‘You must have heard the piano when you first arrived,’ she said.
‘We did,’ said Marmion. ‘You play beautifully, Mrs Donohoe.’
‘Did you recognise the music?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘It was a Chopin nocturne – my husband’s favourite, as it happens.’
‘His tailor mentioned that Mr Donohoe was fond of music.’
‘We often went to concerts together, here and in London. My daughters took after us. They both play an instrument. Adrian is the odd one out. He doesn’t have a musical bone in his body.’
‘I have many compensating skills, Mother,’ he said, acidly.
‘You’re obsessed with business.’
‘I regard that as a virtue.’
Marmion was hoping to press her for details of her domestic life and for a description of her husband’s normal activities during his visits to London, but she suddenly stood up abruptly and, without excusing herself, marched out of the room. The detectives looked at Adrian Donohoe who, it seemed, had finally come to accept that the body found in the Thames had indeed been his father. Face puckered, he was trying to gauge the enormous repercussions that would follow. Since his mother was not there, Marmion decided to question him about his father’s business activities. Before he could do so, however, he was interrupted by the sound of the piano. Clara Donohoe was playing the same Chopin nocturne they’d heard before, though it was subtly different now. It had become a requiem.
CHAPTER FIVE
When he was off duty, Everitt White didn’t stand on ceremony. At work and in uniform, it was a different matter. He let everyone know that his status as an inspector entitled him to obedience and respect. His preferred drinking hole was the Mermaid Tavern, a small, stuffy but welcoming pub in the East End within easy walking distance of his house. The moment he walked in, boundaries ceased to exist. If he saw lowly members of the river police there, he’d greet them as equals and they admired him for that. One of the regular denizens was Leslie Burge, the man who handled two oars in White’s galley. The fact that the inspector had done the same in his younger days gave them a special bond.
On his way home from work that evening, he called in the pub for his usual pint of beer. Expecting to see Burge, he instead met his brother, Clifford, a detective constable at Scotland Yard. Though he lacked Leslie’s muscularity, Clifford Burge was a strong, thickset man in his early thirties with a pleasantly ugly face. They exchanged greetings.
‘Where’s my bruvver?’
‘He’ll be along sooner or later.’
‘Got some news for him,’ said Burge. He sipped his beer and grimaced. ‘This stuff gets worse and worse. They’re watering it far too much.’
‘It’s starting to taste like horse piss,’ said White.
‘Can I buy you a pint?’
‘Thanks, Cliff. I know how well you get paid at the Yard.’
Burge’s laugh was mirthless. ‘Barely enough to keep us alive.’
‘You look healthy enough to me.’
‘I survive.’
He ordered the drink then the two men adjourned to a table in the corner.
‘What sort of a day have you had, Ev?’ asked Burge.
‘Oh, it’s been fairly typical,’ said the other, airily. ‘We hauled a murder victim out of the Thames, we caught two men trying to steal from a cargo boat, we saved a child from drowning, then a German submarine surfaced near London Bridge and we arrested the entire crew.’
‘You’re pulling my leg!’
‘The bit about the submarine was made up, perhaps, but the rest is true. Oh,’ he added, ‘and we watched those bombers doing their best to flatten the docks and kill as many people as they could.’
‘Yeah, saw that from a distance,’ said Burge. ‘Diabolical! Flew all the way here and nobody tried to stop the bleeders.’ He sampled some more beer. ‘What’s this about a murder victim?’
‘It will be in all the papers tomorrow.’
‘Love to be involved in a murder case.’
White chuckled. ‘All you have to do is kill someone.’
‘You know what I mean. Spend all my time on break-ins. Gets boring after a while.’ He brightened. ‘That could change.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Told you I had some news,’ said Burge. ‘That’s why I called in here. Wanted to crow over my bruvver for once.’
‘Have you had a promotion?’
‘Not exactly – but I’ve been asked to go for an interview. They’ve set up a unit to tackle juvenile crime – chaired by the commissioner himself.’
‘You are going up in the world, Cliff.’
‘Haven’t got the job yet – be other geezers up for it.’
‘What are your chances?’
‘Pretty good, I fancy. Turns out I was recommended by Chat – Superintendent Chatfield, that is. Vinegary old sod but he knows a good copper when he sees one. Put my name forward, so the rest is up to me.’
White raised his glass. ‘Good luck!’
‘Thanks.’
‘It’s a feather in your cap, Cliff.’
‘Not counting my chickens but I’m hopeful. Interesting work, by the sound of it. Won’t have to go on dealing with loopy old women who forget to keep their doors and windows locked.’ Burge emptied his glass in a few noisy gulps. ‘Get some real action for a change.’
Gregory Wain was the leader of the Stepney Warriors but he was a fallen hero now. A blow from a lump hammer had knocked him almost senseless and left him with a pounding headache and a simmering anger. His chief lieutenant was Bruce Kerry, a thin, lanky, rat-faced boy with six stitches in the knife wound in his arm that he’d collected during the ambush. Wain was bigger, chunkier and had a permanent scowl on his face. Both were fifteen. They were in the tiny front room of Wain’s house used as the meeting place for the gang.
‘Wor we gonna do?’ asked Kerry.
‘We’ll wait.’
‘We gotta strike back ’ard, Greg, or the Spirits’ll think they killed us off.’
‘Thass wor I wan ’em to fink.’
‘Bur there’s more of us than them.’
‘Duzzen matta. We need time to ger betta.’
‘I say we goes for ’em straight away.’
Wain grabbed him by the neck. ‘You the new leader, are ya?’ he demanded, tightening his grip until Kerry spluttered. ‘No? Then shut yer gob and do as you’re told.’
Kerry nodded eagerly and was released. He rubbed his neck ruefully.
‘Sorry, Greg. You knows best.’
‘Doan worry. The Spirits will ger wot they deserves – only it’ll be when I say it is. Okay?’ Kerry nodded again. ‘Right – piss off and spread the word.’
Clara Donohoe suffered a delayed reaction to the news of her husband’s murder. She’d been remarkably self-possessed at first and had even gone off to play the piano. The full horror of the revelation then hit her and she retired to the bedroom in tears. Her son reacted with a speed and concern that surprised the detectives. He not only summoned both of his sisters by telephone and urged them to come at once, he sent a message to Father Hanley, the parish priest at the nearby Catholic Church and a man to whom Clara had turned before at a tragic moment in her life.
‘It was wise of you not to explain the reason why they’re needed here,’ said Marmion. ‘Such news should only be imparted face-to-face.’
‘I know that,’ said Adrian, crisply.
‘While we’re waiting for them to arrive, perhaps you’d be kind enough to tell us something about your father’s business affairs. We know very little about him beyond the fact that he was very successful at whatever it was that he did.’
‘My father was a King Midas, Inspector. Whatever he touched turned to gold. When he bought the glass factory in Stourbridge, he had stiff competition but it didn’t take him long to swallow up his main rivals.’
‘Is that the factory where you were earlier on?’ asked Keedy.
‘No, S
ergeant. I manage our engineering works. It turned in a record profit last year. I promised my father that it would.’
As Adrian talked on, it was clear Donohoe had a sizeable empire. He was a great believer in diversity of products, covering a wide spectrum instead of merely specialising. His son’s attitude towards him was ambivalent. Adrian was, by turns, proud, critical, envious and almost aggressive. What was missing was any real sign of sorrow at the death of his father. The detectives soaked up all the information like sponges. Keedy worked through page after page of his notebook. The recitation of commercial success was only stopped when other members of the family arrived. Marmion and Keedy had fleeting introductions to Adrian’s two sisters and to Father Hanley, a white-haired old man with wire-framed spectacles through which a pair of searching blue eyes stared. The women were shocked by the news about their father and needed time to absorb its full impact. Father Hanley, however, adapted to the situation at once, comforted the sisters in turn, then told them that their mother was in need of consolation.
While everyone trooped off to see Clara, the detectives had time to compare thoughts. Keedy referred to his notes.
‘What he said about his own position was interesting. There he is, running a profit-making factory yet he sounded so aggrieved.’
‘I think he wants an even bigger slice of the empire, Joe.’
‘He’ll have the whole lot now.’
‘Not necessarily,’ warned Marmion. ‘There must be a reason why his father kept him where he is. Donohoe went to London so often that he and a partner started a property development company. That’s where the real money was rolling in. I think the son is piqued that he’s been kept out of that side of the business. He’s stuck in his factory in Northfield, listening to the deafening clatter of industry all day long. Going to London must have a lot more appeal for him.’
‘Do you think he actually liked his father?’
‘Now and again, maybe, but I didn’t sense any deep affection.’
‘What about his mother?’
‘Oh, I think he just tolerates her.’
‘Why isn’t he married? He must be in his thirties.’
‘So are you, Joe,’ said Marmion with a smile. ‘Why are you still single?’
It was a painful question. Keedy winced.
Alice Marmion was wrestling with the same question. When two people loved each other as much as they did, why didn’t they find a way to be together? Time alone with Keedy was always very limited. As soon as he embarked on a new murder investigation, her chances of seeing him dwindled dramatically. If a case took him outside London, it could be a week or more before he was within reach. On the rare occasions when they did spend more than a few snatched hours together, Alice pressed him to agree to a date for the wedding. Every time she did so, he came back with a different excuse for delaying the event. It had now reached a point where she was about to accuse him of not intending to marry her at all.
As she made her way back to her lodging, she decided to write a letter to him, listing all the reasons why the wedding should be sooner rather than later. Even if she decided not to send it, she felt, the act of writing it would clarify her mind. It would also remind her why she’d fallen in love with him in the first place. Alice had had boyfriends before but they had never been serious attachments. For his part, Keedy had been seen with so many different young women that he’d built up a reputation among his colleagues as a kind of Lothario. It was the reason why Marmion disapproved of his friendship with Alice at first. He didn’t want his daughter to be the latest in a succession of discarded girlfriends. Slowly, Keedy had won him over and shown himself capable of becoming both a good husband and an acceptable son-in-law. Then the trouble started.
In the first whirl of excitement, Alice had been ready to forgive and forget about his rumoured conquests. He was hers now and that was all that mattered. As time passed, however, she realised that she was making a far greater effort on his behalf than he needed to make on hers. There was an imbalance that irked her and she’d mentioned it to Keedy whenever one of their arguments got out of hand. The only way the tensions between them could be resolved was by their being joined together in holy matrimony. Their respective pasts would be wiped clean then. Their lives could start afresh with the sound of church bells ringing in their ears.
The whole journey was taken up with the composition of the letter. When the bus dropped her off, she’d already decided on the opening paragraph. The important thing, she believed, was to strike the right note. Alice had to be loving, reasonable, uncomplaining, firm yet not demanding and, above all else, willing to compromise. The moment she entered her room, she sat down at the little table, reached for some stationery and began to write.
The trip to Birmingham had told them a great deal about the business and domestic life of the Donohoe family. The deceased was clearly a person of consequence. His murder would cause huge ripples of shock and regret to spread out in every direction. Once they’d adjusted to the terrible news, Donohoe’s two married daughters questioned Marmion and Keedy in the vain hope that the detectives might at least be able to name possible suspects. While they insisted that their father had no enemies, they conceded that he might have aroused a degree of annoyance among his rivals. His daughters were keen to stress that he’d won a number of prestigious awards in the business community, testifying to his pre-eminence and popularity. They claimed that he was on the verge of being named in the next Honours List.
Hazel, the elder of the two, was a striking woman with a rather garish taste in clothing. Her sister, Doreen, was altogether more subdued in every way. What both Marmion and Keedy noticed was that neither of them mentioned their brother or showed any interest when his name was introduced into the conversation. When they’d garnered all the answers they could, the two women went back up to their mother who was still being comforted by Father Hanley. Moments later, Adrian came into the living room again. He was carrying a small bag.
‘Right,’ he said, as if addressing menials, ‘it’s been decided. Mother is not well enough to travel to London. I will identify the body, then spend the night there. Since you’ll need to return yourselves, I can offer you a lift to the station. Even as we speak, the chauffeur is getting the car out of the garage.’ A series of mechanical noises confirmed the statement. ‘I’d prefer it if you don’t try to get me into conversation.’
‘If that’s what you want, sir,’ said Marmion.
‘I prefer to be alone with my thoughts.’
‘We respect that.’
The three of them headed for the door, which was being held open by the maidservant. Keedy saw the nervous look that she gave Adrian Donohoe. The chauffeur stood in readiness beside the car. Adrian got in the front seat and left the others to clamber into the rear of the vehicle. The plush upholstery made it a far more comfortable ride than the one they’d had in the taxi to get there. When they reached New Street Station, Adrian ignored them completely. He bought a first-class ticket and walked away. Keeping to a strict budget, they had second-class return tickets. As they waited on the platform, they were a long way apart from the man with whom they were supposed to be travelling.
‘He likes to give himself airs and graces, doesn’t he?’ said Keedy.
‘Yes, Joe, but he’s not exactly behaving like someone who’s about to inherit a fortune.’
‘Why is that?’
‘Perhaps he has some idea what’s in his father’s will.’
‘As the only son, he’s the obvious beneficiary. Talking of which,’ he went on, grinning, ‘I reckon that he’s the obvious beneficiary of that pretty servant’s favours as well.’
‘Then I feel sorry for her.’
‘What do we do when we reach Euston?’
‘We divide and rule,’ said Marmion. ‘You can take him to the morgue to view his father’s body while I call on the hotel where Donohoe always stayed.’
‘The Devonian – never heard of it.’
‘I ha
ve, Joe. It’s tucked away off St James Street, one of those places that is very discreet and highly expensive.’
‘That’s two good reasons why I’ve never been there.’
‘It was on my beat when I was in uniform but I never actually went in.’
‘What about that partner of his in property development?’
‘We’ll both tackle him. When you have a positive identification from the son, tell Chat immediately and he can inform the press. He’ll have the sense to say nothing about the absent tongue. We don’t want to spark ghoulish speculation.’
‘It’s bound to come out in the end, Harv.’
‘Agreed, but it won’t have the same impact on Mrs Donohoe and her two daughters, will it? They’ll have started to recover from the blow we dealt them today. As time passes, it will be easier for them to cope with an additional shock.’
‘What’s your feeling?’ asked Keedy, seriously. ‘Do you think the killer is from somewhere in the Midlands or is he based in London?’
‘Oh, I’d opt for a metropolitan villain.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘It’s an educated guess.’ The thunder of the approaching train made him look down the line. ‘Here it is at last. Make sure you don’t trespass in first class, Joe, or Donohoe’s son will have you thrown back where you belong.’
Sharing a laugh, they stood back from the edge of the platform.
When he put his head into the superintendent’s office, Sir Edward Henry looked tired. Chatfield glanced up from his desk.
‘Good evening, Sir Edward.’
‘Time to go home,’ said the other. ‘I just wanted to see if there was any news.’
‘Marmion and Keedy have returned from Birmingham with the murder victim’s son. He’s made a positive identification so I’ve released a statement to the press. It was vital to have the word of a family member. My greatest nightmare is that we announce that someone is dead when he’s still alive and kicking.’
Under Attack Page 4
