The Enemy Within

by Edward Marston

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘I disappear and you’ll never see me again.’

  ‘Yes, but what about me, Mr Hubbard?’

  ‘Wally,’ he corrected.

  ‘What do I do afterwards?’

  ‘You do as you’re told and report this meeting to the police. Tell them the truth. Inspector Marmion doesn’t worry me,’ he said with a flick of his wrist. ‘He and Sergeant Keedy couldn’t find me in a month of Sundays. I’m Mr Invisible.’

  Lily Marmion was a calming presence. During the hours she spent at the house, she made Ellen feel less depressed and more optimistic. When Lily left, however, doubt and grief crept up on Ellen. She tried to fight them off by throwing herself into frantic activity, searching every nook and cranny in the house for clues that might lead her to her son or at least explain why he’d gone. Ellen was shaken to realise how much he’d taken from his wardrobe. It was as if he was expecting to stay away for a long time. His favourite photographs and ornaments had also gone. Of the items he’d left behind in his room, the dartboard dominated. She tried to imagine what had driven him to draw some rough portraits of a young woman and hurl darts at her out of spite. What perverse pleasure did he get?

  When she finally ran out of rooms to search, she flopped wearily on to the sofa. The house felt cold and empty. It was ironic. When Paul was there, locked away in his room, his presence was like a weight that pressed down on her and she’d many times wished that he’d go out and give her a temporary breathing space. Now that he’d done just that, she was bereft, wishing she could hear a sound that told her he was still there, even if it was only the rhythmical thudding of darts into a board. It was at that point she became conscious of somewhere she’d missed. Ellen had only looked inside the house. Pulling herself up, she hurried to the back door and let herself out. She then lifted the lid of the bin cautiously as if half expecting her son to pop up. When she took a tentative look inside, her eyes widened in surprise.

  ‘I suppose it will be my turn next,’ said Keedy.

  ‘Your turn?’

  ‘Yes, Wally Hubbard obviously likes dressing up as someone else. He started off as a prison warder, then he promoted himself to the rank of inspector and, when he was seen outside the Dun Cow, he was pretending to be a blind man. I’m starting to feel left out, Harv. When is he going to pretend to be me?’

  ‘He doesn’t have the looks for it, Joe.’

  They shared a laugh. After going in separate directions for most of the day, they’d met up at a cafe near Scotland Yard for some refreshment and for a discussion that couldn’t be interrupted by Claude Chatfield. They felt that they worked best without the interference of the superintendent. Keedy swallowed a last piece of cake and washed it down with a mouthful of tea.

  ‘How reliable is Jack Ryde?’ asked Marmion.

  ‘I trust him.’

  ‘But he only saw them for a few seconds.’

  ‘That was enough, he told me. Maisie was chatting to a blind man with a stick. Except that, when he walked away, he wasn’t using the stick at all. That’s when Ryde recognised him as Wally Hubbard.’

  ‘I still think it’s strange he didn’t mention it to Maisie.’

  ‘He was afraid that, if he did, she’d set Hubbard on him. Wally knocked him about a bit once before and he didn’t want a second helping. Also, he was late for his stint with the accordion. Ryde earns his beer money by playing songs from the front.’

  ‘Some of those can tug at the heartstrings.’

  Keedy chuckled. ‘And others are quite filthy.’

  ‘Paul used to play “It’s a Long Way to Tipperary” over and over on his mouth organ. Ellen said that it almost drove her insane. Actually, it was Colin Fryatt’s mouth organ, now I come to think of it. He really could play it. Paul kept it with him all the time. It was more than just a souvenir.’

  ‘What happened to it?’

  ‘I don’t know, Joe. It just disappeared one day.’

  ‘But it meant so much to him.’

  ‘We used to think we meant a lot to him as well,’ said Marmion, morosely. ‘No,’ he went on, making an effort to shake off his sadness, ‘I’m not going to brood. I’m on duty now. Let’s take Hubbard first. What have we got so far?’

  ‘We’ve had sightings of him,’ said Keedy. ‘One of them was by me. We know that Felix Browne is acting in collusion with him but we can’t actually prove it. We do have a witness who saw Hubbard with Maisie Rogers, so it’s time to have her followed.’

  ‘It will have to be discreetly.’

  ‘There’s also Veronica Croft, of course.’

  ‘Yes, Hubbard hasn’t finished with her yet.’

  ‘It will be interesting to see if she comes to us when he does turn up again.’

  ‘Oh, I think she’ll report him next time, Joe.’

  ‘That leaves Helen Graydon,’ said Keedy. ‘I fancy that it’s highly unlikely he’ll go back to her. Your face has been all over the papers. Hubbard will know that she realises she was duped.’

  Marmion was concerned. ‘Do you think I look sinister?’

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Mr Pitter, the Head of the Civil Service, told me that I looked so much better in the flesh. Press photos made me look sinister, he said.’

  ‘That’s rubbish.’

  ‘Thanks, Joe. That’s reassuring.’

  ‘I think they make you look like an undertaker – and I come from a family of them, remember.’

  Marmion was hurt. ‘An undertaker?’

  ‘You have that air of solemnity about you. Right,’ he went on, ‘we’ve dealt with Hubbard. What about the murder?’

  ‘There are still too many unknowns, Joe.’

  ‘Who is the victim?’ asked Keedy.

  ‘That’s one of them.’

  ‘Why was he hiding in a Salvation Army hostel?’

  ‘Keep going, Joe.’

  ‘Who killed him?’

  ‘That may be more difficult to find out.’

  ‘What was in that briefcase?’

  ‘There were some papers belonging to Ben Croft.’

  ‘What was taken out of it by the killer?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘Did he come primarily to steal something?’

  ‘One last question.’

  ‘Where is Croft and what’s his connection to the murder?’

  ‘The only lead we have there comes from Mrs Graydon,’ said Marmion, ‘and it’s a very skimpy one. When he told her he was going away for a while, Croft said that he’d be sailing somewhere. Where to, I wonder?’

  Details of the murder victim’s age and appearance had appeared in all of the national newspapers. Some people had come forward suggesting his identity but all of the names they gave were soon discounted. The man known only as David retained his mystery. Inevitably, there were a few members of the public who simply craved attention and who turned up with spurious claims about the dead man. Easily exposed, they were either sent away with a stern warning or arrested for deliberately wasting police time. Chatfield was in his office when he was told of the latest person to respond to the appeal. A detective constable came to his office.

  ‘We have a gentleman who wishes to see you, sir,’ he said.

  ‘What does he want?’

  ‘He thinks he knows who the murder victim was.’

  ‘They all claim that,’ said Chatfield, irritably. ‘You don’t need to bother me with this. Check the details he gives you and send him on his way.’

  ‘He insists on seeing the corpse, sir.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It may well be his son.’

  Nobody else had made such a claim or had asked to see the body. Chatfield was therefore curious and asked for the visitor to be brought in. In a couple of minutes, he was exchanging names with Reuben Ackley, an elderly man with rounded shoulders, a greying beard and the look of an academic about him. The newcomer went straight to the point.

  ‘I must view the body,’ he said. ‘
I believe it to be my son.’

  ‘What gives you that idea?’

  ‘We had a feeling that he’d end up on the streets one day.’ He thrust a hand into his inside pocket. ‘I have a photograph of him here. You, presumably, have seen the cadaver?’

  ‘Yes, I have.’

  ‘Is this the person you were looking at?’

  He showed a fading sepia photograph to Chatfield. The superintendent studied it and noticed a faint resemblance to the victim but it was far from decisive. Ackley could see that he was doubtful.

  ‘This was taken six or seven years ago when we were on better terms.’

  ‘Better terms?’

  ‘I’m ashamed to say that David and I were estranged.’

  Chatfield clicked his tongue. ‘I can’t be certain,’ he said. ‘In some ways, it looks like him but in other ways, it doesn’t.’

  ‘There must be police photographs of the victim.’

  ‘It’s standard practice in all murder cases, sir.’

  ‘Why weren’t they published in the newspapers?’

  ‘It’s because they were taken after the man was dead,’ explained Chatfield, ‘and, as a consequence, they’re rather gruesome. They can never be made public. We’re very fastidious regarding any photographic material we release to the press.’

  ‘Quite right, if I may say so. I’d like to see those photographs.’

  ‘I’d have to know a lot more about you and your son before I can do that, sir. We never pander to the morbid interests of certain individuals. They always turn up in the wake of a murder – the more horrific, the better for them – and ask to see photographs of the deceased in order to get a macabre thrill. Now,’ he went on quickly, ‘I’m sure that your interest is a sincere one and not tainted in any way. But I’d like to know with whom I’m dealing. Tell me more about yourself, please.’

  ‘I’ll be happy to do so.’

  Sitting in the chair indicated by Chatfield, the visitor spoke slowly and movingly about his life as Professor of Jurisprudence at Oxford. His work absorbed him and he freely admitted that he never spent enough time with his son, an only child, when he was growing up. As a result, a gap gradually opened between them until it reached a point where it couldn’t be bridged.

  ‘Politics, Superintendent,’ he said. ‘That’s what did the damage.’

  ‘Was your son a dissident?’

  ‘Indeed, he was. He came under the spell of Communism during his time at university and got involved in all sorts of … questionable activities.’

  ‘Was he ever in trouble with the police?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Did he ever take part in protests?’

  ‘He seemed to do little else.’

  ‘When did he leave home?’

  ‘It was when I pointed out that it was time he earned a living instead of sponging off his parents and foisting his disagreeable political opinions on them. David walked out there and then,’ said Ackley with an anger tempered by regret. ‘To be candid, I was glad to see him go.’

  ‘Did he have an income of any sort?’

  ‘Not from us – my wife and I were agreed on that.’

  ‘How did he live?’

  ‘I imagine that he slept on sofas in flats belonging to friends, but you can’t do that indefinitely. Even the best friends tire of being exploited. It grieves me to admit it,’ he continued, ‘but my son was destined for the streets.’

  Ackley spoke so honestly about himself and his family that Chatfield was convinced that he had good reason to suspect that the murder victim might be his son.

  ‘I hesitate to show you the photographs,’ he said, ‘because they are brutally explicit. No parent should see a child in that condition.’

  ‘I’d like to see them, nevertheless. I have a strong stomach, Superintendent.’

  ‘You’ll need it, sir. As a first step, however, I’d like to show you something that was in his possession.’ Opening a drawer, he took out an evidence bag and pulled the battered briefcase out of it. Ackley’s jaw dropped open. ‘It’s your son’s, isn’t it?’

  ‘No,’ said the other. ‘It’s mine – David stole it from me.’

  The moment she came off duty, Alice Marmion took to her heels and ran to the bus stop. She knew how her mother must be feeling and was desperate to offer support while getting it from Ellen in return. The day had been an extended torture for her, following her normal routine and dealing with the petty squabbles she and Iris encountered when all she wanted to do was to be at home. The one bright moment in the day had been provided by Joe Keedy, but its lustre was not strong enough to sustain her. She was tense, fearful and bewildered.

  When she finally got to the house, Ellen was strangely quiet and listless. She gave her daughter a token kiss then held both her hands.

  ‘Thank you so much for coming, Alice.’

  ‘It was Daddy’s suggestion but I want to be here, anyway. You shouldn’t be alone at a time like this, Mummy.’

  ‘Lily came over earlier.’

  ‘That was thoughtful of her. Aunt Lily is a rock.’

  ‘I keep longing for someone to ring with some good news about Paul but I know that it will never happen.’

  ‘He’ll be found, Mummy.’ Ellen shook her head. ‘It’s only a matter of time.’

  ‘No, it isn’t.’

  ‘Paul may even come back of his own accord.’

  ‘There’s no hope of that, Alice. Do you know what I did when Lily went?’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘I searched the house. I went through everything in Paul’s room in the hope of finding some hint – however tiny – of where and why he’d gone. I went through the whole house. It was only when I sat down from exhaustion in the living room that I remembered something. I hadn’t looked outside.’

  ‘The bin,’ said Alice, pointing a finger. ‘That’s where you found that drawing of Sally Redwood, isn’t it?’

  ‘I found something far more upsetting this time.’

  ‘What was it?’

  ‘I’ll show you.’

  Still holding her hands, Ellen led her into the kitchen then let go of her. On the table was a sheet of paper with a message scrawled on it by Paul.

  THIS IS WHERE I BELONG

  Alice was staggered. ‘What does he mean?’

  ‘It means what it says. Paul believes that he belongs in the bin with the rest of the rubbish. He thinks he’s worthless, Alice. That’s what scares me. When he’s in that sort of mood, he could do anything.’

  They got back to Scotland Yard to find Veronica Croft waiting for them. Marmion invited her into his office. Both detectives noticed how anxious she was.

  ‘He came to see me again,’ she said.

  ‘We had a feeling that he might,’ said Marmion. ‘What did he want?’

  ‘He had lots more questions about Ben.’

  She told them about her unwelcome meeting with Hubbard and how he’d pestered her for details of Croft’s favourite places in London. He was particularly keen to get a list of pubs and restaurants frequented by him. He also demanded the names of Croft’s relatives outside the city, people with whom he stayed on occasion. When she’d finished, Marmion thanked her for reporting the incident.

  ‘Will I get into trouble?’ she asked, eyes darting.

  ‘I don’t think so, Mrs Croft.’

  ‘I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about the first time he came.’

  ‘That’s water under the bridge now.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said with relief.

  ‘Talking of water,’ Keedy interjected, ‘we understand that your husband was fond of the sea. Is that true?’

  ‘We always spent our holidays on the coast, Sergeant. Ben liked to wake up to the sound of seagulls.’

  ‘Did he go sailing at all?’

  ‘We went on a short pleasure cruise now and then.’

  ‘He didn’t have his own boat, then?’

  ‘No, no, he just enjoyed being afloat. Ben was n
o sailor.’ About to leave, she paused in the doorway. ‘Do you know where he is?’

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ said Marmion, ‘but we will in due course.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘We’ll also recapture Mr Hubbard so he won’t be able to bother you again.’

  ‘He doesn’t bother me, Inspector – he terrifies me.’

  As soon as she’d gone, they reviewed what she’d told them, then Marmion went along to see the superintendent. Chatfield was still talking to Reuben Ackley. For the first time since the murder, he was in a buoyant mood.

  ‘We’ve made a significant advance, Inspector.’

  ‘That’s very gratifying, sir.’

  ‘This gentleman is Mr Ackley. The murder victim was his son.’

  He introduced the visitor to Marmion and they exchanged a handshake.

  ‘Are you quite certain that it was your son, sir?’ asked Marmion.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ replied Ackley. ‘I recognised the briefcase he had with him and, when the superintendent showed me the photographs, there was no mistaking him. It was David. We haven’t seen him for years, alas. He left home after we … fell out and, eventually, ended up on the streets, sleeping rough. And now he’s finished up on a slab in the morgue. It’s a sobering thought for any father.’

  Marmion thought of Paul. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘it is.’

  Maisie Rogers soon picked him out. He came into the Dun Cow and ordered a pint of beer, studiously ignoring her as she pulled it for him. He then chose a table in the corner and put his tankard and his newspaper on it. The man was in his thirties and wore a nondescript raincoat and a trilby, removing both before he settled down. Maisie carried on as if she hadn’t realised who the stranger must be. At one point, when she was collecting glasses from the tables, she peered through the window and saw a shadowy figure loitering in a doorway opposite.

  There were two of them. Hubbard had warned her that she was bound to be followed at some stage and she obeyed his instructions. At the end of her shift, she put on her coat and hat before leaving. Instead of making for the hiding place, she caught the bus home. The man in the doorway took over surveillance now, sitting well behind her in the bus then letting her get off before he did. Maisie walked through the dark to her house and, as she took the key from her pocket, she managed to resist the temptation to wave farewell to the detective behind her. It began to rain. She laughed. He was going to have a wet night standing outside her flat.