A Capital Crime

by Laura Wilson

  ‘He seems to have as much trouble with the truth as Davies,’ said Stratton, tiredly. ‘Judging from this lot,’ he gestured at the pile of statements taken from the Paradise Street residents, ‘everyone got a different story. Two of them said Birmingham – that was for a woman’s operation, apparently – and the rest thought it was Sheffield.’

  Perching his substantial bottom on the corner of the desk, Grove gave a sympathetic grimace. ‘Well, Lorrimer gave him twelve pounds for the furniture. Said he wanted fifteen, but most of the stuff was no good. According to him, the last time he saw Mrs Backhouse – February sometime, he reckons – she was in a terrible state of nerves and terrified of her husband.’

  Stratton sighed. ‘Isn’t hindsight a wonderful thing? Mind you, we thought she seemed pretty well under his thumb back then.’

  ‘Yes, well …’ Grove adjusted his backside, sweeping several papers to the floor in the process. ‘The bad news is that he’s been talking to the press.’ Holding up his arm, he extended his thumb and fingers to frame an invisible headline. ‘“Did She Know?”’

  ‘Well, she certainly didn’t know about the women in the alcove, because she was under the floorboards by the time they got in there.’

  ‘Not about them, about the Davieses. They won’t say that, of course, because of Lamb putting the mockers on it, but that’s what they’ll imply. “Mrs Backhouse was terrified by her guilty knowledge. Eventually her killer realised that her nerves were at breaking-point and decided that he must silence her for ever.” Or something like that.’ Seeing Stratton’s expression, Grove added, ‘Still, at least the inquest tomorrow should be pretty straightforward.’

  ‘Yes, except for the fact that we can’t actually find the fucker.’

  ‘Well, he can’t stay hidden for ever. We’ve had a lot more sightings. Likeliest was in Bognor but it didn’t come to anything. You know they even stopped a theatre performance last night – someone thought they’d spotted him in the audience. Bloke turned out to be nothing like.’

  ‘What was the play, sir?’ Ballard was listening from the other end of the room, where he’d been in conference with DS Porter.

  ‘Macbeth, believe it or not. Sir Donald Wolfit.’

  ‘Blimey,’ said Ballard. ‘He must have been cheesed off.’

  ‘I don’t know about that,’ said Grove. ‘Think of the publicity – murderer unmasked at Macbeth . . . You all right, Stratton?’

  ‘Not so’s you’d notice, no.’ Mention of the theatre had brought Raymond Bloody Benson sharply to mind. He wasn’t looking forward to that conversation at all. He put his hand in his pocket and fingered the paper on which Monica had written the phone number, touching it gingerly as though it might suddenly burst into flames.

  Getting to his feet with a grunt, Grove laid a heavy hand on his shoulder. ‘I can imagine …’ he said, gruffly. ‘But if it’s any consolation, Lamb’ll be feeling a lot worse.’

  ‘It isn’t,’ said Stratton, shortly.

  ‘Oh, by the way, Backhouse seems to have forged his wife’s signature to cash in her savings. We had a communication from the …’ Grove flicked through his notebook, ‘Yorkshire Penny Bank. Ten pounds, fifteen shillings and tuppence, it was. Right, I’d better get cracking – check we’ve got all our witnesses for tomorrow.’

  ‘Thanks, Grove. It’s …’ Temporarily lost for words, Stratton said, ‘I know you’ve got enough on your plate. I appreciate it.’

  Two pinkish spots appeared on Grove’s putty-coloured cheeks. ‘This sort of thing …’ He turned to stare out of the window for a moment, and then, tight-lipped beneath the drooping moustache, said, ‘We’re all in it together.’ Taking his pipe from his pocket and jamming it between his teeth, he left the room.

  Ballard came up to the desk, a sheaf of paper in his hand. ‘We’ve got the name of May Drinkwater’s dentist, and he’s sending all her bumpf over to the Middlesex Dental Surgery Department for comparison. And Professor Anderson – he’s the man in charge – says the crowns are made of some sort of alloy they use in Central Europe. DS Porter’s looking into it.’

  Stratton raised his eyebrows. ‘Central Europe’s a big place. Who was it reported May Drinkwater as missing?’

  ‘Her brother, sir. He gave us the name of the dentist.’

  ‘Did he give a description of what she was wearing?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Ballard leafed through his notebook. ‘A dark-coloured dress and coat.’

  ‘Looks like you might have hit the nail on the head.’ Stratton handed over the lab report. ‘We’ve got fabric samples from both, and some buttons – partially burnt, apparently at the same time as the skull.’

  ‘Fingers crossed, sir.’

  ‘You bet. Oh, and there’s a scrap of newspaper with a date which might help with identifying the other one – ninth of July, nineteen forty-three.’

  ‘I’ll look in the records, sir, although what with the bombing …’

  ‘I know. Just do your best.’

  ‘Yes, sir. And there’s something else. A woman came in this morning – DS Porter spoke to her, sir. A Mrs Jean Halliday. She said she was in a café in Marylebone last week and she had a conversation with a man she now thinks must have been Backhouse—’

  ‘Hold on. Last week’s not much use.’

  ‘Not as far as locating him goes, no, which is why Porter didn’t think to tell you immediately. But what’s interesting is that she told DS Porter they’d got talking and he started asking her about her health … Well, turns out she’s pregnant. Married, but she wasn’t very happy about it because she’s got four already, and Backhouse – if that’s who this chap was – said he could help her. Told he used to be a doctor but he’d been struck off because he did a favour for a friend and got found out. He said that if she’d go round to his house, he knew a way to get rid of the baby. She said she wanted to think about it, so they arranged to meet the following day at the same café, but she got cold feet so she didn’t turn up.’

  ‘Did the man say where he lived?’ asked Stratton.

  Ballard shook his head. ‘Just told her he lived nearby. And Euston’s not far from Marylebone, sir. Oh, and he asked if her husband knew about the pregnancy, and when she said she hadn’t told him, the bloke said there was no need to say anything because he could have it all sorted out in no time and no-one would be any the wiser.’

  ‘It certainly sounds like him,’ said Stratton. ‘Did she give a description?’

  ‘She did.’ Ballard found the right piece of paper and read, ‘Medium height, bald head, thick glasses, grey-striped suit—’

  ‘No coat?’

  ‘Not according to this. But she said she’d read a description in the paper and thought it sounded like the same man, and when Porter showed her a photograph, she told him it was spot on.’

  ‘Well, if it was him, he certainly didn’t lose any time lining up his next victim after Mary Dwyer.’

  ‘That’s what I thought, sir. He’s out of control – can’t help himself and doesn’t care about getting caught.’

  ‘It certainly sounds as if Mrs Halliday had a very lucky escape. And now he’s left Paradise Street, he’s presumably not got anywhere to take anyone. . . But if you’re right – and you might well be – that he no longer cares about getting caught, that makes him even more dangerous. Christ! We’ll just have to hope that—’ Stratton stopped as Arliss’s head appeared round the door, an expression of malevolent relish lighting up his normally morose features. ‘A Mrs Davies at the desk, sir. John Davies’s mother. Says she’d like a word, sir.’

  Stratton, exchanging glances with Ballard, saw only compassion in the sergeant’s eyes. Heart sinking still further, he rose and followed the constable down the corridor.

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Diana headed towards Green Park – to the spot where James had proposed to her. Now, her single objective was to be close to him, and she could think of no other way to achieve it.

  The obituary hadn’t menti
oned where he’d died, only how. Had he returned to London, she wondered and, if so, how had he managed it with so little money? Light-headed with hunger – the hostel had not provided breakfast beyond a cup of nauseatingly strong tea – she stumbled along as fast as the painful rubbing of the raw flesh on her heels would allow, her suitcase banging against her legs, impelled by the idea of being near him.

  Reawakened at half past five by a clanging fire-bell and a rough hand yanking the blanket from her body, she’d seen, as though in a dream, the grey shapes rise off their beds, scramble into their clothes and make for the door. Dazed, she’d followed them, barely able to remain on her feet in the middle of the elbowing, clattering descent down two flights of stairs to the basement wash-house. The room she’d found herself in was a wet version of hell, reeking of carbolic soap with dirty water everywhere, coursing in rivulets down the concrete walls and sluicing in soapy rivers across the floor to drain away down gulleys cut into the stone. The air was thick with shrieks and swearing, punctuated with flushing lavatories, as sixty women jostled each other for the use of three taps and fought over hanging space on the clothesline strung above their heads. Now, making her way from Victoria – where, it turned out, the hostel was situated – towards Hyde Park Corner, revoltingly detailed images detached themselves from the memory of the violent, steamy blur: a single, pendulous dug with the thick, pocked surface of orange-peel; mottled legs disfigured by bulging knots of varicose veins; a discarded sanitary towel floating in a scummy puddle …

  Just twenty minutes later, upstairs in the ante-room, those same women had sat waiting for the doors to open at seven o’clock, silent and withdrawn from one another, adjusting their dress and pinning on the few pitiful ornaments they still possessed, the vestiges of self-respect that would enable them to face the world. She’d seen their sidelong, envious looks at her fur coat and been careful to keep her mouth shut for fear of exciting their scorn. Perhaps she needn’t have worried – their lack of curiosity had suggested that, if she was there, she must be one of them.

  Was she? She neither knew nor cared. All she wanted was to be with James. Wincing, she quickened her pace.

  It was over two years since she’d last been in the park and, with the trees in leaf and mist still rising from the grass, it looked different to what she remembered. After five minutes’ walking she stopped, blinking up into the weak spring sunlight. She was sure she was near the place where James had proposed – or rather, where James had told her she was going to marry him – and she’d definitely chosen the same entrance, but she wanted to be sure. After turning round several times, she made for a clump of trees whose shapes she thought she remembered, but felt no sense of his presence. She stopped and removed her gloves, staring down at her engagement ring that sparkled next to the thin gold wedding band.

  There’s no such thing as too much champagne … James’s voice echoed in her ear and, in a warm rush, the liquid heat of desire coursed through her body, just as it had when he’d touched her arm. Dizzy now, she could feel his lips on hers, his breath on her face, and then – she spun round – they’d run across the grass … Oh, God …

  Her legs seemed to have turned to water, and she leant against a tree trunk and closed her eyes. When she opened them, she knew he was gone. There’s no point in being here, she thought. He’s nowhere. He’s dead. She buried her face in her hands, and wept.

  When she straightened up, she noticed that there was a man standing on the path, looking in her direction. Seen through a blur of tears, he looked as if he’d just risen out of the mist, middle-aged and ordinary in his tweed overcoat and trilby hat, the sunlight glinting off his glasses so that she couldn’t see the eyes behind them. Turning her back on him so that she was facing the tree, she blew her nose and, taking her compact from her handbag, began to repair her face. Returning the cosmetics to their place and pulling on her gloves, she turned round once more and saw that he was still there. He seemed, although she wasn’t sure about this because of the sun, to be staring at her. Discomfited by the blank spaces that were his eyes, and wondering what she ought to do next, she began walking in the direction of the railings. Out of the corner of her right eye, she saw him hesitate and then, as if he’d reached a decision, square his shoulders and begin walking towards her. Thinking that he might be lost, she stopped. He approached her and, removing his hat to reveal a domed, bald pate, he blinked several times, as if uncertain, and made a curious sucking motion with his mouth. ‘Good morning,’ he said, in a husky, confidential tone, ‘I wonder if I might be of any assistance?’

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Stratton thought afterwards that it would have been easier if Mrs Davies had cursed and spat at him. The elderly lady’s quiet dignity had filled him with shame. ‘When I visited my son in prison before his trial,’ she said, ‘and I asked him what happened, he told me it was Backhouse. “He knows all about it, he’s got medical books.” That’s what John said. “Get Mr Backhouse, he’s the only one who can help me.” When I asked him why he made all those statements, he said it was because Mr Backhouse told him that things would be fine if he confessed. Then he said only one of the statements was true, and that was the one where he said Backhouse had done it. When I asked him why he signed the confession, he said that when you told him Judy was dead he had nothing to live for. Until then, I didn’t know what to believe, but when he said that I knew he was telling the truth. He told you that, Mr Stratton, but you didn’t believe him.’

  ‘No,’ said Stratton, ‘I didn’t. But he did have a reputation as a liar, Mrs Davies. You said so yourself.’ Stratton forbore to point out that she’d also said, in a statement made to DI Grove, that her son had a terrible temper.

  ‘Yes, I did. But I knew when he was telling the truth.’

  Stratton doubted the veracity of this, but wouldn’t have dreamt of challenging it. Death, especially in these sorts of circumstances, tended to simplify people into much better – or much worse – versions of themselves, and this black-and-white-ing process extended to their relationships with others. Bonds, especially intuitive links, such as Davies’s mother was now claiming, became ever stronger as the dead person was dismantled and remade by those left behind. But if it comforted them, where was the harm?

  ‘Do you still think he’s guilty, Mr Stratton?’

  Stratton hesitated. ‘I don’t know,’ he said, finally. ‘We need to complete our investigation before we can come to any conclusions.’

  Mrs Davies held Stratton’s gaze until he could bear it no longer and lowered his eyes. ‘When John’s appeal failed,’ she said, in a steady voice, ‘I asked him again. I told him it couldn’t make any difference now – it was for my own peace of mind and because I wanted him to make his peace with God. He looked me straight in the eye and said, “Mam, I didn’t do it. Backhouse done it.”’

  Stratton had a fleeting image of Mrs Davies on the morning of the execution, flanked by relatives in a neat sitting room, all of them watching as the minute hand of the clock on the mantel inched nearer and nearer to the hour. He could imagine her clutching her son’s photograph, waiting for the second when the present of his life tipped over into the past, gathering herself for the invisible but all-too-well-imagined snapping of the neck as the trap was released and the bag-headed, pinioned thing that had been her boy plummeted downwards …

  I want to tell Mam what I done, but I can’t do it … Stratton remembered Davies’s words to him in the car on the way back from the committal. Could he have been referring to something other than the murders? It didn’t seem very likely. If he was guilty, then clearly he hadn’t been able to face confessing it to his mother. But it was a very odd thing to say if he wasn’t.

  ‘What I came to tell you,’ Mrs Davies continued, ‘is that I’m writing to my Member of Parliament to ask about an inquiry. I’ve also written to the Home Secretary. I thought I ought to tell you because John said you were a gentleman. He liked you, Mr Stratton.’

  This was said
sincerely, without a trace of irony. Humbled, Stratton said, ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Well …’ Mrs Davies rose and stood, straight-backed and self-contained. ‘I’m sure you’re very busy.’

  Stratton said goodbye to Mrs Davies at the station door. As she began to descend the steps, an impulse he was unable to resist made him put a restraining hand on her arm. She looked down at it and then up at his face, frowning slightly. Removing his hand, he said, ‘I am sorry. Very sorry.’ He didn’t – couldn’t – elaborate further, but Mrs Davies appeared not to require this. With a single, emphatic nod that made her tight grey curls bounce, she turned and left.

  Leaving West End Central that evening, Stratton felt as furtive and mortified as a man coming out of a knocking shop and onto a street where he might easily meet someone he knows. Logic told him that Davies’s death wasn’t solely his fault. The man had done a great deal to hang himself, Backhouse had lied, and everyone, including the judge, had considered Davies to be guilty. He wondered if Mrs Davies had, initially at least, thought so too. If that were so, he thought, then by now she’d almost certainly convinced herself she’d always been sure of his innocence. He couldn’t blame her for that – in the circumstances, he’d probably have done the same. But then what about what Davies had said in the car …

  He’d turned this over and over in his mind during the bus journey home, but reached no conclusions. The house was unlit, and turning on the kitchen light he saw that there was a note lying on the table. Assuming that it must be instructions for heating up whatever was in the saucepan on the stove, he went through to the scullery and poured himself a glass of beer. Staring out of the window into the dark garden, he tried to rehearse what to say to Raymond Benson. At least, he thought, separated by a telephone line, he wouldn’t be able to clobber the bloody man, no matter how strong the urge. Imagining him, sleekly handsome and languid in a velvet smoking jacket, he clenched his fists, but he knew that, however much he wanted to break the man’s neck, he’d promised Monica – and, he repeated to himself, violence wouldn’t change, or solve, anything. It’d make me feel a whole lot better, though, he thought, grimly.