards criminal behaviour than a white musician. Some of us fought to defend our country against such beliefs.’

  Adler looked sheepish. ‘No. Of course not, Madam.’ Mirabelle pressed home. ‘Besides, Rose’s body has not been found. We cannot assume she is dead.’

  The boy shifted in his chair. ‘We found part of her dress,’ he said to justify himself and then he put up his hand to try to prevent the inevitable questions. The gesture was futile.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘I can’t tell you that, Ma’am. But we have evidence. The dress was torn. A debutante with a torn dress returns home if she’s alive. Miss Bellamy Gore didn’t go home.’

  ‘Are you certain the material you found was from her dress?’

  Momentarily Adler looked like a pleased little schoolboy – he had the answer to that question. ‘Her maid identified it. It’s an unusual fabric. All evidence points to the fact that Miss Bellamy Gore got into a cab with Lindon Claremont. They headed north-east. Her dress was ripped. About an hour later he caught an early train to Brighton in possession of her cigarette case. He spun you a line, Madam. I’m sorry. Look, you shouldn’t feel bad. You brought him in. You did the right thing. You might well have saved another young girl. Another victim. If he’d got away who knows what he’d have done next.’

  Mirabelle sighed. ‘St Pancras? Finsbury?’ she guessed. Adler stood up. ‘What?’

  ‘Well, if they headed north-east from Windmill Street, did you find the material from Rose’s dress somewhere near Russell Square? Or, goodness me, were they heading for the open air? There aren’t many big parks on that side of town. Let me see, did they go to Coram’s Fields? Did you find the material there?’

  Adler flinched. ‘Madam, this is an ongoing investigation. I’ve said quite enough as it is.’

  Mirabelle remained seated. To keep the boy’s attention she fiddled with the cuff of her gloves. ‘All right. I’ll go. Poor Lindon,’ she said, rising slowly. ‘I’m not convinced he has been given the benefit of the doubt, you know. Did you speak to him at all? I mean he seemed such a pleasant kid. He loved his music. He didn’t appear to me to be violent in the slightest.’

  Adler moved to the door. ‘You can’t tell by people’s appearance,’ he said. ‘Most people, of course, probably are what they seem. But some people are like wolves in sheep’s clothing. Those are the ones we end up dealing with.’

  Adler escorted her firmly into the hallway, a hand planted in the small of her back. The floor of the corridor had been buffed to a high shine and Mirabelle’s heels clicked as they walked past the public information notices and procedural reminders tacked to the walls. She wanted to get every last drop of information she could here. Adler now thought he was getting rid of her. Perhaps he’d drop his guard.

  ‘It seems strange to me that he killed himself. Out of character,’ she mused.

  Adler slowed slightly. ‘I don’t think he planned it. I took him back to his cell on Friday, and he asked me if I thought he’d be out by Sunday. He had a booking to play somewhere in the afternoon. Some pub on Drury Lane.’

  ‘Did you reply to his question?’

  ‘I said it didn’t look likely he’d be getting out. Well, it didn’t look likely, did it?’

  Mirabelle paused before the final set of swing doors. ‘Thank you,’ she said, her gloved hand on the brass door handle. ‘Oh, there’s just one more thing. That scrap of material. What colour was it?’

  ‘What do you want to know that for, Madam?’

  ‘Oh, idle curiosity.’

  Adler pushed the door open for her. He sighed. ‘Yellow. Pale yellow with silver thread through it,’ he said. ‘She was wearing a full-length dress. It must’ve been ripped as far as the knee.’

  ‘It was Coram’s Fields, wasn’t it? Where you found the material? Poor Rose.’

  Adler hesitated and then nodded.

  ‘Goodbye,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’

  Mirabelle breezed through the lobby. She nodded smartly at the desk sergeant and headed for the exit.

  Adler, as if coming suddenly to his senses, ran across to hold the door open. ‘Madam,’ he said, ‘I didn’t catch your name.’

  Mirabelle smiled. She wondered if the boy had learned anything during their exchange. If he wanted to develop any kind of police career he’d need to up his game. ‘I didn’t give it,’
she said with a smile and pushed her way into the smog by the river.

  Chapter 14

  Home is birthplace ratified by memory.

  Most of the houses in the area where Vesta was born were rented from the local council; the rest were owned by a few landlords with large portfolios and little inclination to effect repairs. Nothing much had changed in this part of town for a hundred years, apart from the sites cleared by the bombing. Rebuilding had started, but it was haphazard, and although one or two modern blocks of flats had been erected, the majority of the houses were soot-smudged Victorian brick two-up-two-downs with chipped doors and peeling window frames. Here in the East End the poorest families eked out a squalid existence, jammed up against each other; many of them crowded into tiny bedsits with no electricity.

  Lines of residential streets clustered around the docks away from the water. The shoreline was reserved for small factories, dockyards and bonded warehouses. It felt heavy here and the lack of green space always depressed Vesta; it especially dispirited her that rather than being cultivated with vegetables or Sowers the bombsites had descended into sludgy makeshift playgrounds for the local kids. Vesta couldn’t remember finding the place so grey and drab when she was growing up here. Now, her return was muted by the feeling that life in the East End was drained of colour – with its grey houses, muddy gap sites and the shit-brown river that ran through it all.

  Yet, the same could not be said for the people. The rows of local shops teemed with life, and like all areas where people lived and worked together, everyone seemed to know each other. Children of all ages played on the pavements; at this time of year they were wearing home knitted sweaters in vibrant colours. A little girl with an orange cardigan reminded Vesta of a bright flower in the mud. Women did their shopping on the street where they lived. The menfolk worked in one capacity or another for a handful of employers. Or else they ran local businesses – small shops that provided foodstuffs and other necessities. The local pubs were the hub of the community as much as the churches. Messages could be left and parcels picked up in either place.