Shadows of the Dead

by Jim Eldridge

  ‘Can I quote you on that?’ asked Turner, switching his smile back on, but this time it was insolent and challenging.

  ‘You can tell your employer that if anyone else is sent to harass my family, I will arrest them.’

  Turner gave a rueful sigh. ‘Very well, Chief Inspector. I’ll pass those comments back to my editor. But you’re passing up a great opportunity.’

  ‘Go,’ snapped Stark.

  Turner looked as if he was going to make another attempt to involve Stark, but then he shrugged and got back into his car. Stark waited until he was sure Turner had left before entering the house.

  His mother was in the kitchen, putting the kettle on. Having cried her eyes dry at the hospital, she seemed to have herself under control again. Doing routine actions – making a cup of tea, preparing meals, tending to Stephen – would help her keep that control. It would be in the hours of the night, alone in bed, without the familiar figure of Henry beside her, that she would be at her lowest.

  Time helps heal the pain, Stark had been told when Susan had died. No it doesn’t. The pain is always there; it just becomes less raw as time passes.

  ‘You ought to go next door and get Stephen,’ she said.

  ‘Are you sure?’ asked Stark. ‘Are you ready for him?’

  ‘He’ll be wondering what happened. He needs to know.’

  Stark nodded and went next door. One look at Stark’s face and Mrs Pierce understood. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered.

  Stephen appeared. ‘How’s grandad?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s not good news, I’m afraid,’ said Stark.

  ‘But he’s going to get better?’

  ‘Let’s talk at home.’

  Stephen frowned, but gathered his coat and followed his father home. Once they were inside and the door was shut, Stark stopped Stephen and knelt down so that he was at his son’s eye level.

  ‘I’m afraid your grandad died,’ he said.

  Stephen stared at him, then his lips trembled and he suddenly burst into tears. Stark pulled him close to him.

  ‘We have to be strong for your grandma’s sake,’ he said quietly. ‘It’s what your grandad would have wanted from us. It’s going to be hard for her.’

  He stood up, still keeping his arms around his sobbing son, and led him into the kitchen. Sarah was by the stove, busying herself, and when she saw Stephen, she said, ‘You told him, then.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Stark.

  Stephen suddenly broke away from his father and ran to Sarah, throwing himself into her arms, and as Sarah enfolded him, she began to cry again, this time great sobs that shook her whole body.

  ‘I’ve got some phone calls to make,’ said Stark. ‘Things to sort out for tomorrow.’

  He left them and went to the phone. Like his mother, he needed to be busy, push what had happened away until he was able to deal with it.

  He telephoned Danvers at his flat, but there was no answer, so he tried the family home. Bridges answered.

  ‘Is Master Robert there?’ Stark asked.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Bridges. ‘If you’ll wait one moment, I’ll fetch him.’

  Soon after, Danvers was on the phone. ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘Sergeant, I’ll need you to look after things first thing in the morning.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ There was a hesitant pause, then Danvers asked, ‘Is there anything I should know about?’

  ‘Yes. I’m afraid my father has just passed away. I’ll need to make arrangements.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, sir.’

  ‘Thank you. Tell Chief Superintendent Benson, and anyone else who needs to know. I’ll be in as soon as I can.’

  ‘I’m sure no one will be expecting you in tomorrow, under the circumstances, sir.’

  No, but I need to be busy, thought Stark. ‘I’ll be there,’ said Stark.

  TWENTY-SIX

  That evening, Stark made lists of things he needed to do. Contact the funeral directors. Write a letter to Stephen’s school explaining that Stephen would be off the next day. All the paraphernalia we use to try to keep our mind from dwelling on what’s just happened.

  He telephoned Scotland Yard and cancelled his transport for the morning.

  He waited until ten o’clock, after his mother and Stephen had both gone to bed, before pouring himself a whisky and settling down. He was just raising the glass in a silent toast to his father when the telephone rang.

  He hurried to pick it up before the shrill sound of the bell disturbed Sarah, and heard Amelia’s voice.

  ‘Paul. I’m sorry to ring so late, but I’ve just heard about your father.’

  Her anti-royalist nurse friend from the women’s meeting. The bush telegraph works fast.

  ‘I am so sorry, Paul.’

  ‘Thank you, Amelia.’

  ‘If there’s anything I can do …’

  ‘No. Thank you. But … it helps that you called.’

  ‘I’m sorry we parted on bad terms. I really was trying to help.’

  ‘I know. It was just … bad timing.’

  There was a pause, then she said, ‘I do love you. And I do miss you.’

  ‘I miss you, too. Very much. And when this is over …’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘When will that be?’

  ‘Soon, I hope.’

  ‘You know who killed Johnny and the American?’

  ‘We know one of them for certain, and we think we know who else may be involved. We’re just trying to connect the dots. Mainly, to do with why.’

  ‘I’ll be here when you’re ready,’ she said. ‘Call me if I can help.’

  Next morning, after Stark had delivered the letter to Stephen’s school explaining his absence, he called at Levertons, the local funeral directors. He could have carried out his business on the telephone, but he preferred to deal with people face to face. If he had telephoned, he would also have been aware of his mother listening, suffering as details were thrashed out. He knew what was wanted because death was a subject they’d talked about. Cremation, which meant Golders Green crematorium, where most North London cremations traditionally took place. Golders Green was a mainly Jewish area, and once again Stark was reminded of the recent spate of attacks on the Jewish community. Was it just outbreaks of racist hooliganism? No, it was much more organized than that. There was something rotten at the heart of it.

  With everything to be organized handed over to Levertons, Stark returned home. He telephoned Scotland Yard for a car to collect him, and then settled down with Sarah and Stephen. His mother had made a stew for their lunch, but Stark noticed that she hardly ate any of hers. They talked of Henry, made small talk and discussed the arrangements for the funeral. Stark was relieved when his car arrived to take him to work.

  His driver was someone he’d known for years, Tom Watson, so he’d be spared the trouble of making polite conversation. Stark acknowledged Tom’s condolences as he got into the back of the car. He saw that a newspaper had been left on the seat.

  ‘I don’t know if you’ve seen today’s paper, sir. The Target,’ said Tom as the car moved off.

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’re on the front page.’

  Stark picked the paper up and felt a rush of anger as he saw his photograph next to a banner headline that blared out: Are the Jews controlling Scotland Yard?

  His anger was replaced by a cold rage as he read the story by the Daily Target’s ‘special reporter’, Harry Turner:

  The Daily Target offered a reward of one hundred pounds to bring the attackers of Detective Sergeant Robert Danvers – the son of Colonel Deverill CBE and Mrs Danvers – to justice.

  We also supplied the evidence of eye witnesses which identified the men who attacked Sergeant Danvers as belonging to an extreme group of Jewish thugs who have already carried out similar vicious attacks on British people across London.

  The same man refused both of these offers of our assistance: Detective Chief Inspector Paul Stark at Scotland Yard, who is supposed to be investigating th
is case, and also the double murder of Lord Fairfax and American businessman, Carl Adams. There have been suggestions that anti-British Jewish conspirators were involved in this double murder. Yet Detective Chief Inspector Stark refuses to look at the evidence we have offered him to solve these cases.

  Why?

  Could it be that DCI Stark has an unhealthy association with these Jewish subversives and is deliberately turning a blind eye to their activities?

  We have had reports from a reliable inside source that DCI Stark recently intervened in a case in North London, outside his area of operation, when – as this newspaper reported – a Jew called Israel Rothstein beat a working man to death. DCI Stark took time out of his important investigation into the horrific double murder and made a personal visit to Finsbury Park police station to urge that the charges against Rothstein be dropped.

  Why?

  What is the link between Detective Chief Inspector Stark and the Jewish conspirators that he can be summoned to their help at a click of their fingers? What is their hold over him?

  ‘A bit rough, sir,’ said the driver.

  ‘That’s one way of looking at it,’ said Stark acidly. He stuffed the newspaper in the pocket of his overcoat and said, ‘Change of destination, Tom. Take me to Whitehall.’

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Stark sat on the hard wooden bench in the large ornate marbled hall that was the waiting area of the Foreign and Colonial Office. He’d been here for over an hour, but then that was understandable: you didn’t just walk off the street and ask to see someone as important as Winston Churchill and expect to be shown to him immediately. He was lucky that Churchill was even in the building; he seemed to spend much of his time chairing different committees, attending government functions or travelling abroad on official missions.

  The entrance hall presented a resplendent aspect, with the flags of the different nations of the colonies displayed: Canada, South Africa, Australia and New Zealand alongside those of India and the countries of Africa, Asia and the Americas. He knew them all. He’d fought alongside their soldiers during the Great War. Brave soldiers all, regardless of their race or religion. Which is why he loathed the Daily Target’s campaign of racial hatred. There’d been troops from Jewish Syria fighting alongside the Allies at Gallipoli, as well as Russians. Brave allies then, hated traitors now, according to the newspaper in his hand.

  I’m getting too close to the truth; that’s why this front page is trying to destabilize the investigation. The trouble is, I no longer know whom I can trust. Someone at Finsbury Park had given the paper that story – most likely PC Fields. Conspiracy seemed to be everywhere. He felt like a fox, hunted from all sides, desperate for an earth to seek shelter in, but knowing that he had to stay out in the open.

  If he was going to survive this and bring his own prey to justice, like a fox, he had to keep his wits about him.

  A messenger in the formal and ancient attire of knee breeches and frock coat came up to him. ‘Mr Churchill will see you now, sir.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Stark, folding the newspaper into the pocket of his overcoat.

  He followed the messenger across the marbled floor of the large hall and then along a gloomy corridor until they came to a door on which was a sign stating Secretary of State for the Colonies.

  The messenger tapped at the door, then opened it at the gruff sound of Churchill’s ‘Enter!’

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector Stark, Mr Secretary,’ said the messenger.

  Stark entered. Churchill was sitting behind his desk, surrounded by bundles of papers of different colours and sizes, and wreathed in smoke from a large cigar.

  ‘Thank you for seeing me, Minister. I know your time is at a premium.’

  ‘I will always have time for the man who helped me save the life of the King,’ said Churchill. ‘Sit down, Stark. What is it? Do you have news on Johnny Fairfax’s murder? Gallipoli?’

  ‘We’re still working on the Gallipoli angle, sir,’ said Stark, taking the chair opposite Churchill’s. ‘But another possible motive has been put forward by Special Agent Noble from America.’

  ‘Ah yes, the Home Secretary mentioned to me that the Americans had their own investigator on the case. Because of this poor chap Adams, of course.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Stark. ‘The reason I’ve come to see you is because the suggestion he’s made is that there might be a political connection to this case. In particular to an organization called the Ku Klux Klan.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yes, sir. He seems to feel they are involved in a conspiracy with right-wing organizations in this country. The American who was murdered, Carl Adams, was also an agent with the Bureau of Investigation, working undercover to keep an eye on Mr Edgar Cavendish.’

  ‘The film producer who’s over here,’ nodded Churchill. ‘Yes, I met him. A charming man. Possibly a bit too charming for my taste, but then I assume that is what works in the moving picture business.’ He frowned. ‘Why was this Carl Adams keeping an eye on him?’

  ‘Because it seems that Mr Cavendish is a key member of the Ku Klux Klan, and is actually here in England to make political connections with like-minded people. According to Agent Noble, the Ku Klux Klan have the aim of some kind of global domination, in which blacks are once again slaves and Jews are … Well, I’m not sure what their plans are for Jews, except that they want to strip them of their money and power.’

  Churchill smiled. ‘My tailor is Jewish, and he would love to have some power and money to be stripped of. The dominance of the Jewish race as financiers is greatly exaggerated.’

  ‘I know, sir. But there are those who propagate the idea. This Ku Klux Klan is one such organization, according to Agent Noble, and there are powerful people sympathetic to their views in this country.’ He hesitated, then added carefully, ‘I’m trying to find some leads that might help me with the political dimensions of this case, and I’m on difficult ground because I don’t know who might be … sympathetic to them.’

  He produced the copy of the Daily Target from his pocket and pushed it across the desk to Churchill.

  Churchill read the front page thoughtfully. ‘Someone inside the force is leaking stories to the press,’ he announced.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ agreed Stark. ‘My problem is that my investigations may be uncovering facts that some people don’t want revealed.’

  Churchill regarded Stark carefully. ‘You’re suggesting that this anti-Jewishness might extend to your own colleagues in the police force?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I’m certain of it.’

  ‘So you came to me.’

  ‘Because, sir, I know you are not of that mind.’

  ‘Thank you, Chief Inspector. That opinion means a great deal to me.’

  Churchill fell silent, momentarily lost in thought. Then he said quietly, ‘My mother, Jennie, was American, you know. She was born in Brooklyn. She died just five months ago. She broke her leg coming down some stairs in some new high-heeled shoes. Haemorrhage. She was only sixty-seven. No age.’ He looked inward. ‘She was a wonderful woman.’

  ‘I’m very sorry, sir.’

  ‘Thank you, Stark. The point is, I have an affinity with Americans. My maternal grandparents are Americans, so I’m part American. They are a powerful and thrusting nation, a powerhouse, and I would always listen to any opinion the Americans have. But in this case, Agent Noble is wrong.’

  ‘So you don’t think there is a conspiracy against the Jews in this country?’

  ‘Johnny Fairfax wasn’t Jewish, and neither was this Carl Adams, to judge by his name.’

  ‘No, sir, but Adams was investigating such a conspiracy. He may have been silenced because of what he’d uncovered.’

  Churchill hesitated, then he said, ‘There may be something in that. But I think Agent Noble’s wrong in his assumption that any such conspiracy is driven by the Ku Klux Klan. In my opinion, the Klan is a throwback to segregationist times before the American Civil War. Are they dangerous? Yes. But to
America. Not to Europe.’

  ‘But the Americans were involved in the war that was fought in Europe. With respect, sir, without the entry of the Americans into the war, we might have lost.’

  ‘That is true. And I believe that should there ever be such a war again, we would need the Americans on our side even more.’

  Stark shook his head. ‘Surely, after the carnage of the Great War, no country would be prepared to endure that again.’

  ‘That is what we all like to think, Stark. But I believe there are forces who would envisage waging such a war again. And they are in Europe, not America.’ He stood up and began to pace around the room. ‘It is true that the majority of politicians in Britain and elsewhere seem determined to avoid another war of the same terrible scale at any cost. But I believe that such a policy leaves them open to almost immediate surrender if such a threat materializes.’

  ‘And you believe there is such a threat?’ asked Stark.

  ‘I do,’ nodded Churchill. ‘Although most of my political colleagues seem to disagree with me.’ He snorted. ‘Appeasement at any price! Anything to avoid another war.’

  ‘The last war was a catastrophe, sir,’ said Stark guardedly. ‘Millions dead and wounded. The economy in ruins. A whole generation lost. And not just in this country.’

  ‘I know, I know,’ growled Churchill. ‘But what other option is there if we’re faced with domination by a foreign power?’

  ‘With respect, sir, I cannot think of any foreign power involved in the recent war that would risk further losses to its population by engaging another war.’

  ‘The present government of a foreign power – yes, Stark. That’s right. But what about a political movement inside that country?’

  ‘Are we back to the Ku Klux Klan, sir?’

  Churchill waved his hand dismissively. ‘Forget the Ku Klux Klan, Stark! I’m talking on our own doorstep! Europe! What do you know of the NSDAP in Germany?’

  ‘Absolutely nothing, Minister. But then I have difficulty enough with the vagaries of British politics.’