Frankie's Manor

by Frankie's Manor (retail) (epub)

  A lesser man would have been terrified at being caught out in such damning circumstances, but Frankie was a past master at pitting his wits against the law. It would be a challenge, and a pleasure, to outwit Jack Adams once again.

  Frankie swaggered towards him. ‘Wotcher, Jack. I heard you was back in London. What happened? The sticks get too quiet for you?’

  All around them, men stood amazed at the almost cheerful conversation that was taking place between the Inspector and Frankie Buchannon. Then the tone changed abruptly. The smile sliding from his face, Jack dropped the guise of friendliness and snapped, ‘You ain’t gonna wriggle outta this one, Buchannon. You’ve been caught red-handed. It’ll be the rope for you this time. Put your hands out – now!’

  Still sounding amused, Frankie said, as he raised his arms towards the threatening figure, ‘You gonna read me palm, Adams?’

  Jack snapped handcuffs on the exposed wrists then grabbed Frankie by the arm and shoved him down the path back towards the pub, with a loudly cursing Fred and Joe bringing up the rear.

  Frantic splashes could be heard from the bank as several officers waded around in the fast-moving river in search of their evidence. A dozen torches bobbed up and down furiously as they tried to illuminate the dark area, hoping to see better.

  Frankie’s taunting laugh echoed in the night air. ‘What you charging me with, Adams? Going out for a late-night walk with me mates an’ chucking a few rocks into the river? You’ll have to do better than that… Inspector!’

  Jack growled, ‘You’re under arrest on suspicion of murder, Buchannon. It’s gonna take more than a smart lawyer to get you off this time.’

  Frankie’s eyebrows rose in mock horror. ‘Murder, Inspector? And who am I supposed to have murdered? I don’t see no body lying around.’ Casting his gaze over the taut faces of the officers surrounding him, he said, ‘Well, lads, where’s the body, then?’

  The gloating tone was too much for Jack, and he ground out, through clenched teeth, ‘We’ll find it, Buchannon, don’t you worry about that. If we don’t find it tonight, there’ll be a police barge out at first light and—’

  Frankie swivelled his head round to stare into

  Jack’s face. ‘So what if you do find a body? That still don’t mean I killed anyone.’

  But Jack replied, ‘Oh, you killed her all right. We’ve already got one witness, and there’ll be others when the news gets out. Somehow, I don’t think you’re as popular, or as feared, as you think you are. Then there’s all of us…’ Jack threw out his arm to indicate his fellow officers. ‘We all heard the body hit the water, Buchannon, every one of us, and—’

  Frankie’s eyes glittered like black marbles. Then he spat out, ‘So you heard something going in the river. So what? You’re gonna need more than that to pin a murder on me, Adams, and you know it.’

  The temptation to smash his fist into the sneering face was suddenly overwhelming. Jack bundled Frankie over to his eager officers and snapped, ‘Take him to the wagon. Get him outta my sight – and the other two. Go on, take him out of here.’

  As Frankie was dragged away, he called mockingly, ‘You ain’t got anything on me, copper. I’m gonna walk away from this, just like I always do.’

  Not trusting himself to reply, Jack turned his back on his tormentor and strode back up the narrow dirt path. His face pensive, he stood on the bank, his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his overcoat, and watched his men flounder about in the dark, murky waters of the Lea.

  Despite his confident words, Jack knew he didn’t have enough evidence to hold Buchannon for long. All he had was the word of Nobby Summers, who had disappeared as soon as he’d told the desk sergeant what he’d overheard. According to him, Frankie had taken some tart to the Prince of Wales pub near Millfields, where he planned to chuck her over the bridge into the Lea. And that was all the information, and evidence, Jack had to go on. Damn it! If only they had arrived ten minutes earlier. Because Jack knew, without doubt, that Buchannon had indeed thrown some poor cow’s body over the bridge. He’d heard her hit the water. There was no mistaking that sound. If they recovered the body and learned who the unfortunate woman was, then there was a good chance of connecting her to Buchannon. But without a body, or conclusive evidence and witnesses, there was nothing Jack could do. Without knowing who she was, he couldn’t even come up with a motive for the murder, which would have been enough to hold Buchannon while he investigated further.

  He stared gloomily at the river. He had known of drownings to wash up as far afield as the Thames at Westminster. Many were never found, to remain for ever beneath the dark waters, ensnared in the tangled weed and rushes that littered the river-bed. Pulling his coat collar further up around his neck, Jack turned away sharply and headed back to the pub.

  * * *

  Accompanied by two uniformed officers, Jack stood on the porch of the house in Grantham Avenue, his finger stabbing at the doorbell. To the men with him, the Inspector’s expression was filled with resolve.

  They would have been amazed if they had known how dry his mouth had become, how fast his heart was racing. And not only at the prospect of seeing Rose again after all these lonely years. He was deeply apprehensive at having to give her the news he brought.

  Pressing the doorbell with renewed vigour and dogged determination, he nevertheless sprang back in alarm as Mary’s familiar voice bellowed, ‘Hold your bleeding horses, will you? You’d better have a bloody good reason for getting me outta bed at this godforsaken hour, you…’ Mary yanked open the door, pulling her thick grey dressing gown over a cream flannel nightdress. Her face fell in dismay at the sight of policemen standing on the doorstep at two o’clock in the morning. Not recognising the plain-clothed man, her eyes were immediately drawn to the dark blue uniforms, her hand clutching in fear at her throat. ‘What’s up? What’s happened?’

  Before anyone could speak, another voice, softer but equally worried, came from the passageway behind the stout figure blocking the doorway. ‘Who is it, Auntie?’

  Jack’s heart flipped over as he heard Rose’s voice and he warned himself to remember why he was here.

  Stepping into the light Jack looked down into the fleshy face and said gently, ‘Hello, Mary.’

  Mary’s large mouth flopped open in stunned amazement, but before she could utter another word, Rose had come to stand beside her aunt, her blue eyes looking up anxiously into the rugged, homely face that had once been so dear to her.

  When she spoke it was as if she had spoken to him only the day before. ‘What is it, Jack? Has something happened to Frank?’

  Jack took off his hat and twisted it between his fingers. ‘Can we come in, Rose? I’m… I’m afraid I’ve got bad news for you.’

  Swallowing nervously, Rose stood aside to let the three men enter, then, with a regal nod, she indicated that they should follow her. Leading the way to the drawing room, Rose tried valiantly to still her pounding heart. Ever since Frankie had left earlier, she had been afraid. She had tried to stop him going, but he had raced out of the house before she could say anything. Since then she had walked the floor anxiously, before falling into a restless sleep. The moment she had heard the doorbell, she had known instinctively that it meant trouble for him. Exactly what trouble she had yet to learn. Bracing herself for the worst, she led the three men into the plush room and turned on one of the wall lamps. She invited them to be seated, but they declined awkwardly. Wrapping her arms tightly around her upper body in an effort to still their trembling, she looked to Jack for an explanation of the late-night call.

  Jack stared at the lovely face, the corner of his mouth beginning to twitch slightly. Rose was clad in a deep green velvet dressing gown, her abundant mass of copper curls falling without restraint around her oval face and shoulders. The years had been kind to her. If anything, she looked even more beautiful than he had remembered.

  Jack was about to speak when he found himself thrust to one side by a heavy hand. The next instant
he was facing the full impact of Mary Miller’s wrath.

  ‘You’ve got a bleeding nerve, Jack Adams. Coming round to a respectable house in the middle of the night, scaring decent people half to death. Couldn’t you have waited till morning before crashing in here with your hob-nailed boots? An’ that goes for you two gormless sods, an’ all.’ She bestowed a look of pure venom on the two uniformed officers, which caused them to fidget uneasily. The furious woman, with her straggly hair bound up in tortuous-looking steel pins was a terrifying sight, but Jack had seen the spectacle too often in the past to be intimidated by it now.

  He also knew Mary well enough to understand that beneath the quarrelsome, hostile façade, the elderly woman was badly frightened.

  ‘Auntie!’ Rose’s voice was unusually sharp, betraying her growing agitation.

  Mary, her lips working, fell silent, but her eyes and manner remained malevolent.

  In the strained silence, Jack found himself wishing he was back in the peaceful surroundings of Hemerly. But it had been the unending peace and tranquillity that had finally driven him to distraction. He had realised, years ago, that he wasn’t cut out for country life, not on his own, anyway.

  Perhaps if Rose had been with him it would have made a difference. But deep down inside him, Jack recognised that he was a working copper with all that that entailed. Mixing with the poor and downtrodden, the drunks, the misfits and the downright evil was an integral part of his life as a police officer. Three years ago he had transferred to Scotland Yard and, with hard work, had risen to the rank of inspector. Yet it was only a few months ago that he had asked to be assigned to his old patch. He had asked himself many times why he had wanted to return to a place that held so many bitter, painful memories for him. And while until now he had been able to assure himself that he had had no ulterior reason in wanting to be back in the East End, he knew, as he stared hungrily at the lovely ashen face, that Rose had been behind his desire to be in his old haunts. But he had never imagined they would meet again under such circumstances. Jack had no pity for Buchannon – to his mind, the man deserved all that was coming to him – but Rose loved him, and Jack had heard that they now had two children.

  A soft, audible sigh escaped his lips. This wasn’t going to be easy. He cleared his throat. ‘I’m sorry, Rose, but Frank’s been arrested… on suspicion of murder.’

  A cry burst from Rose’s lips, and for a brief, heart-stopping moment Jack thought she was about to fall.

  He moved forward as Rose gripped the edge of a walnut table to steady herself. When she raised her eyes to meet his, he witnessed a sudden change in her. There was a steeliness in the blue eyes he had never seen before. And for a brief, stomach-turning moment, Jack found himself staring into the face of a stranger. When she spoke at last, her voice was clipped and self-assured. ‘You say suspicion of murder? And who exactly has my husband been accused of murdering, Inspector?’

  Meeting the cool stare, Jack swallowed hard. When he answered his chilly tones matched hers. ‘We don’t know yet, Mrs Buchannon. Your husband was seen bundling a woman into a cab outside a tenement building in Hackney. Our informant also overheard him planning with two of his men to throw the woman into the river Lea. We arrived too late to stop him committing the act, but we all – that is, my men and I – heard the body hit the water. We…’

  A surge of hope came into Rose’s eyes, and beside her she felt Mary grab her hand. ‘Are you telling me, Inspector, that no one actually saw my husband push this woman, whoever she may be, into the river?’

  Immediately on the defensive, Jack answered curtly, ‘No. That is, we didn’t actually see him.’

  A smile of triumph swept over both women’s faces.

  ‘And this witness you have. Will he or she swear in a court of law to what you have told me?’

  Jack thought of Nobby, who had informed on Buchannon and had swiftly taken to his heels. He knew that, for the moment, he was defeated.

  Rose saw his confidence collapse and said tersely, ‘I’d like you all to leave now, Inspector. I have a call to make, to my husband’s lawyer. Good evening, gentlemen.’

  There was nothing left for Jack to do except give in gracefully. For now.

  Beckoning to the uncomfortable-looking officers standing by the door, Jack left Frankie Buchannon’s house, his heart as heavy as it had been on the last occasion he had visited it.

  ‘What now, sir?’ one of the constables ventured to ask.

  Jack, his expression sombre, answered crisply, ‘We go to the address the informant gave the desk sergeant and start knocking on some doors.’

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The body of Sally Higgins was discovered by two young boys, their gruesome find making them local celebrities, at eight o’clock the same morning, wedged between several planks of old timber from the mill further up the river. A jubilant Jack Adams lost no time in formally charging Frank Buchannon with murder – the crime made even more horrific by the brutal mutilation of the victim’s face and head, described in the newspapers as ‘an unwarranted savage attack on a defenceless woman’. Identifying the body from the river had been relatively easy. All it had taken was a quick visit to the tenement building, where Sally’s neighbours had reluctantly co-operated with the police, though none had been able to identify the men involved in her abduction, due to poor lighting in the building concerned.

  Jack had also examined the squalid flat where Sally had spent her last evening, and in the lack of any blood found on the premises, it was clear that she had been alive when Buchannon and his men had carried her from the building. The murder must have taken place either near or on the bridge, before Buchannon had callously dumped the body in the river. And that fact had puzzled Jack. Because for all his hatred of Buchannon, he hadn’t thought him the kind of man to smash in a woman’s face in cold blood, before tipping her into a river. If Sally had been strangled, or even knifed, a killing performed in the heat of the moment, then yes, Jack could have understood that. But this killing didn’t follow Buchannon’s pattern of behaviour. Also, there seemed to be a complete lack of motive for the murder.

  Having known Sally from her days at the Red Lion, Jack was aware that she had had a tumultuous liaison with Frankie. He was also starkly aware that the affair had ended a good ten years ago. If Sally had taken care of herself there might have been a remote chance that Frankie had started up their relationship again but, given Sally’s steady deterioration through drink and whoring, Jack knew without a doubt that he wouldn’t have given her the time of day. So why had he killed her? And, in doing so, put himself in grave danger of being caught. It didn’t make any sense.

  To all intents and purposes, Frank Buchannon couldn’t have had any reason to want Sally Higgins out of the way, but still, as Jack kept reminding himself, that was up to the court to discover. His job was done.

  Meanwhile the press were having a field day. Newspapers that had recently fêted the wealthy self-made businessman had been quick to smell blood, and in a complete turnabout, they began a campaign to expose the man behind the Buchannon empire. There was no real malice on the part of the newspapers, it was all down to business, and how many copies they could sell. People always loved to read about another’s misfortune, especially if that person was well-to-do. Throw in a bit of scandal and a juicy murder and you had a recipe for record sales.

  Reporters besieged the three-storey house in Grantham Avenue, but the stout door remained firmly shut against the clamouring horde.

  Myrtle was sent to order food from a family-owned grocery store where Rose and Mary shopped, the parcels delivered by messenger boys, eager to be part of the excitement.

  And for twenty-four hours of every day, a succession of hard-faced, close-lipped men guarded Frankie Buchannon’s family in his absence, their rugged appearance keeping the reporters and curious passers-by from annoying the occupants of number 16, Grantham Avenue.

  One intrepid reporter decided to chance his luck one day by cree
ping around to the back of the house and into the landscaped garden. Ten minutes later, he was bundled unceremoniously from the premises and thrown into the road, bruised and bleeding. Despite several entreaties from the police, the thoroughly shaken man had refused to make a statement or press any charges against his assailants.

  During this time, Jack had made only two visits to the house. He received a frosty reception from Rose, and a vociferous, hostile barrage of abuse from the volatile Mary Miller, who was still convinced that her Frankie had been ‘set up’. Nevertheless, he had completed his task in collecting statements from Rose and the two maids, appertaining to the events of that night. Mary’s contribution, too obscene to put down on paper, he had willingly discarded.

  The trial date was set for the first week in January, and the police set about collecting further evidence and witnesses to the savage attack on and murder of Sally Higgins, a former mistress of the man accused of killing her. Character witnesses on Frankie’s behalf were becoming increasingly hard to find; his respectable new friends suddenly found themselves reluctant to be linked to a one-time racketeer. Equally hard to find were witnesses willing to testify to Frankie’s brutal character. Despite the cloak of respectability, many people remembered the Frankie Buchannon of old, and his name could still intimidate. But slowly, as the newspapers continued to rake up his past and proclaim that he was destined for the rope, people began to have second thoughts about testifying. For, if the newspapers were telling the truth, though that would be a first, Frankie Buchannon was never going to come out of prison. If that was indeed the case, then his mob-handled empire would collapse.

  All over London, men and women who had a grudge against Frankie and his men considered getting even with him for the injuries and terror inflicted on them in the past. And, as the days and weeks sped by with no sign of Buchannon being released, these same people breathed more easily, becoming confident that they had nothing more to fear from the man who had once terrorised them.