by Laura Wilson
‘Mrs Backhouse identified Muriel Davies’s clothes,’ he said, plonking himself heavily on the nearest chair. ‘She recognised the baby’s cardigan, too, and the little frock. Nice woman – very distressed about the kid. Said that although they’d never been blessed, she’d looked after little Judy a lot and thought of her as almost like her own.’ Clamping his teeth angrily round the pipe and grimacing so that they showed up to the roots, he added, ‘When I think of what that bastard did …’ Leaning forward for emphasis, he chomped the pipe into the corner of his mouth and continued, ‘My girl came round to see us last night, with my little granddaughter. God, I’d like to get hold of that murdering little shit for five minutes …’
Grove was a kindly man who, despite years in the police force, rarely said a sharp thing about anyone, but now his rage seemed to reverberate around the walls of the little room, unchecked and raw. Stratton saw his own anger and incomprehension reflected in Grove’s eyes and saw, also, from Ballard’s face, that he felt exactly the same way.
Grove cleared his throat and opened his notebook. ‘Mrs Backhouse said she saw Judy on Monday the sixth – looked after her when Muriel went out. That was the last day she saw either of them. Shirley Morgan came to the house on the same day. Backhouse told her to clear off, apparently. And … she said they’ve got a medical book – St John’s Ambulance – but when I asked her about Backhouse training to be a doctor she said Davies was making it up.’
‘He seems to have done a lot of that,’ said Stratton.
Grove nodded, chewing his pipe. ‘Said she knew Mrs Davies was pregnant, but that she and her husband were moral people and wouldn’t help anyone to get rid of a baby … Seemed quite genuine. Said they didn’t know of any childless couple who wanted a baby in Euston or anywhere else … She saw Davies on the seventh, in the evening, and he told her that Muriel and the baby had gone to Bristol. Said she was surprised because Muriel hadn’t said anything about it to her. Davies told her that Muriel hadn’t told his mother, either … Also said she heard a bump in the night of Tuesday the seventh of November. Sounded like furniture being moved about. She saw Davies at about quarter to seven on the evening of the ninth, when he came downstairs and told Backhouse he’d given up his job … Then she saw him a few times on the Friday when he came in and out, because he wasn’t working then … Didn’t see him at all after that. She said she’d been in and out of the washhouse since the seventh of November, as usual, getting water to rinse the slop-pail … There were some bits of wood in there, stacked in front of the sink …’
Stratton nodded. ‘That tallies with what Davies said about concealing the body. Backhouse said he’d noticed planks stacked in front of the sink on the thirteenth – the same ones, presumably.’
‘She said she didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary,’ Grove continued. ‘No smell or anything out of place. There’s not much more, really … they were married in nineteen twenty, in May … they’ve lived in Paradise Street since thirty-eight … came to London in twenty-three … Halifax before that … she was away for a while during the war, stopping with relatives in Sheffield, and came back in forty-four … never had any trouble …’
‘A model citizen, in fact,’ said Stratton. ‘I mean, you’ve seen the man. Anyway, the accounts seem to fit, so it’s just the workmen and the tradesmen and the Morgan woman and then we’re home and dry.’
Chapter Nineteen
‘So,’ said Stratton, when Grove had gone, ‘we’ll need to see the men from the building firm. The name’s in Backhouse’s statement somewhere, isn’t it?’
Ballard scanned the document. ‘Kendall’s, sir. Premises in Drummond Street, off the Hampstead Road. There’s Mr Kendall, and the plasterer’s name’s Walker, according to this, and the chippie – if you can believe it – is called Carpenter.’
‘Sounds like Happy Families,’ said Stratton, scribbling in his notebook.
Ballard grimaced. ‘We wouldn’t be doing this if it were, sir.’
‘Quite,’ said Stratton, hastily. ‘Take PC Canning and round them up, tell them exactly why we want them, and don’t take no for an answer. Get hold of the time sheets for the job while you’re at it. Then we’ve got the bloke from the hire purchase place, Benfleet’s, and the chap who bought the furniture …’
‘Lorrimer, sir,’ said Ballard. ‘They’re both on the telephone. I have the numbers here.’
‘Good … and there’s Davies’s boss at Murchison’s van company, and that woman Backhouse was talking about – Muriel Davies’s friend.’
‘Shirley Morgan.’ Ballard found the relevant page in the statement. ‘Says here “she lives nearby”.’
‘I’ll do that. Shouldn’t be too hard to find out where she is. And I’d better get someone to speak to the owner of that briefcase, too, although I can’t imagine he’s got anything to do with it.’
‘That’s a Mr Parker. Address in Everton Buildings. I think that’s somewhere off the Hampstead Road, too, sir.’
‘In that case, maybe you can kill two birds with one stone. Canning can escort Kendall’s lot back here, and you see if you can get Parker to come and identify the thing. And,’ he added, getting heavily to his feet, ‘while you’re doing that, I’ll go and tell DCI Lamb what we’ve been up to.’
Twenty minutes later, Stratton unlaced his shoes and spent several minutes rubbing his feet violently against each other to ease his itchy chilblains – Lamb (‘for God’s sake make sure it’s watertight’) seemed to have had a bad effect on them. Somewhat relieved, he lit a cigarette and picked up the telephone. In short order, he spoke to Mr Benfleet from the hire purchase outfit, and to the furniture dealer, Lorrimer, requesting their presence at the station, then ascertained Shirley Morgan’s address and packed an unwilling Arliss off to fetch her. He’d just spoken to Davies’s former employer, Murchison, when PC Canning put his head round the door and summoned him to the lobby, where he found Kendall, Walker, and the carpenter called Carpenter sitting in a depressed-looking row.
Stratton and PC Canning started with Kendall, a lugubrious man with a soggy roll-up glued to his lower lip. ‘I don’t like this,’ he said, unhappily. ‘Don’t like it at all. It’s nothing to do with any of my men. Been working for me for years, they have, and we’ve never had nothing like it.’
‘I’m sure you haven’t,’ said Stratton. ‘But we need to clarify a few things. When did you begin the work at Paradise Street?’
‘We started the job on the Tuesday – that was the seventh of November. We’d have gone in on the Monday,’ – here, the fag drooped disconsolately – ‘but the weather was bad. I give your bobby’ – Kendall nodded righteously at Canning – ‘the time sheets for Walker—’
‘That’s the plasterer?’
‘That’s right. There’s time sheets for Walker and Carpenter there.’
PC Canning produced a sheaf of time sheets from his tunic, and Stratton peered at the scrawl, trying to make sense of it. ‘It says here …’ he indicated Walker’s first sheet, dated 7 November, ‘“taking material to job” . . . and he was working there until Friday the tenth. Where would this material have been stored?’
‘In the washhouse. Same as Carpenter, for his tools, only he come later.’
This, thought Stratton, was going to be more difficult than he’d imagined – Davies had told them he’d put Muriel’s body in the washhouse on the night of the seventh, and there was the Backhouses’ description of the noises in the night … ‘So Walker would have been in and out of the washhouse from Tuesday until Friday?’
‘Yes. Well, he had to, see?’
‘You’re absolutely sure about this, are you?’
‘Well,’ said Kendall, with exaggerated reasonableness, ‘he would, wouldn’t he, if that’s where he was storing things? Mind you, I wasn’t there so much, only in the beginning, and when we cleared out the tools and that on the Friday.’
‘And you didn’t notice anything unusual about the washhouse during that time?’
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‘Can’t say I did.’ Kendall scratched his chin with a thumb and forefinger stained cinnamon by nicotine. ‘And I don’t reckon Walker did neither, or he’d have told me.’
‘Did you see any wood in there – planks?’
Kendall shifted the limp dog-end ruminatively from side to side. ‘Can’t say I did.’
Stratton sighed. ‘I see. Did you see this woman at any time?’ He pushed the photograph of Muriel Davies across the table.
‘Is that the girl who was killed?’
‘Yes.’
‘Poor lass.’ He shook his head. ‘Nice-looking, too … I didn’t see her. I’d remember if I had.’
‘Fair enough,’ said Stratton. ‘Now, let’s look at Carpenter’s time sheets, shall we?’ As Stratton read the scribbled notes his heart sank: Lamb wasn’t going to like this one little bit. ‘They say Carpenter pulled up the rotten joists and flooring in the ground floor passage on the Thursday afternoon and the Friday, and laid new flooring on the Saturday. He fitted the new skirting on Monday the thirteenth, and then he’d finished the job, had he?’
‘That’s right.’
‘So you’re saying there wouldn’t have been any timber stacked in the washhouse until Friday the tenth?’
‘No. There wasn’t nothing to put there, was there?’
‘What about the stuff taken up on the Thursday?’
‘Well, he had to loosen it first, see, so he’d have done that then … Even if he’d started taking it up, I doubt there’d have been much to move.’
‘What about the new flooring?’
‘I picked that up myself, on the Friday, and he collected it on the Saturday, before he started.’
‘Mr Kendall,’ said Stratton, ‘as I’m sure you understand, it’s very important that we get a clear picture of what happened.’ Here, he looked hard at Kendall, who waggled the remains of his roll-up solemnly in response. ‘These time sheets,’ Stratton indicated the grubby pages, ‘would you say that they give an accurate picture of what happened and when?’
‘Well …’ Kendall pinched the fag end out of his mouth, and gave a deep sigh. ‘It was a contract job, see, so what’s on the sheets is a bit … Well, put it this way, what it is, I have to make sure that the work’s done in the time allowed.’
‘So you wouldn’t check them?’
‘I’d have a look, but unless the bloke’s put down that he’s at another site where he shouldn’t be, or he’s doing a job that’s not in the contract … then I’d have to have a word, because that’s a mistake, see? I mean, the time sheets aren’t really a timetable for the job, as such.’
At least, thought Stratton, that gives us a bit of room for manoeuvre. Nevertheless, after Canning had escorted Kendall from the room, he shook his head gloomily. Lamb was going to go berserk, even with dodgy time sheets. It was more likely, he thought, that Davies had muddled up the dates, but that said … Stratton pulled the telegram towards him to check – the date of the seventh was the one thing he’d been consistent about right from the beginning. Backhouse had said the seventh was the last time he’d seen Muriel, so perhaps it was possible that Davies had killed Muriel later on the same day, as he’d said, and brought her downstairs on the evening of the tenth. Or that there’d been two lots of wood … but in that case, surely Kendall would have noticed? He’d have to ask Carpenter.
Stratton leafed through his notebook. Backhouse had said Davies had left ‘about a week’ after the seventh and Davies himself said he’d gone to Wales on the Monday, which was the thirteenth, and that he’d put the baby’s body in the washhouse on the night of the ninth … ‘Balls!’ Stratton flipped his pencil across the desk. Providing the timings were right, and that Carpenter had put the timber in the washhouse on the tenth, as Kendall said, it might still fit … It might even explain the noises in the night, if Davies had moved his wife’s body down one flight of stairs into Gardiner’s flat instead of right down to the ground floor. But if that was the case, why not say so? A mixture of confusion, fear and wanting to please might muddy the waters, he supposed, especially with someone as feeble-minded as Davies clearly was – and with such difficulty telling the difference between fiction and reality.
PC Canning put his head round the door. ‘Next one, sir?’
‘Yes. Let’s have Walker.’
The plasterer was an elderly man with a red face, a thin white moustache which reminded Stratton of a milk mark on a baby’s upper lip, and a defensive air. His account tallied with Kendall’s in every respect, until Stratton pushed the photograph of Muriel under his nose. ‘Did you see this woman at any time?’
‘Is that the one who …?’ Walker tailed off, shaking his head, as Stratton nodded. ‘And her kiddie, too. Terrible business. I did see a woman on the Tuesday, going out. Never saw the face, so I don’t know.’
‘Did she have a baby with her?’
Walker shook his head. ‘I just saw her go out the front door, that’s all.’
‘And it wasn’t Mrs Backhouse.’
Again, Walker shook his head. ‘No. I saw Mrs Backhouse several times, and this woman was younger. Quite a bit younger, I’d say.’
‘Can you describe her?’
‘Well, I didn’t pay much attention …’
‘Fat? Thin?’
‘I suppose … about sort of medium-sized really. A woman.’
‘How old?’
‘Youngish, I’d say. Hard to tell.’
‘Do you remember what time?’
‘In the daytime. I mean, it was light … but morning or afternoon, I couldn’t say.’
Walker’s statement taken, Stratton told PC Canning to fetch Carpenter, who was a solid chap, heavy and square. He gave the impression of immovability – he wouldn’t go out of his way to swat a fly, but neither would he step out of the way of a charging bull. Hoping fervently that this was just his appearance and not his character, Stratton fixed him with a basilisk stare, thinking, you’re my last hope, you fucker. Don’t let me down.
Chapter Twenty
‘Lamb’ll have my guts for garters,’ said Stratton, gloomily, when Carpenter left half an hour later.
‘It’s not all bad news, sir,’ said Ballard. ‘The Brighton police have telephoned a statement from Muriel’s father, Mr Binney.’
‘Oh? What’s the gist of that?’
Ballard scanned the sheet in his hand. ‘Says Muriel told him she wanted a divorce and asked if she could take Judy and go and live with him … She told him Davies never gave her any money and spent most of his free time in the pub.’
‘Useful, I suppose, but it doesn’t help us sort out this mess with the timing. That was like trying to dig a hole in cement with your fingers.’
Carpenter hadn’t seen Muriel and he’d been adamant that he’d left the pulled-up boards on the stairs on the Thursday and Friday evenings, and only put them in the washhouse on the Monday, and, when shown a photograph of the boards in situ, he’d been equally positive that they were the ones taken up from the passage.
‘If the boards were in the passage all weekend, it’s odd that noone else mentioned it, sir,’ said Ballard.
‘Bloody odd. Apart from anything else, it’s a nuisance. Of course, the only person it would have really affected is Davies, especially if he was taking a body, or – if he’s got the dates for Muriel wrong – two bodies, downstairs …’
‘Or maybe Backhouse moved some of them into the washhouse over the weekend – but then, of course, he’d have seen what was in there.’
‘And the furniture bloke, sir. Lorrimer. He’d have noticed wood on the stairs, wouldn’t he?’
‘That’s true. Except he only valued the stuff, didn’t he? He didn’t actually take anything away till the Monday, according to Davies.’
‘Well, we’ll have to see what he’s got to say for himself. But the Backhouses must have seen the planks on the stairs, mustn’t they? And they didn’t mention it.’
‘Well, we didn’t ask them, but all the same …’ St
ratton passed his hands over his face.
‘Of course, the workmen don’t have to be called to give evidence, sir.’
‘I suppose not. Let’s see if we can get something sensible out of the Morgan woman, at any rate.’
Shirley Morgan was a lumpy girl in her late teens with a poor complexion and an air of cheerful incompetence which Stratton found surprising, given the circumstances. Charitably, he decided that it must be because disengagement and inanity were her response to everything and she was simply incapable of behaving in a different manner. ‘Funny,’ she said, brightly, ‘I thought it was the Tuesday I went round there.’
‘The seventh of November?’
‘Was it? I don’t know. I’m no good at remembering things. It might have been the Monday, for all I know. It’s a while ago, isn’t it? I can barely think what I was doing yesterday …’ Here, apparently involuntarily, she gave a grating, shrieky laugh. ‘Mr Backhouse was very funny with me.’
‘In what way?’
‘Well …’ She leant forward conspiratorially. ‘He said I shouldn’t come round again because my clothes were so nice,’ she smoothed her skirt complacently, ‘they made Muriel jealous. I mean, what a thing to say!’ She shrieked again.
Stratton winced. ‘Where was this?’
‘Where?’ Another shriek. ‘Oh, I see what you mean! Yes. On the landing. I’d gone up to knock on the door of Muriel’s kitchen, you see … Oh, no, wait, that was afterwards … or was it before? I’m all confused – I told you I couldn’t remember things. Oh, dear, I’m not being much help, am I?’
Stratton felt like slapping her. ‘It’s important that you remember, Miss Morgan. Please try to keep calm.’
‘Oh!’ The single syllable came out on a high, squealing note. It sounded like the rending of metal.
‘This is a murder enquiry,’ he said, in his most soothing voice, adding, mentally, ‘you silly bitch.’
