‘My pleasure, I’m sure,’ she said and sniffed. ‘You’ll not be staying for lunch then?’
‘Oh, no, not at all, thanks all the same. No, I really can’t,’ she added hastily as Jasper opened his mouth and seemed about to repeat the invitation. ‘I truly must get back into town. Good afternoon!’ And she made for the door.
‘I’ll be back right away then, Eddie,’ Jasper said and followed her as fast as he could, but she was already out of the door and halfway down the path before he reached her side. ‘Are your shoes giving you trouble?’ He seemed anxious and she looked down and laughed, trying to make it sound natural.
‘Oh, how silly of me! I took them off because they were making my feet ache – new ones you know – and would you believe forgot to put them on again! I’ll do it in the car.’ And she hurried through the open gate into the roadway, very aware of the chill against her nyloned feet.
Again he helped her in and then with a sort of bow took her shoes from her and fitted them on to her feet. ‘There you are, Cinderella,’ he said. ‘I hope they stop pinching soon.’
‘I’m sure they will,’ she said. ‘And now please, if you could get me to the Bald Monk as soon as possible?’
‘With pleasure.’ He drove fast and a little recklessly, pushing the vehicle through the narrow country roads and then the town streets as though there was no possibility of any oncoming traffic and consequently having to swerve once or twice. She held on grimly and was deeply relieved when at last they reached the front door of the Bald Monk.
The town was busy now, with lunchtime strollers in the square, but there was no sign of Gus and she was glad of that. The last thing she wanted was to start explaining to him what had happened while Jasper was around. Gus had a tendency to get rather pugnacious when people he cared about were injured.
Jasper tried to get out of the car to come round and help her down but she was too swift for him. She had her seat belt unbuckled before the car reached the kerb and the door open even before the engine was switched off. She was on the pavement and smiling up at him just as he tried to open his own door to get out.
‘No, please, stay where you are,’ she called quickly. ‘I’m fine now, really. Thanks for your help.’ She turned to go and then said over her shoulder, without losing step, ‘And do thank Mrs Lyons again. Goodbye!’ And she almost ran into the hotel.
Once inside she headed for the stairs and ran up them, only stopping when she reached the half-landing with the long window that looked out into the Square. She peered round the edge of the window-frame, keeping herself well back, to see what he was doing, and to her relief saw that he hadn’t left the car, but had restarted the engine and was pulling out into the traffic. With a sigh of relief she finished her climb to the room she and Gus shared.
He was sitting on the bed, which was littered with papers, and as she came in he leaped to his feet, his face thunderous. ‘George! Where in the name of all that’s holy have you been? I’ve walked all over this bloody town three times looking for you and –’
‘Gus, Gus, easy now, I’ll explain.’ She slumped on the bed herself, swinging her legs up and pushing the papers aside. He saw at once and pounced.
‘What have you done to yourself? Here, let me see.’ He took her foot in one hand and ran his fingers up her shin. The plaster could be clearly seen now, for she had pulled the tights well into place when she hauled them up.
‘No need to panic,’ she said. ‘Not in the least, Gus. I’ve struck paydirt. Listen to this.’
He listened as he always did, in silence and concentrating hard; he was, she thought somewhere at the back of her mind, the most satisfying person to whom to tell a story. No silly interruptions, no failure to understand every word she said, and she finished her account with a flourish of one hand. ‘There! What do you say to all that?’
He was silent for a moment and then shook his head. ‘Sorry, ducks, but a lot of it isn’t news.’
‘Eh?’
‘First of all, I’ve been talking to the local force. The woman who runs Sloane’s – I’ve got all the lowdown on her because – well, you’ll hear why – and it’s not up to much. A silly woman who does as her employer tells her and that’s as far as it goes. She doesn’t know what her boss is up to. She only knows she’s in major trouble if she talks too much about the business.’
‘And her boss is?’
‘It’s actually a group of people, they reckon. But the one Morris reports to is Alice Diamond. The company’s called –’
‘Arabella Dee.’
‘Oh, you found that out too, did you? Yes, so, there’s her and your nice new friend Jasper Powell –’
‘I was right!’ she crowed. ‘I knew they were too close! And what about Edward? Is he in on it?’
He shook his head. ‘Not according to the local super. He’s gay, of course, but we knew that.’
She stared at him, her head on one side. ‘Oh! Yes, of course. Durnell mentioned that, didn’t he? I should have remembered.’
‘Why should you? Like I say, it’s no crime and not particularly relevant in this case. Or am I wrong? Is the business of cutting off the genitalia and displaying them a homosexual thing?’
She was thinking hard. ‘I don’t think so. I have to say, I never saw it that way. In a curious sense I’ve never seen anything really sexy about these murders. I mean not like some where there’s been signs of sexual activity by the perpetrator. I looked as I always do, of course, for any extra evidence such as semen, and blood that didn’t match the victim, and you know there’s been nothing. It’s what I’ve said to you before, Gus. I’ve always seen these murders as being purposeful.’
‘You can’t get much more purposeful than slit throats and genital mutilation,’ he said mildly.
‘You know I don’t mean that. I mean this isn’t the business of a mad axeman who happens to have a hatred for Members of Parliament. They’re being done for a special purpose, I’m sure. The murders have all been so – so tightly planned. Matching the old Ripper pattern, organizing in advance – none of the usual pouncing on a handy victim which is the hallmark of your Sutcliffe or Boston Strangler type.’
‘Planned in advance,’ he said slowly and frowned. ‘You might have something there.’
‘What?’
‘I’ll come back to that. Let me finish on the stuff I got locally. Edward seems to have no involvement with this Sloane’s and Arabella Dee business apart from being Powell’s lover – or so the locals tell me. It’s common gossip seemingly in the town. And of course people can be lovers and still not know what their other half is up to. You mentioned the Sutcliffe case yourself – she knew nothing about what her husband was doing. So Edward –’
‘Hey, hang on,’ she said. ‘Jasper is Edward’s lover? Then what about the way he is with this woman Daffy, Mrs Morris? They were very loverlike.’
‘So?’ he lifted his brows. ‘Where is it written a man can’t be AC and DC at the same time?’
She looked exasperated. ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Gus, I know that! What I mean is, he just doesn’t seem to behave even remotely like someone who swings both ways. Women get to know the signs of that, believe me.’
‘Well maybe he’s just a good actor. But I tell you this much, my duck. If I’d known you’d got mixed up with them this morning, I’d have had kittens. Because it’s my guess this is a dangerous man.’
‘Why?’
‘Because of this Arabella Dee affair. The local force have been quietly investigating because there has been a spate of robberies and fires in dress shops all over the country, and when they investigated, they found almost all of them restocked via a wholesaler called –’
‘Arabella Dee? So that’s how they get their gear on the market! A bit extreme though, isn’t it, firing shops or robbing them? I wonder why they don’t just sell their big label garments normally? With agents and salesmen or whatever?’
‘According to the police investigators, they also use an element
of blackmail. These shopkeepers aren’t entirely stupid – they know the garments they buy from Arabella Dee are copies – but they have to be persuaded to sell them at top whack. The local Super thinks they’ve been using a combination of protection-racket threats and personal blackmail. He couldn’t be more delighted that we’ve found the warehouse for the fake gear; it’s more evidence for them. So we need to do some more careful checking on Madam Alice. Could she have polished off her Sam because he rumbled what she was up to, and was a risk?’
George opened her mouth to speak, but had to close it again. Gus must not know of her illicit visit to Alice, so how could she tell him he was right and that Alice and Sam had indeed had a row over her activities?
‘That could be a reason to kill Sam,’ she now said carefully. ‘A very good one. But why the other four?’
Gus shrugged. ‘Edgar Allen Poe?’
‘How do you mean? Oh!’ she said. ‘I see. If you’ve got something to hide, hide it among a lot of the same sort of thing.’
‘You’ve got it. Only these are murders, not purloined letters.’
‘It sounds possible,’ she said. ‘But is it likely? I have a problem with that. And if, as you seem to think, Jasper Powell’s in on it with her, why should he risk killing so many people? One, maybe, but five? And in such a bizarre fashion?’
‘We have to think about it. Because we’ve got even more on him than you might think.’
‘What?’
‘The Courier, have you seen it this morning?’
She looked disgusted. ‘Oh, Gus, for heaven’s sake. I don’t read that rag! I didn’t think you did either.’
‘You’ll read this copy,’ he said with a certain grimness, pulling one out from behind the drift of papers on the bed and pushing it into her hands.
She bent her head to read the headline on the first page and her brows shot up. ‘Good God!’
‘In spades, sweetheart. Now read the story.’
The headline shouted, ‘WE NAIL THE MAN THE POLICE MISSED!’ And then in letters not much smaller went on, ‘WHEN THE POLICE ARE BAFFLED, THE COURIER BIFFS ’EM!’ And there was a photograph. She stared at it and then at Gus.
‘What is this?’
‘I told you, read the story. Page two. And three and four. They’re like puppies with six tails over it.’
She turned the pages.
For a week now the Metropolitan Police, under the direction of the Slowcoach Superintendent, one Gus Hathaway, have been seeking the evil murderer who has been stalking the corridors of power, leaving blood-boltered bodies behind him. Five of our great and good men, including a Bishop of the Church, have died in a welter of their own gore, and what have the police done? Nothing! Our intrepid reporter, however, has been on the trail. He has followed suspects, watched the people the police watch, slipped between their echelons of uniformed plods to come up with the goods. And here they are!
First of all, we ask the police to study the photograph on the front page. As you will see, we have blanked out the face of the man in it, because he is the main suspect and we at the Courier will do nothing that could pervert the course of justice.
Police followed him as he met a member of the family of one of the tragic victims, at Heathrow, and still failed to detain him.
We filmed him, however, and have passed the evidence we collected on to the police.
The ball is now in their court. Will they arrest this man, who, we have discovered has been dealing in underworld activities in this country as well as in another foreign power’s territory?
And that is not the only question we ask the Sleepsodden Super.
We want to know how it is we have uncovered WITNESSES at two of the murder sites who ACTUALLY SAW SUSPECT ACTIVITIES. How is it we could get this information when the Slothful Super failed?
We have passed this information on to him, however, because we at the Courier, we repeat, are law-abiding citizens. We want to see evil men caught and the cruel murderer of these leaders of our country brought to justice.
And if and when he is – and it all depends on the, dare we say it, Stupid Super – we will be campaigning for the ultimate penalty.
BRING BACK HANGING says the Courier …
She lifted her head and stared at him blankly. ‘Ye Gods, Gus. What have they got hold of that we didn’t?’
‘The photograph, I’ll grant you, is a real asset.’ He said it almost savagely. ‘We had only eye-witness reports from our people who followed Alice Diamond at the airport. Obviously one of their busy cockroaches was there with a camera and got this shot of the man who met Alice. And I’ve checked with Rupert and he says the print was sent to us this morning. After the paper hit the streets, of course.’
‘And what about this stuff –’ she prodded the paper – ‘about finding witnesses?’
‘Rupert swears to me they couldn’t have, he checked like – well, I know how thorough the man is. That’s what I most value in him. All I can suppose is that this bloody paper got to someone with a cheque book and nudged their memories, and that’s what they’ve got hold of. Someone happy to oblige with any sort of tale for a few quid. It makes me sick!’
‘They’re after you personally, the sons of bitches,’ she said. ‘Christ, but I hate the British press!’
He shook his head wearily. ‘It’s only the tabloids. There are some good ones. Anyway, it’s the price you pay for freedom, they tell me. Ah, sod ’em! I don’t mind the abuse. They can dream up as many ridiculous bits of alliteration as they like. All I care about is getting the stuff they’ve got and talking to the people they got it from. And I want to look at that photograph, of course. From what Rupert tells me, I have a strong suspicion it’s your Jasper Powell.’
‘He’s not mine!’ she protested.
‘Whoever’s. Anyway, I suspect he’s dangerous. And so it has to be back to town, right away. I would have gone a couple of hours ago if you hadn’t – well, never mind. Is your leg OK?’
‘It’s fine,’ she assured him. ‘And yes, let’s get going. We can talk more in the car.’
She had packed all their gear and was down at the desk paying the bill with him in a matter of less than half an hour. He’d arranged for some sandwiches to be made to take with them, ‘because I don’t want you keeling over with starvation halfway there,’ he said. ‘And I’m bloody starving too. Breakfast was horrible. The sandwiches can’t be much worse.’
They were, of course, being dry, with an evil-tasting margarine and underfilled with ham that was so loaded with water all they could do was throw the whole lot out of the car to feed the birds, and then settle down to the long run home, with what patience they could, through heavy traffic. Neither of them talked much, after all. Both of them had too much thinking to do.
26
‘Yes, that’s him,’ George said and put the photograph back on the desk. ‘In spite of the cap and the shadows. You can’t miss it. That’s Jasper Powell.’
‘And Alice Diamond is with him,’ Dudley said, more as a statement than a question.
‘Yes,’ she said and then flushed as she caught Gus’s eye.
‘How do you know?’ he asked sharply. ‘You haven’t …’
She hesitated, and then decided there was clearly no point in lying about it now. ‘I’m afraid I did. I went to the shop in Sloane Street. Just to nose around, you know.’
‘Yes,’ he said savagely. ‘I know. Now.’ And George caught the smug look on Rupert Dudley’s face. She wanted to bite her own tongue out. How could she have been so stupid? Gus looked at her witheringly and then returned to the photograph.
‘That’s the green van in the background. And the rear of the car Alice Diamond was driven away in,’ Mike Urquhart cut in quickly, aware of the tension and wanting to dissipate it. ‘And I agree – that’s the chap who met her. No question of it.’
‘So,’ Gus said. ‘We have at last a positive ID of one of the key people. That’s a beginning. Now we need to talk to Mrs Diamond, I think.
Yes. Most definitely, Mrs Diamond.’ He caught George’s appealing stare and hardened his jaw. ‘Rupert, I want you to do that. Take Mike Urquhart as well as Tim here, who saw her with Powell and saw the business of the switch of baggage. Keep him in the background, and only wheel him into the interrogation to tell her he saw her with Powell if she gets stroppy, understand? And be careful. I don’t want any pressure put on by those damned people at the House of Commons, they’ll put it on if they can. Look after their own, they do, and they’ll see the Diamond woman in that category. I’ll go to Creechurch Lane and the Market in Spitalfields and check on this other stuff the Courier uncovered. Off you go.’
They went and George sat on there in Gus’s office, watching the men disappear into the busy incident room. Then she looked at Gus. ‘I know I don’t deserve to go with you to Creechurch Lane and –’
‘Haven’t you any work to do at Old East?’ Gus had his head down over some papers on the desk. ‘Isn’t it time you got back there?’
‘You know perfectly well I’ve got a leave of absence,’ she said. ‘Alan and Jerry are holding the fort magnificently. They’ll call me if they have any problems, I assure you. Please, Gus, I know you’re sore at me for going to see Alice Diamond, but I thought it might help. And as for the Jasper Powell business, I wasn’t looking to have my leg damn near knocked off. And be fair. You agreed I should go up to Sloane’s, see what I could find out. And I found Powell – but I didn’t go looking for him. He found me, didn’t he?’
He lifted his head and sighed. ‘Ducky, I’m delighted to get help from you. Your input is great, believe me. You have ideas. You get from point A to point X far faster than any of my guys, who always have to go all through the whole damned alphabet on account of that’s what police work is all about. Having you as a pointer dog, a sort of direction-finder, is very useful. What I can’t be doing with is when you go off on your own and don’t tell me. That way you could get into trouble, and I couldn’t get you out of it. Suppose you made the Diamond woman suspicious? Suppose Powell had been there at the same time? Suppose he’d tried to do something to shut you up because you’d stumbled on him? Then what?’
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