A Capital Crime

by Laura Wilson

  Ballard went off to telephone, leaving Stratton outside the house. A semicircle of neighbours, mainly putty-faced women and children, had gathered to stand at a discreet distance. The women, several of whom had their hair in curlers, wore cretonne overalls, and the children, snotty-nosed, concave-chested and wearing an assortment of ill-fitting clothing and gumboots, trailed skipping ropes, sticks, and a broken tennis racket. The constant rumble of trains travelling along the line to Euston was counterpointed by an assortment of hollow, tubercular coughs and the thin, high wail of a baby, but no-one spoke. Instead, they watched warily, ready to back away and scatter, reminding him of a herd of cows.

  When Stratton turned back towards number ten he saw the man again, standing in front of the still-drawn curtains, this time with a cup and saucer held in a dainty manner, little finger slightly raised. Ballard’s description of a maiden aunt was spot on, he thought. The man blinked at him for a moment, then withdrew.

  Stratton wondered if that were Norman Backhouse, the man who’d taken Davies’s baby into his care, and why he did not come out to see what was going on outside his home. Time enough for that later – the contents of the drain must come first. He squatted down once more to look at the manhole cover. Nobody was that strong, thought Stratton. Six foot three, broad-shouldered and a former boxer, he wasn’t exactly a weakling, and neither, despite his slimmer physique, was Ballard. It would take at least three men, maybe four, to lift the thing. He lit a cigarette and wondered how many people lived in Paradise Street. They were little more than doll’s houses, really – there couldn’t be more than two rooms per storey, with one out the back on the ground floor – but he’d have bet that each building was inhabited by at least two families, plus the usual assortment of jobless ex-servicemen, part-time prostitutes, and forlorn elderly widows who eked out their meagre pensions in tea and bread and marge.

  Ballard returned after ten minutes, followed by the towering, barrel-chested form of PC Canning, who was holding a crowbar, with old Arliss, the station’s most incompetent policeman, grumbling along in the rear. Stratton issued instructions, but even with the four of them (not that Arliss did much more than complain about his back) it took a lot of grunting and heaving before they were able to move the cover aside sufficiently for Canning to shine his torch down the hole. When he looked up, he was shaking his head.

  ‘What’s up?’ asked Stratton.

  ‘See for yourself, sir.’ Canning handed him the torch.

  Stratton leant over the opening and looked. The shaft was empty. ‘I don’t believe there’s ever been a body in there,’ he said.

  ‘There aren’t any other drains nearby,’ said Ballard.

  Stratton turned to look down the road and found himself, instead, looking into a pair of round, pale blue eyes, blinking rapidly behind thick glasses. ‘Sorry, sir,’ he said, stepping back smartly. ‘Can I help you?’

  The man, who Stratton now recognised as the chap who’d been watching them from inside the house, gave a soft cough. ‘I think, Inspector,’ he said in a voice so quiet that Stratton had to strain to hear it, ‘that it might be more a question of how I can help you.’

  ‘I see.’ Wondering why he hadn’t heard the man approach, Stratton looked down and saw that he was wearing plimsolls. Must have crept up behind us, he thought.

  The man made the peculiar sideways movement with his mouth that he’d noticed before. Up close, it was accompanied by a small wet sucking noise. He looked, Stratton thought, like a bad ventriloquist. ‘My name’s Backhouse. I saw you through the window. Of course, I didn’t want to obstruct you in the course of your duties – I know all about that because I was a special. In the recent war. Volunteered in nineteen thirty-nine and served for several years at West End Central. In fact …’ he ducked his head, modestly, ‘I had the honour to be commended on two occasions.’ He stopped, clearly expecting a response. When none was forthcoming, he said, ‘I wondered … are you looking for something?’ During the course of this little speech, Backhouse’s voice had risen in volume, so that by the end it was almost normal. He had the vestiges of a northern accent – Yorkshire, Stratton thought – eroded, like his own Devonian one had been, by years of contact with Cockneys, and spoke with exaggerated precision, taking great care with his consonants.

  Stratton introduced himself, and then, drawing Backhouse to one side, said, ‘Perhaps you can help us with some information about the Davieses.’

  ‘They’re not here now,’ said Backhouse. ‘They’ve left.’

  ‘When was that?’

  Backhouse considered this for a moment. ‘The second week of November. I remember that because we had workmen here. The last time I saw them was the Tuesday of that week.’

  ‘And you haven’t seen them since?’

  ‘Not Muriel – Mrs Davies, that is – or the baby. They went off then, you see, to stay with some friends in … Bristol, I think it was. That’s what he told us.’

  ‘Mr Davies told you that?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. He said they were going for a holiday, and he was joining them later in the week. He told me he was going to find a job up there. Has something happened to them, Inspector?’

  ‘That’s what we’re trying to find out.’

  ‘Well, you’ll not find them in the drain.’ Backhouse spoke as if it were a perfectly normal place to look for someone, such as their home or the local pub.

  ‘No,’ agreed Stratton. ‘Did Davies leave the baby with you at any time?’

  Backhouse stared at him in surprise. When he spoke, it was barely more than a whisper. ‘No. My wife used to listen out for her from time to time if Muriel went out, but that was all.’

  ‘So you didn’t tell him you’d find someone to look after the baby?’

  ‘Tell him …? I’m sorry, Inspector, I don’t understand.’

  ‘Mr Davies made a statement to the police in Wales, saying you told him you’d find someone to look after the baby.’

  ‘Find someone? That’s nonsense.’ Backhouse cleared his throat and continued at normal pitch, ‘He left some of her things with me, but that was all … but I don’t understand. You said he’d made a statement?’

  ‘Yes. He said he’d put his wife’s body in the drain.’

  ‘Oh, dear …’ Backhouse shook his head. ‘Well, I don’t know anything about that. I’m sure we’d have noticed, if … There was nothing like that. He just gave me the things to look after. He’d sold the rest of his furniture, you see, before he left.’

  ‘All of it?’ asked Stratton, remembering the telegram.

  ‘Yes. A man came for it a few days later.’

  ‘Did Davies collect the baby’s things?’

  Backhouse shook his head. ‘We’ve still got them. Would you like to see?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  Stratton told the others to put the drain cover back in place and followed Backhouse inside number ten.

  ‘Lucky I was here,’ he said. ‘I’d normally be at work, but I suffer with my back. It’s so bad now I’ve had to have a certificate from the doctor.’ Ignoring this, Stratton peered down the dim hallway. It was narrow, with a solitary gas bracket for lighting and a flight of stairs halfway back with a passage alongside which led to the back door and, adjacent to that, the door of what Stratton guessed must be Backhouse’s kitchen. Glancing through a half-open door on the right, he caught sight of the corner of a table with a dark bobble-edged cloth on it and the edges of a couple of framed photographs. Faded sepia, he imagined, dead Victorians in all their dour glory. He was proved right about the kitchen when a plump, large-bosomed woman stepped out of it, tea towel in hand. Clad in a flowered cretonne overall, she had a placid, almost bovine expression. ‘What is it, Norman?’ Her accent was Yorkshire, too, but more pronounced.

  ‘This is my wife,’ explained Backhouse. ‘It’s the police, Edna. The ones who were looking down the drain.’

  ‘Inspector Stratton,’ added Stratton, by way of introduction.

&nbs
p; ‘Is there something wrong with the drain?’ Mrs Backhouse looked worried. ‘Only we’ve not touched it.’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with it, but I’d like to see the things that Mr Davies left with you, for the baby.’

  ‘Why? What’s happened?’

  ‘As I explained to Mr Backhouse,’ said Stratton, feeling foolish, ‘we aren’t really sure at the moment.’

  ‘Oh dear …’ Mrs Backhouse put a hand over her mouth. ‘They’re in the kitchen. But they’re not ours, so I don’t know if—’

  ‘Don’t keep the inspector waiting, Edna,’ said Backhouse. ‘He’s got to do his job.’

  The Backhouses’ kitchen was a cramped, cluttered room, no more than ten feet square, containing a gas stove, a range, a stone sink, shelves, a table and two chairs and an odd-looking deckchair, its canvas replaced by a home-made sling of knotted ropes. Mrs Backhouse opened a wooden cupboard door in the back wall. ‘It’s all here,’ she said. ‘We haven’t interfered with it.’ Peering inside, Stratton saw an alcove stretching back about six feet, which, by the looks of it, had once been used to store coal. Now, it held a pram, a baby’s high chair, and two suitcases. Lifting the nearest case out, Stratton set it on the floor and, kneeling down, opened it. Inside was a grubby cot blanket, and underneath that, baby clothes.

  ‘Do you recognise these?’ he asked Mrs Backhouse, who was peering over his shoulder.

  ‘Yes. That’s one of Judy’s frocks.’

  Stratton took out his notebook. ‘Judy’s the baby’s name, is it?’

  ‘Yes.’ Mrs Backhouse frowned. ‘But I thought you knew … I mean, if you’re looking for them.’

  ‘We don’t have much information,’ said Stratton. ‘We just want to make sure she’s safe.’

  Mrs Backhouse shook her head. ‘Poor little thing …’

  ‘If there’s anything more we can do to help, Inspector,’ said Backhouse, ‘you’ve only to ask. As I said, I was with the police during the war, so I know—’

  ‘If I might have the other case,’ said Stratton, cutting him off. The way the man was toadying was downright creepy.

  The second case contained a feeding bottle, napkins and yet more baby clothes – a surprising amount, Stratton thought, for just one infant. Perhaps Backhouse thought so too, because he said, ‘Davies’s mother bought most of Judy’s things. She’s always done a lot for them, hasn’t she, Edna?’

  ‘Oh yes. She’s very good to them.’

  ‘Could Mrs Davies be looking after Judy?’ asked Stratton.

  ‘I suppose so,’ said Mrs Backhouse. ‘I don’t know. Muriel didn’t say anything to me.’

  ‘She didn’t even tell you they were going, did she, Edna?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Edna was quite upset about it, her not saying goodbye. We’ve always tried to be good neighbours, Inspector. Always looked out for them. They’re very young, you see.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Stratton, wondering why, if Mrs Davies was looking after Judy, she hadn’t collected her things. Surely the baby couldn’t have even more of them? And even if she had, Mrs Davies would certainly need the pram … He lifted up the baby’s stuff to see what was at the bottom of the case, and found what was clearly a woman’s blouse and a cotton dress.

  ‘Those are Muriel’s,’ said Mrs Backhouse. ‘Summer things.’

  That, at least, made sense, thought Stratton. She’d hardly need them at this time of year. ‘Did Mr Davies say anything about picking these up or sending someone for them?’

  ‘No,’ said Backhouse. ‘I assumed he was waiting until they were settled.’

  ‘And he left when, exactly?’

  ‘About a week after Muriel and the baby, wasn’t it?’

  Mrs Backhouse nodded.

  ‘So that would be about a fortnight ago.’

  ‘That’s right. That’s when he sold the furniture, and he’d given up his job. He came back about a week ago.’

  ‘And he didn’t say anything about taking these?’ Stratton indicated the contents of the alcove.

  Backhouse shook his head. ‘The thing was, you see …’ He tailed off, blinking rapidly.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I didn’t think I ought to say anything …’ Backhouse’s voice had gone quiet again, ‘but he told Edna that Muriel had walked out on him. Didn’t he, dear?’

  ‘Yes.’ Mrs Backhouse looked awkward, and when she spoke, her voice, too, was hushed. ‘I asked him how she was, and he said she was all right, but she’d left him.’

  ‘In Bristol?’

  ‘Well … I suppose it was. I don’t know.’

  Backhouse, who appeared to be staring at Muriel’s clothes, made the strange sucking sound with his mouth again, then cleared his throat and said, ‘To be honest, Inspector, I can’t say we were very surprised.’

  ‘Oh? Why’s that?’

  ‘Well, they argued a lot, didn’t they, dear?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘A lot of shouting,’ said Backhouse. ‘Violence, sometimes. Muriel told my wife about it on several occasions. She told Edna she was afraid of him.’ Mrs Backhouse nodded in confirmation of this. ‘Not that we needed telling,’ Backhouse continued. ‘You could hear it quite clearly. So could the neighbours, I’m afraid. They were known around here for fighting.’

  ‘Do you know what they fought about?’

  ‘Debts, I think. It’s hard for a young couple these days, and she wasn’t very good with money, I’m afraid. And there was Davies’s behaviour. He went off with a woman once. A friend of his wife’s,

  too – she was stopping with them, you see, upstairs. I told them the tenancy agreement didn’t allow it, but …’ He shook his head. ‘A dreadful business, shouting and screaming … Mrs Davies – his mother – came over to try and keep the peace, but the police were called in the end. Davies and the girl left, but he came back – the next day, I think it was. The girl had thrown him out, and he was in a terrible temper. Threatened to run her over in his van – he’s a driver, you see, deliveries. He worked in the goods yard, just the other side of the wall here. You don’t like to interfere, but …’ He shook his head again. ‘“I’ll smash her up.” That was what he said. “I’ll smash her up.” The whole thing was most regrettable.’

  ‘When did it happen?’

  ‘Sometime in August. There was a lot of rowing. I heard him threaten to throw Muriel out of the window on one occasion. And then there was the drinking. He was always in public houses. And I’m afraid he got a name as something of a liar. Telling stories. In fact, we’ve sometimes wondered if he isn’t a bit mental.’

  ‘I see.’ Stratton rose, dusting his trouser legs.

  ‘As I said,’ concluded Backhouse, ‘we weren’t surprised when he said she’d left him.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Stratton. ‘You’ve been most helpful. Just one more thing – Mrs Davies’ address. Do you know it?’

  ‘It’s nearby – twenty-two, Garton Road.’

  As Stratton was taking his leave, Mrs Backhouse laid a hand on his arm. ‘You will …’ she began timidly and then, seeing her husband’s frown, she stopped.

  ‘Yes?’ prompted Stratton.

  ‘Just … you will tell us, won’t you? About the baby, I mean. I – we – were very fond of her.’

  The street was empty but for Ballard, who was waiting for him. ‘Arliss says he remembers Backhouse being a special,’ he said. ‘I think I do, too.’

  ‘Do you? I don’t.’

  ‘Well, you didn’t really have much to do with them, sir. If he is the chap I remember, and I’m pretty sure he is, he was good, but a bit officious. Overdid it.’

  ‘The power of the uniform, you mean?’

  ‘Something like that, sir,’ said Ballard wryly. ‘And he was commended. Did you get much in there?’

  ‘Well, there’s no indication that any crime’s been committed, but Davies did leave some baby things with the Backhouses, which tends to back up his story that Judy – that’s the kid’s name – was going
to be looked after by somebody other than his wife. The Backhouses say they don’t know anything about it. They also said that Davies and his wife rowed a lot, and that he told them she’d upped and left him.’

  ‘Odd that she didn’t take the baby, sir, if that’s the case.’

  ‘That’s what I thought. But she might be with Davies’s mother, so we’d better go round there and see.’

  ‘Righty-ho, sir.’

  ‘I’ll fill you in about the rest on the way. Backhouse said that Davies had a bit of a reputation for telling stories, so I suppose it’s not impossible that this is one of them. Seems a bit drastic, though.’

  Ballard raised his eyebrows and gave a silent whistle. ‘You can say that again, sir.’

  Chapter Four

  ‘I don’t know what’s going on.’ Mrs Davies, neat and upright, with tight grey curls like steel wool, looked baffled. ‘Muriel and Judy were supposed to be stopping with her father in Brighton, that’s all I know about it.’ Her voice was a Welsh sing-song, and as she spoke she rubbed her hands down the sides of her overalled hips. ‘John told me, but I know that’s not right because I wrote to Mr Binney – that’s Muriel’s father – and he says she’s never been near the place. I’ve hardly slept since I had his telegram, I can tell you. I’ve no idea where Muriel is, or the baby – and she could write to me, even if John can’t.’

  ‘He can’t write?’

  Mrs Davies shook her head. ‘Not much more than his signature. Missed a lot of school, you see – he was poorly when he was a boy, in and out of hospital. I can’t understand why Muriel’s not been in touch. I’ve always been good to her …’ Seeing that her eyes were wet, Stratton hastily averted his own, looking around her neat, comfortable front room – the perfectly squared antimacassars, the symmetry of ornaments and photographs on the mantelZpiece – while she collected herself. Her matronly dignity and obvious pride in her home reminded him of his mother-in-law Nellie – dead now, like Jenny his wife. He’d been deliberately circumspect about what he’d told Mrs Davies, with no mention of bodies put down drains, but it was obvious that she was already both desperately worried and very angry.