by R. N. Morris
Macadam began to back off.
‘Cuffs, Sergeant Macadam.’
‘That’s not fair! You said . . .’
‘I don’t care what I said. I’ve changed my mind. We can’t take any chances with the likes of you.’
Macadam nodded and closed down young Blackley by the speed of his attack. He was well-practised at apprehending trickier customers than this. He turned him deftly, gathering up his wrists and snapping the handcuffs around them. A sharp wrench of the arms upwards produced a cry of pain. Macadam began frogmarching him towards the door, steering him by his arms.
‘You can’t do this!’
Quinn mimed for Macadam to give the young man’s arms another tweak. He was not a sadist. But he needed to make an impression, and not just on young Blackley.
They dragged him screaming in pain through the back-room offices. Quinn was gratified by the cowering looks they drew from the staff they passed.
Macadam drove Ben Blackley forward, using his cuffed arms like a tiller. Blackley stumbled several times, giving a fresh scream each time Macadam yanked on his cuffs to keep him upright.
‘Bastard!’
‘Don’t want you having an accident, do we?’ said Macadam.
The stairs were a struggle. Blackley Jr fell out of Macadam’s grip at one point, to lie sprawling across a flight of steps.
Quinn signalled for Macadam to go easy. He wanted to put pressure on the young man but not to injure him.
They proceeded more patiently from then on, the policemen pausing at each step for young Blackley to catch up. At last they reached the ground floor. Ben Blackley nodded towards a side exit. ‘We can get out this way.’
‘No. We want the front exit, son,’ said Quinn.
They stepped into the store. It was still early. Not quite as busy as Quinn might have hoped for on a Saturday morning. However, he made sure that their progress did not go unnoticed by those who were there. ‘Make way,’ he shouted. ‘Police coming through. Everyone out the way, please. Thank you.’ This was despite the fact that they had a clear way across the floor.
Just as they were about to go through the front door, Quinn leant towards Ben Blackley and whispered something into his ear. The young man appeared startled by it. He frowned as he considered what Quinn had said, as if trying to make sense of it.
They pushed out on to the street. Macadam hoisted the young man’s arms up his back once more. The cry that this prompted turned Benjamin Blackley’s head. The smile froze on his lips when he saw his son cuffed and manhandled.
‘You’re making a big mistake, Inspector.’ To his son, he added: ‘Don’t worry, Ben. We’ll sort this out. These fools will have to let you go.’
‘We can let him go here and now, sir, if you like. It’s up to you. All you have to do is tell us what happened in the mannequin house on Tuesday night.’
‘I wasn’t there. Does Ben say I was there?’ Blackley asked the question with complete confidence in the answer.
‘Oh, don’t worry. He hasn’t revealed your secret. Yet.’
‘Well, then . . .’ said Blackley.
‘Well then,’ echoed Quinn, ‘if you weren’t there, he certainly was. Which means, by a process of elimination, that he must be Amélie’s rapist. Unless you expect us to believe that it was Monsieur Hugo.’
Blackley looked uneasily at the gathering crowd. ‘Keep your voice down, Inspector. Is it really necessary to bandy such terms around on the public highway?’
‘Is it really necessary to rape young girls to whom you stand in loco parentis?’
There was a collective gasp from the onlookers.
‘No, no, no. You can’t get away with this, Inspector. Your incompetence is breathtaking. While you’re here dragging off my son and making wild accusations, the real killer is going free. I shall complain to the highest authorities. The highest authorities, you hear!’
Quinn nodded as if this was no less than he expected; as if, indeed, it was strangely satisfying to hear Blackley make the threat. He turned to young Blackley. ‘Do you have anything you wish to say to your father, Ben?’
Macadam released his hold on Ben Blackley so that he was able to stand upright and look his father in the eye. With the two of them face-to-face, it was easier to see the differences, as well as the similarities, between the two men. They were from the same pattern, no doubt. But if the father’s face had been carved from granite, the son’s was barely formed, the features thumb-pressed into a mound of grey putty.
‘Whatever you have done, you’re still my father.’
Benjamin Blackley the elder frowned as if what his son had said was beyond mortal comprehension.
‘And I’m still your son. I always will be . . . whatever happens.’
‘There’s no need for that kind of talk, Ben. We’ll get this sorted out, you’ll see. You can trust me. I’ll get the best lawyers available. I’ll talk to Yeovil now. He’ll know what to do.’
It was perhaps not surprising that a mood of nervous excitement had taken hold of the small crowd gathered around them. But it became clear that the growing commotion was not entirely due to what had passed on the pavement outside the House of Blackley. A stream of shoppers coming out of the store seemed ominously on edge too. Quinn was reminded of the hysteria that had caused the stampede two days ago.
Blackley had noticed the change in mood and was distracted by it. Quinn saw his son’s body sag with disappointment. It seemed that what Quinn had insinuated earlier was true. Blackley would always care more about his store than his family.
At that moment Yeovil pushed his way through the crowd, as if he had heard Blackley’s call and rushed to answer it. ‘Mr Blackley, sir!’ Quinn was struck by how wide the man’s eyes were open. He had the thought that Yeovil was not a man to surprise easily. Consequently, when he was surprised, he experienced the emotion to a more extreme degree than others. ‘Mr Blackley, sir,’ he repeated. ‘She’s dead!’
‘What do you mean? Who’s dead? What are you talking about, man?’
‘She’s in the window. Dead.’ Yeovil turned to Quinn, as if he was seeing him for the first time. ‘Someone’s killed her and put her in the shop window.’
A Striking Window Display
‘Take him to Brompton nick,’ said Quinn to Macadam. ‘And raise the local bobbies. Then you’d better get word to DCI Coddington, if you can. He needs to know about this. You’d better get him to bring Inchball along too. We’re going to need everyone on this.’
As Macadam led Ben Blackley away, Quinn turned to Yeovil. He still had the dazed, appalled face of a man to whom the unexpected was inconceivable. ‘Now, sir, what’s all this about?’
‘It’s the Summer Fashions window display.’
‘And where will we find that?’
‘It’s in the Grand Dome. In the Costumes Salon.’ Yeovil glanced back uneasily at the entrance to the store. It was clogged with two competing streams of foot traffic: those fleeing the new horror, and those rushing to find it.
Quinn took out his whistle and gave three sharp blasts. The noise caused a momentary relaxation in the jam, as at least some of those trying to force their way through thought better of it. Clearly their instinctive reaction to the presence of the police was that they ought to make themselves scarce.
Among those peeling away, Quinn noticed the back of a head that he thought he recognized.
‘Spiggott!’
The young man picked up his pace but Quinn caught up with him, laying a hand on his shoulder.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘I have a perfect right to be here.’
‘I rather suspect you’ve lost your position at the House of Blackley.’
‘I’m entitled to come here and shop. The old place offers a world of provision, don’t you know.’ Spiggott quoted Blackley’s advertising slogan with a bitter emphasis. He tapped a small white cardboard box that was tucked under his arm.
‘Were you trying to get in or out?’
<
br /> ‘I heard that man. What he said. Someone else has been killed.’ As an afterthought, Spiggott added: ‘He was the one who was spying on me, you know.’
‘So you thought you’d go and take a look?’
‘Why haven’t you arrested Blackley? It’s not Ben Blackley. It’s his father. My father. He’s the monster.’
‘You’ll have to let me decide whom I arrest and whom I don’t.’
‘He’s grinning . . . Look at him grinning. Two dead now, and all he does is grin!’
‘Go back to the church and stay with Father Thomas. Don’t do anything rash. Leave it to me.’
Spiggott walked slowly backwards, away from Quinn. ‘Two dead. How many more will it take before you stop him?’ He spun on his heels and broke into a half-run. Just as he reached the entrance of the Sacred Heart, he paused and turned as if to shout something else back to Quinn. But evidently he thought better of it and disappeared into the church precinct.
Quinn marshalled a still stunned Yeovil inside. He could not prevent Blackley from tagging along.
Despite what Spiggott had said, the great businessman’s smile had vanished utterly from his face. Quinn had seen it slip briefly once or twice, but this was the longest Blackley had been without his trademark expression in place. His face was like thunder, in fact. ‘This is an outrage,’ he declared. ‘That they could do this . . .’
Quinn regarded him quizzically.
‘To bring something like this inside the House of Blackley . . . it’s . . . it’s . . .’
‘Sacrilege?’ prompted Quinn.
Blackley’s cursory nod suggested that Quinn’s assessment went without saying. ‘This is a blow against me, Inspector. An insult to me. This is my enemies at work. They’re trying to destroy me. First the fire, then that girl at the mannequin house. Now this. Someone is trying to ruin me, Inspector. That’s what this is all about. That man Spiggott, for instance. Why did you let him go?’
‘He rather thinks I should have arrested you.’
‘But that’s preposterous. Why should I attack my own interests?’
It was immediately apparent that the Costumes Salon was the scene of a tragedy. Shrieking mannequins prowled aimlessly about; sometimes, animated by brief bursts of energy, they broke into a run. But what they were running from, or to, was unclear. Monsieur Hugo tried to restore calm but the tears were streaming down his face. Arbuthnot was nowhere to be seen, though several other sales assistants stood in a sombre head-shaking cluster.
Yeovil led them towards an ancient commissionaire who was standing by a closed blank door. The store’s green livery and top hat gave him the glamour of authority, which he took every bit as seriously as if he were a serving policeman.
‘She’s through there,’ said Yeovil.
Quinn approached the door but the commissionaire raised his hand to prevent him. ‘Shtop right there, shonny.’ The man’s dentures whistled alarmingly.
‘It’s all right, Dresden,’ said Blackley. ‘He’s with the police.’
The door led into the display window, a raised platform facing outwards and screened from the interior of the store by a partition wall. A space hardly bigger than a cabinet in a museum, it was crowded with clothing dummies in summer fashions. They lurked gracelessly around an open picnic basket which was brimming with wax food.
She was lying awkwardly on the ground, as stiffly as the dummies were standing. It didn’t look like she was there for any picnic. Her body position was all wrong – arms by her side, legs straight out, head back. Besides, she was still wearing the dressing gown that she had had on the day before, when Quinn had spoken to her.
‘Edna,’ murmured Quinn.
An audience was gathering on the other side of the glass. Those looking in behaved entirely without inhibition, seeming to have no sense that they themselves could be seen by the man in the window. Either that or they believed his gaze was unimportant, as irrelevant to them as that of an animal from another species.
The onlookers pointed out the dead girl to one another and shared grim aperçus. They shook their heads, affronted. He could almost hear them declaring it was a disgrace that such a thing could happen on their doorstep, in the store they frequented daily. If they looked at Quinn at all, it was to flash him a look of angry recrimination, as if they held him to blame for the outrage.
Quinn called out: ‘Mr Yeovil, can I ask you to go out there and disperse those people?’
Yeovil answered with something vaguely affirmative. As Quinn waited for him to appear outside, he heard the thud of clambering feet as he was joined in the window. ‘Oh, God. No. Not this.’
‘Do you have any idea who might have done this, Mr Blackley?’ It was clear that the identity of the dead girl came as a considerable shock to Blackley. A blow, even.
‘My enemies. My enemies have done this.’
Outside, Yeovil was shooing away the inquisitive. He glanced in anxiously. Quinn nodded his approval and signalled for Yeovil to stay where he was to deter any further interest. It also suited him to have Blackley separated from his ‘legal adviser’. ‘And who are your enemies, would you say? Leaving aside Mr Spiggott. We know all about him.’
‘You could start with that papist priest . . .’
‘Do you mean Father Thomas?’
‘He’s the ringleader.’
‘You have a ring of enemies?’
‘I am under no illusions. There are many men who would like to ruin me. When there’s a winner – like me – there are always losers. I have forced more than one business to the wall, I admit it. It’s the law of the jungle in commerce. Survival of the fittest. I can’t help it. It was their fault they couldn’t compete, not mine.’
‘Where does Father Thomas fit into it? Surely you don’t see the Catholic Church as a business competitor?’
‘Isn’t it?’
‘And isn’t this . . .’ Quinn gestured down towards the dead girl. ‘Isn’t it a somewhat extreme tactic for a disgruntled competitor?’
‘I wouldn’t put it past them. They’d stoop to anything if they thought it would hurt me. Well, I’ve survived worse than this. This won’t hurt me.’ Blackley was quick to correct himself. ‘I mean, it won’t hurt my business. Obviously I’m deeply pained at the girl’s death.’
‘Have you ever had sexual relations with Edna Corbett?’
‘Who the bloody ’ell’s Edna Corbett?’
‘She is.’
‘I thought her name were Albertine.’ Blackley’s voice was suddenly almost tender. His soft Yorkshire vowels had a plangent rhythm.
‘Yes, she’s known as Albertine here. But her real name is Edna.’
‘I never knew.’
‘So . . . Have you?’
Blackley stared at the body on the floor, his eyes bulging from his head. ‘No. I can honestly say that I haven’t. Hand . . . on . . . heart, Inspector.’ He enunciated the words deliberately, slamming his palm against his breast. ‘Hand on heart.’
Blackley seemed at pains to impress Quinn with his fidelity on this particular issue. Naturally this led Quinn to suspect that the same could not be said for any of the other mannequins. ‘Was she the only one you hadn’t slept with?’
Blackley turned sharply towards Quinn. ‘I believe that’s what’s known in legal circles as a leading question, Inspector.’
‘What had stopped you? Was she not your type? Or was it simply because you hadn’t got round to her yet?’
‘This is outrageous!’
‘Two girls have been killed. If as you assert, these crimes have been committed to injure you, it is essential that I understand, as well as I can, the relationship between you and each of the dead girls. Therefore, I implore you to be honest with me.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. The only relationship I had with either girl was that they worked for me. I was their employer. That’s all there is to it.’
‘Where were you last night?’
‘I was at home. With my wife an
d family.’
‘Was your son with you? Ben.’
‘Ben?’
Quinn noted the suppressed alarm in Blackley’s voice. It was enough to tell him that Ben Blackley had not been at home the previous night.
‘He’s a young man. He has friends. And interests of his own. It doesn’t signify if we don’t bump into each other of an evening. I believe he may have gone out to the picture palace. I recollect that’s what the wife said.’
‘Of course, I shall talk to him about that myself. We have him in custody, as you know.’
‘I may have that wrong,’ said Blackley nervously. ‘It may not have been the picture palace.’
‘You don’t know where your son was last night, do you, Mr Blackley?’
‘Why should I? He’s old enough and daft enough to do what he wants.’
‘Even if it includes murder.’
‘He didn’t do this, Inspector. He’s not a murderer. You know that.’
‘I’m afraid that, apart from you, he’s the only plausible suspect we have.’
‘And that’s enough? You don’t need evidence, for example? Or witnesses?’
‘In some cases, a confession is enough.’
‘Has Ben confessed?’
‘Not yet. But one of my men, Sergeant Inchball, is very skilled at extracting confessions.’
‘You don’t really believe this?’
‘I don’t know what to believe, Mr Blackley.’ Behind this guarded statement was Quinn’s uneasy realization that he and Macadam had kept watch on the entrance of the mannequin house all night; they had seen neither Blackley nor his son enter.
There was no easy solution to that particular conundrum. But Quinn was distracted from contemplating it further by the siren bell of an approaching police vehicle.
The Door That Led Nowhere
Macadam returned with detectives and uniforms from the local station. Remembering the panic that had ensued from the false fire alarm two days ago, Quinn was reluctant to order a sudden evacuation of the premises. However, the whole building had to be considered a crime scene. Who could say what evidence might be contaminated by the through traffic of customers?
