by William Shaw
‘Not real work. He had an allowance. His mother arranged it before she died. He got by on that, mostly.’
‘A man of independent means,’ said Bailey.
‘Poisoned chalice,’ said the minister. ‘I wish she’d never given him money. He’d have had to work then. A man should work. If he doesn’t work, he’s nothing.’
‘You said he was a disappointment,’ interrupted Breen. ‘In what way?’
Bailey turned to Breen and frowned, then turned back to Rhodri Pugh. ‘Can I introduce Sergeant Breen, sir? He is in charge of the day-to-day details of the inquiry.’
The man looked up at Breen for the first time. ‘The Chief Inspector said you were in charge of the inquiry, Inspector Bailey,’ he said.
‘Yes, sir,’ said Bailey. ‘Sergeant Breen is an experienced investigating officer, however. He will be handling operational matters.’
A pause. ‘I see.’ The minister looked back at Breen. ‘Our party has fought to give every man the right to work. I am a man that understands the value of hard work and honesty. But perhaps I got it wrong. I was too dedicated to my own work to spare the time to pass on those values to him. As a result, he became a bohemian. ‘A spender rather than an honest earner.’
‘You weren’t close to him?’
‘Hardly knew him at all this last two or three years, if truth be told.’ He looked down at his rack of untouched toast. ‘We fell out when his mother became ill, I’m afraid. I saw him at the funeral. That was the last time.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘You understand, however, Sergeant, I would not want any of this discussed in the newspapers?’
‘Of course, sir,’ said Bailey. ‘I have explained that to Sergeant Breen.’
The Welshman nodded sadly. ‘Good. It would be better that way.’
‘Why are you concerned about that?’ asked Breen.
Bailey turned and glowered again.
But the minister smiled sadly. ‘With a violent death there is always risk of prurient interest,’ he said. ‘I am aware of my son’s condition when you found him. I was shocked…’ He petered out. For a while there was silence. Bailey lowered his head so as not to look the man in the eye if he began to cry.
Tarpey said, ‘Perhaps I could fetch you a glass of water, sir?’
Tarpey’s accent was Welsh too, Breen realised. Not a civil servant then; another Labour Party man. Someone from back home. A fixer.
Finding his voice again, the minister ignored him. ‘See, there are people who would be very happy to damage this government and wouldn’t care about facts. I am anxious that a personal matter should not be allowed to undermine the foundations of authority. You see that, don’t you, Sergeant?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Breen.
‘Thank you.’ Pugh pulled a packet of cigarettes from his jacket pocket. Bailey reached for a matchbox and struck one. Pugh leaned forward and let him light the cigarette.
‘Could you perhaps give the names of anyone who knew him?’ said Breen, digging in his jacket for a notebook.
The minister closed his eyes and sighed. ‘As I was saying, we didn’t know him at all, really, his mother and myself. Not for a few years. He didn’t like us much, I think. We’re working-class people. Proud of it. My son grew up here in London, for the most part. He didn’t even have a Welsh accent. Spoke like an Englishman.’
There was silence. A clattering of cutlery from the kitchen. The minister puffed on his cigarette a couple of times, then said, ‘Of course we will do what we can to help catch the maniac who did this. I have asked my colleague, Mr Tarpey, to prepare a list.’
‘Very good of you, sir,’ said Bailey.
‘Very eager to help.’ He turned to Tarpey. ‘Tarpey’s a good man. Please contact him at any time of day or night if you have any questions at all.’
Tarpey gave a slight nod.
‘I need to know what Francis was like, growing up. His friends. What he liked to do.’
‘Why would you need to know that?’ said the minister.
‘He may have known his killer.’
The minister looked at his watch. ‘I wouldn’t have thought that was very likely,’ he said.
‘I need to know what kind of person he was.’
‘Just a normal boy, at first.’
The Labour Party was full of self-made men. Trade unionists and Party men who had been born into working-class families, who had made the most of what the war had offered them. Breen wondered what it had been like to be the child of one of these high achievers, men who had crossed the English class lines.
‘When did the family move to London?’
Pugh pushed his hair back over his scalp impatiently. ‘When I first became a shadow minister in 1960. Tarpey can tell you all of this.’
Breen persisted. ‘Did your son like it?’
The minister frowned. Breen could tell he was weighing up whether to answer or not.
‘His mother said he was a sensitive boy. I wouldn’t know what that means, myself. Our generation never had the luxury of being sensitive. But Francis hated it here at first. There was some bullying at school on account of his accent. So he lost that, quick enough. But by the time he left school I’d almost say he liked it too much. No inclination to go home.’
‘And university?’
The minister picked up his pen and said, ‘He went to study architecture. Dropped out in his first year. My fault too, maybe. His mother thought so. I persuaded him he should do something practical.’
‘And do you have a photograph?’
‘Tarpey has one for you. Is that all? I need to get on with my work now.’ He looked as if he were on the verge of tears. ‘And you will keep us informed?’
‘Naturally, sir,’ said Bailey, standing.
‘Thank you.’
Tarpey stood too. He pulled two business cards from his suit pocket, handing one to each of them. Oliver Tarpey. A phone number and an address in Hampstead.
‘Mr Pugh asked me to offer my full assistance,’ he said to Breen, as they walked through the empty tables to the front of the restaurant.
‘In what capacity?’
‘I’m a friend. And Party member. I have done my best to assist Rhodri since he first stood for election back home.’
Breen nodded. ‘What would be useful at this stage is a list of contacts,’ he said. ‘His doctor. Any associates at all. Mr Pugh’s belongings were destroyed in the fire. We don’t have a lot to go on.’
‘Friends are not so easy,’ said Tarpey. ‘He had his own set.’
‘You must have some idea.’
Tarpey smiled. ‘We’re very eager to help, of course. I will do what I can.’
‘Of course,’ said Breen. ‘In a case like this, where we don’t know all the facts, we usually work with the newspapers and put out requests for friends and acquaintances to come forward.’
Bailey hovered by the door, a short distance away.
‘I understand your methods. But I think it’s best to keep the fuss to a minimum right now, as the minister suggested. Don’t you think?’ said Tarpey.
‘The first days after a murder are crucial. It’s important to talk to as many people as we can as soon as we are able.’
‘I’m sure that’s what you will be doing. However, talking to the papers would not be in the minister’s interest. Or the government’s.’
‘And what about Mr Francis Pugh’s interest?’
‘Frankie is dead,’ said Tarpey. ‘He doesn’t really have interests, per se.’
Breen paused. ‘He is a minister’s son. There will be speculation about his death even if we don’t talk to the newspapers.’
‘You’re right, of course. But please leave us to deal with that, Sergeant. Mr Pugh has some influence there.’ Tarpey sucked on his lower lip. He lowered his voice. ‘There’s one acquaintance of Mr Pugh junior that his father is unlikely to be aware of. If I was to put you in touch with her, I would expect you to respect her privacy.’
Br
een looked down at his shoes. Then he looked up again and said, ‘Yes, of course.’
‘What if there were some minor illegality involved? I’d want an assurance that you would not act on it.’
‘It depends how minor,’ said Breen.
‘Without that assurance I can’t do this,’ said Tarpey quietly.
‘You know, of course, that it’s an offence to withhold evidence.’
Bailey was still waiting, checking his watch impatiently. ‘Oh come, come,’ said Tarpey. ‘The Home Office withholds evidence all the time. Imagine the trouble if they didn’t. But I’m just asking you as a favour. You’ll understand why when you meet her.’
‘OK,’ said Breen.
Tarpey opened his briefcase and pulled out two folded sheets of paper and an envelope. The envelope contained a photograph of Francis Pugh. A studio portrait of a handsome fresh-faced young man, hair uncombed, scowling slightly, as if he had not wanted his photograph taken at all.
‘That’s a private photograph. From the family. Not for public consumption.’
Breen unfolded the first piece of paper. The name and addresses of Francis Pugh’s bank, which Breen already knew from the papers he’d picked up at the house, his doctor and his solicitor.
The second piece had a woman’s name and address typed on it.
‘Just one name?’
‘Mr Pugh had lots of girlfriends. I’m sure you know that already. I have no idea who they were. The only time I was ever introduced to one was when he got one of them into trouble. He asked me to help her. I did. That’s her name.’
‘Did you tell his father about this?’
Tarpey shook his head. ‘No. Rhodri Pugh is a very busy man. He had a great deal to worry about without adding Frankie’s misdemeanours to the pile. I do my best to keep that kind of fuss away from him.’
‘An abortion?’
Again, Tarpey nodded.
‘You were a party to an illegal medical procedure?’
‘I’m a religious man, Mr Breen. It was not work that I enjoyed. However, I take my job extremely seriously. I’m sure you do too. But Mr Pugh’s reputation is important to the work that must be done.’
Bailey called from the door, ‘Will you make your own way back, Breen, or do you want to come in the car?’
‘One minute, sir,’ said Breen.
‘Francis contacted me just the once. In January this year before the new abortion law came into being. On a personal level, I don’t particularly like our government making abortion legal. But we are a progressive government. I understand the reasons. And at least Frankie no longer had any reason to ask me to arrange anything like this with any of his other women. I wouldn’t be surprised if there had been more. He slept around.’
Breen had been fixed on Tarpey’s Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he spoke. He said, ‘You disapprove of abortion, but you were happy to arrange it for Mr Pugh?’
‘I never said I was happy,’ said Tarpey. ‘I have told her to expect a call from you. I have also assured her she will be treated with tact.’
‘Thanks for your cooperation.’
‘And you for yours,’ replied Tarpey, holding out his hand, to shake.
The driver was fast asleep when they got back to the car. Bailey had to shake him by the shoulder to wake him.
‘Where to now, guv?’ he asked, blinking.
‘Back to the station.’ Bailey was not the sort of policeman to ever use the word ‘nick’.
The traffic had thickened. They sat without moving on Old Portland Street for ten minutes. Breen turned to Bailey. ‘Can I ask, sir, why is this investigation not being carried out by Scotland Yard?’
‘Rhodri Pugh requested that this be treated like any other murder,’ said Bailey. ‘I expect it is because he is a socialist,’ he added, as if this were explanation enough.
‘And because he wants to keep everything quiet?’
‘He’s a minister. That’s understandable.’
‘He wasn’t offering his cooperation at all. He just wanted to make sure we keep it out of the papers.’
‘Enough, Sergeant,’ said Bailey wearily. ‘I am sure Mr Pugh is just as keen as finding out who killed his son as you are. Please bear in mind, he is a man of considerable importance. We are fortunate that the Home Secretary is a strong supporter of the police force. I am not a socialist myself, but the one thing I admire about them is that for all their talk of revolution, when push comes to shove, they understand the need for the rule of law. We should do our utmost to ensure his department is not inconvenienced by any of this.’
Breen looked out of the window. A motorbike and sidecar had broken down in the middle of the oncoming traffic and cars were trying to squeeze past it. ‘I felt a little like a schoolboy called to the headmaster’s study,’ he said.
‘You have never understood the way things are done, Paddy. If you don’t understand that, all the good intentions in the world are worth nothing.’
The car pulled up finally at the back of the police station. Bailey got out. ‘Do as he says, please. Give Rhodri Pugh’s assistant regular updates on the case.’
‘Even though he’s probably getting them already from his boss’s department?’
But Bailey didn’t appear to hear. He was already halfway into the building.
NINE
The police surgeon, Wellington, was in a foul mood.
‘How in buggering blasted hell can I be expected to work like this?’
They were redecorating his office. A man in blue overalls was painting the wall behind him, cigarette perched on his lip.
‘Not my fault,’ said the painter.
Wellington wore a dark worsted waistcoat and a bright-yellow cravat and smoked Dunhill Mixture in a briar pipe. A fan of light opera, he had once invited Breen to come and see him perform in The Mikado with his amateur operatic society in Guildford. Breen had used his sick father as an excuse to miss the second act.
‘I was perfectly happy with this office the way it was. This obsession with painting everywhere…’ But the painter ignored him, dipping his brush into the off-white and returning again to the wall. ‘Why have you brought that woman with you?’ he said, even though Tozer was only a few feet away. ‘There’s no reason for a woman to be on this murder investigation. Mind you, I seem to remember it’s you who now habitually throws up when you see dead bodies, Breen.’
‘Tell us about the body that was recovered from Marlborough Place. Is it here?’
‘The body’s been sent to the Home Office pathologist. Burnt to buggery, unfortunately. I had a good root around though.’
‘And? Could you still see the mutilations?’
‘Fascinating.’ Wellington grinned. ‘All post mortem, far as I could see. Hacked about like nobody’s business. I don’t suppose they found a bucket of blood anywhere?’
‘Blood?’
‘Whoever killed him strung him up by his ankles and bled him.’
‘Like a pig,’ said Tozer again.
‘Exactly.’
‘Why, do you think?’
‘I’ll get to that.’
‘But after he was killed, not before?’ Tozer persisted.
‘Precisely. Not terribly effective after the heart’s stopped, but there must have been quite a lot of blood all the same.’
‘So how was he killed?’
Wellington smiled. ‘Hard to say. Skull was all smashed in but that might have been the house collapsing. There were signs of pulmonary oedema in the lungs, apparently,’ he said. ‘And an eyeball survived. It was moderately bloodshot. I’d guess suffocation. But that’s just a guess. See what the pathologist says.’
Tozer said, ‘You think he was tortured?’
Wellington leaned across the desk and said, ‘Paddy, old chum. Are you the investigating officer on this case, or is this bloody woman in charge?’
‘Sorry,’ said Tozer.
‘Like I said, the skin wounds on the legs and arms are post mortem, as were the incisions
on the wrists and neck, so it’s hard to know if it was torture or not.’
Breen asked, ‘Had he been tied up?’
Wellington said, ‘You’ll have to wait for the pathology investigation. Bit of a corker, this one. Never really see this sort of thing. Looks like somebody got a kick from carving him up after he was dead, though we can’t be totally sure yet that all the wounds were post mortem.’
Tozer said, ‘So you think this was some loony?’
‘I would have thought so. Not even the dear old Kray gang do this kind of thing. Whoever it was had a whale of a time with the poor bugger.’
‘What about the knife?’ asked Breen. ‘The one they used to remove his skin.’
‘All in good time. Wait for the analysis. It was sharp, that’s for sure.’
Tozer delved in her handbag and pulled out a packet of cigarettes. ‘Want one?’ she asked, offering them round.
‘Horrible things,’ said Wellington. Breen shook his head. The painter, though, placed his brush across the top of his paint kettle, took one from her and stuck it behind behind his ear for later. ‘Ta.’
Wellington said, ‘Did I hear that you’re leaving the police, young lady? What a terrible loss to the service.’
Breen was thinking about the skin. After digging out the body, policemen had been told to search through the bricks for any trace of any missing body parts. Nothing had been found. ‘Why would someone steal skin?’ he asked.
‘And the blood,’ said Tozer.
‘There’s an interesting case come in recently from America,’ said Wellington. ‘A man who stole the skin from people he killed to make himself a bodysuit from the parts of dead women. He dug some up from the graveyard and when he didn’t have enough he killed a few more. I can show you photographs, if you like. They’re quite something.’
‘No thank you,’ said Breen.
‘Do you think that’s what’s going on here?’ asked Tozer.
‘We’re obsessed with copying every other silly American fashion,’ said Wellington. ‘Like pizza restaurants. God save us. Nothing would surprise me.’
Crossing Marylebone Road, Tozer said, ‘He gets his kicks from all that, doesn’t he?’
‘He’s just doing his job.’
