by Mark Ellis
She removed a small handkerchief from her bag and blew her nose on it as delicately as she could. The tears stopped momentarily. “It’s so awful. Who could have done such a thing?”
“Some madman, I suppose.” Morgan’s nose disappeared into his pint glass.
“Who would have wanted to kill someone so kind and lovely?”
After fidgeting with her handkerchief for a moment, the tears began again.
All eyes were on her. Morgan put his arm around her shoulders. “Close friend died you know. Girl’s a bit upset – as you’d expect.” The ladies in the far corner nodded sympathetically. The two office workers raised their hats and mumbled a few indistinguishable words, while the AFS officers turned away, uninterested.
“Drink your drink. It’ll make you feel better.”
She reached for her gin and sipped it carefully. Her tears stopped. Morgan reached into his jacket for a packet of cigarettes and waved it in front of her. “Yes please, Johnny.”
Morgan lit up the two cigarettes in a flamboyant style he’d seen in a recent Bette Davies picture and passed one over. “Did you see that policeman then, sweetheart?”
“Yes, I did.”
“What did he ask you?”
“Oh, this and that. He asked me what Joan was like, who her friends were, did we go out together and so on.”
“And what did you tell him?”
“That she was a lovely, friendly girl who was good at her job. That she and I used to go out together sometimes, to the pictures and so on. He asked whether she had any boyfriends.”
Morgan blew a smoke ring which slowly disintegrated above them. “And what did you say to that?”
“I said none that I knew.” She took another sip of her drink and then looked up sheepishly at Morgan. “Do you know if she had a boyfriend?”
“Me? No. Why should I?”
“Just wondering. I know that she occasionally went out on the town in the West End with someone or other but she was always very secretive about it. Perhaps she mentioned something to you. You know, like on the Thursday before she disappeared.”
Morgan clenched his teeth. “I didn’t go for lunch with her that day.”
“But Mr Priestley said…”
“He’s a blind old fart. You didn’t tell the police anything like that?”
“No. But you did see her outside the office from time to time didn’t you? I saw you together in the park once.”
“A lot of us see each other outside the office from time to time. Nothing in that is there? Anyway, she wanted to ask my advice once or twice.”
“Advice about what?”
“Nothing important. She didn’t like her lodgings and she asked me if I could help her find a new place.”
“Funny, she didn’t mention that to me. And I know some lodgings going quite cheap round the corner.”
He drained his glass and got to his feet. “Fancy another drink?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Come on. It’ll do you good.”
“Alright then, but…?”
“What?”
“You’re telling the truth – Joan wasn’t anything to you was she?
“Of course not.” He bent down and gave her a quick hug. “I’ll go and get those drinks.”
Merlin leaned back in his chair and planted both his feet on the desk. He felt exhausted. It had been a long day. After his trip to Hammersmith he had joined Bridges at Princes Gate for the interviews of embassy staff. It was past eight by the time they got back to the Yard.
“So what do you make of all that, Sergeant?”
“You learned more about Joan Harris at her lodgings than we did from all our interviews.”
Merlin scratched his neck where his shirt collar was particularly stiff.
“Pretty unhelpful bunch weren’t they? Apart from that Irish girl, no one admits to having had more than a work relationship – and none of the men acknowledged the slightest interest in her, which is a little hard to believe. You couldn’t tell from the mortuary slab but I found a photograph of her in her lodgings and she was a very pretty girl. Here, look.”
Bridges took the photograph and whistled.
“Almost as pretty as my Iris.”
Merlin smiled. He, together with everyone else in CID, was well aware of the extent of his Sergeant’s besottedness with his wife of three months.
“I missed Morgan. Did he have anything interesting to say?”
“Not really. Said Miss Harris was a nice, quiet girl. Said he passed the time of day with her. That was about it.”
“Confident sort of chap, Morgan, for such a young man in his position. What’s his background?”
Bridges searched through his notebook. “Up to London from South Wales about eighteen months ago. Says an uncle of his living here helped him to get his driving licence and then a friend of his uncle’s gave him an introduction to the Embassy. He was then given a junior chauffeur’s job and has been doing that for about a year.”
The Sergeant’s attention was drawn to a hole in one of Merlin’s shoes. He knew all about holes in shoes did Sam Bridges, and it pained him to see his boss’s in that state. The man desperately needed a woman’s attention, as Iris kept on telling him.
“His background needs a bit more looking into.”
Bridges rubbed wearily at his right eye.
“Will do, sir, but do you mind if I get off home now? Iris said she’d be cooking something special for me tonight.”
Merlin wondered sceptically to what heights Iris’ culinary skills might rise then reproved himself for his meanness. “No, of course. You get on home and enjoy what remains of the evening. We’ve got a few more people to interview tomorrow, haven’t we?”
“A couple of the junior staff were out of the office and we couldn’t get to see some of the more senior people. Here’s the list.”
“Thanks. Goodnight, Sam. Enjoy your meal.”
Several of the names listed meant nothing to Merlin but he recognised some of the senior people. Bridges had put down the Ambassador and his family for form’s sake, but the A.C. would probably have kittens if he got on the phone to Kennedy in Boston or wherever he was. Mr Zarb, the First Secretary, remained to be seen. And Arthur Norton’s name was there. A couple of Morgan’s chauffeur colleagues had also been unavailable for today’s interviews.
His stomach ached with hunger. Lunch, of course, had been a washout and he was starving now. Perhaps he’d stop off for a pie and mash in Victoria, or maybe fish and chips. A brief glance at the photograph of his wife, which he kept in the top drawer of his desk, gave him a different ache in the pit of his stomach. He pinched himself before heading down the stairs and out into the freezing night.
The sharp disc of the full moon shone down, brightly lighting their way. She leaned against his shoulder as he struggled with the stiff lock on the street door. Eventually the door gave and he pulled her up the small flight of stairs. Another lock had to be negotiated but he managed this more easily. Morgan flicked on a light and she saw a bed-sitting room larger and more expensively furnished than her own. “God, it’s cold in here, isn’t it?” He struck a match and lit the gas fire.
“This is a nice place. How did you manage…”
He shrugged then pulled her roughly towards him.
“No, Johnny. I really shouldn’t be here. I must be getting back home. It’s very late and I need to be back at work early tomorrow as Miss Edgar has a pile of things for me to do.” She pulled away.
“Come on, Kathleen. Don’t be boring. I’ve got a bottle of whisky here that someone gave me. Let’s have a nightcap.”
She sat down in the room’s one armchair, while Morgan stretched out at length on the bed. She had already drunk more than she’d ever drunk before. Was it four or five ginand-its? Four, she thought, but were they singles or doubles? She felt giddy and her head was pounding.
Morgan rose from the bed and pulled a bottle of whisky and glasses down from a shelf. “Here
you are. Take a swig of this. Best Scottish malt whisky. Macallan it’s called. It’s very smooth. You’ll love it.”
The amber liquid gleamed in the low lamplight as he poured out two glasses.
“No, really, Johnny. I’ve had too much to drink. I don’t like whisky anyway.”
He held out a glass. As she continued to refuse it he lurched forward, tripped and sent the drinks flying.
“Look what you’ve done, you stupid man.”
Morgan displayed a lopsided grin as he raised himself up from the floor. “Not to worry, sweetheart. I’ll clean it up for you.” He moved to a basin by the side of the bed and ran water over a flannel. Kathleen stood in the other corner of the room patting herself down.
“This is my best dress, Johnny Morgan, and look what you’ve done to it now. It’s ruined.”
“No it isn’t. Don’t worry.” He brought the sopping flannel over and started mopping at the stains.
“Give me that. I’ll do the mopping, thank you.”
“Oh come on, let me help you, Kathleen. There’s a spot right there.” He raised his hand to cover her right breast.
“What are you…?”
“And there’s another spot.” His other hand moved to her left breast.
“You cheeky boy. Leave me alone.” Her attempts to sound righteously indignant faltered as she noticed that there was something quite pleasant about the way Morgan’s hands were moving.
“That’s nice, isn’t it? You’ve got a beautiful body, you know, sweetheart.” His left hand slid down and stroked her lower back before moving below.
“Stop it. Stop it.” His right hand turned her face towards his and he kissed her lips hard. She struggled to pull away.
“Johnny. This isn’t fair. I’ve had too much to drink. I’ve not done this sort of thing before.”
“Don’t worry. I have. Leave it to me. I know what I’m doing.” He kissed her again on the lips and then bent, kissing her breasts through the fabric of her dress. His hands moved to her legs and lifted the hem of her dress slowly up to her waist.
“Don’t hurt me, Johnny.”
“I won’t. Trust me.”
As the nearby church clock chimed, he got out of the bed and lit a cigarette. Muffled sobbing sounds came from the pillow in which Kathleen’s face was buried. He went to the window and half opened it. The moon still shone down brightly on the mews. Across the way he thought he saw a moving shadow. A moment later he heard the sound of a dustbin rolling on the ground. He threw the remains of his cigarette out of the window and got back into the bed.
“There, there, sweetheart. It always hurts a bit the first time. You’ll enjoy it more second time round.”
He took a glass from the sink, ran the tap and dropped something in it. “Here you are. Have a little Eno’s liver salts. This’ll make you feel better.”
Merlin decided to walk home. He hadn’t had a good long walk since before Christmas. When he was younger he had been a keen soccer man, turning out regularly for one of the police teams. He hadn’t been a bad player. There had even been some talk of him playing professionally. Scouts from Fulham, Chelsea and the Arsenal had come to watch him. He had been a dashing inside left with a strong right-footed shot and a good head. There had been some overtures from the Chelsea and Arsenal scouts. Requests had been made several times for him to play in trials but he had declined. He hadn’t been able to see much future in it and, though he liked football, the police was his first love. So he passed on the chance. He’d never regretted it but after giving up playing in his thirties he had come to miss the feeling of wellbeing which came with the high level of fitness he’d had to maintain. When he got married he took up tennis, which was a sport Alice had played since her youth, and he enjoyed the game. That had helped him keep in shape but since Alice’s death he hadn’t picked up a racquet. His lean figure these days owed little to exercise and much to nervous stress and missing too many meals.
Tonight would see another missed meal as, by the time he had reached the end of Birdcage Walk and mulled over his morning visit to the morgue, his yen for a pie and mash or anything else had vanished.
He looked up at the Palace. He knew that the sentries were standing out in the cold beyond the sandbags in the courtyard, but although it was a clear night he couldn’t see them. There was no sign of life, although he knew the King and Queen were in residence. The full moon shone and the stars sparkled brilliantly in a still bomberless sky. Gloomy lines from a Robert Louis Stevenson poem came suddenly to his mind: “Under the wide and starry sky, dig the grave and let me lie”. He shivered.
The quickest way home from the Palace was through Victoria, Eaton Square and Sloane Square. The pavements here had been cleared of most of the ice and snow. He decided to extend his exercise and take a roundabout route home. He walked up Constitution Hill to Hyde Park Corner. Then instead of going down the Brompton Road past Harrods he headed towards Kensington. The odd blinkered car drove by. A couple of drunks weaved their way past him, almost knocking him over.
It was nearly chucking out time and he realised that he was very thirsty. Alcohol didn’t appeal but a glass of lemonade would be nice. He just had time to grab a drink before the pubs closed.
He was near Princes Gate and knew a nice little place around the corner. As he was entering, a young couple, much the worse for wear, fell giggling out of the swing doors. Merlin stood back to let them pass before making his way to the bar. “Have I time for a lemonade?”
The burly young barman looked at the clock above the spirit bottles. “Alright sir, but make it quick.”
Something suddenly troubled him. He hadn’t really looked at the couple who had passed him at the door but he felt there was something familiar about them. He had caught a quick glimpse of a dark male face and an abundance of red hair. Of course, he thought. We’re just around the corner from the Ambassador’s residence. Johnny Morgan and a girl. Probably that nice Irish girl. He turned and pushed through the pub doors.
“Hey. Your drink’s here, guvnor.”
Merlin looked to his left and right in the darkness. The bright moonshine gave him a glimpse of someone disappearing around a corner. He went back into the pub and tossed a coin to the barman. “Sorry. Something’s come up.” He turned and walked briskly after the couple. He was probably wasting his time but a capacity for idle curiosity was no handicap for a policeman.
He saw them as he took the first left turning. They were leaning against a wall thirty yards or so ahead and he could hear murmurings of mild resistance from the girl as the man kissed her.
The couple moved off and he followed them until they suddenly disappeared from view. Merlin kept going and found a short alleyway leading off the street. He heard muffled footsteps and followed. He found himself in a cobbled mews street which appeared to be a cul-de-sac. A door nearby closed. He walked slowly down the street and halted opposite where he thought that door was. A light above briefly flashed before the window was covered by the blackout curtains.
He stood outside gradually feeling more and more uncomfortable. I’m a policeman, he thought, not a moral enforcer, nor a Peeping Tom. He waited for a quarter of an hour and was about to leave when he heard a cry from above.
Soon after he heard footsteps approaching down the alleyway. He was leaning against a garage door opposite the house. A few yards away there was a recessed doorway into which he moved. The footsteps stopped close by but he could not see the new arrival. He could now hear the sound of laughter from above.
Time passed. After another fifteen minutes, Merlin heard the sound of a window opening and he could see the small pinprick light of a cigarette being waved in the window frame above. A dustbin near the alleyway entrance fell noisily to the ground and he saw a shadow move. His heart jumped as something touched his leg. The something began to purr and rubbed itself back and forth against his leg. He held his breath and tried to nudge the cat away gently with his foot.
While he was attempting this,
a blaze of light hit the mews as Morgan’s front door opened. He saw someone of medium height wearing a long overcoat and a hat move quickly through it. Two male voices acknowledged each other with grunts and the door closed.
Merlin fell exhausted into his bed with numb feet and tingling fingers. He had waited another half-hour outside the flat, hoping for the late visitor to depart so that he could follow and identify him. No one had emerged and he had considered whether the visitor might be a flatmate without a key – but then why had he waited so long outside? Something didn’t add up but the cold had got to him and he had packed it in. He reached out to switch on the radio and attempted to find one of the continental stations. He always found it easier to go to sleep to music. The other night he’d found a French station playing the songs of Charles Trenet and Tino Rossi. Alice and he had seen them both at the Lido on their Parisian trip and had loved them. He had been particularly enthusiastic. Perhaps a little of his Latin blood coming out? His father had sung Spanish lullabies to him when he was little. Some of the tunes still lingered in his head. Javier Merino had had a beautiful tenor voice. He wasn’t aware of any popular Spanish singers in the same category as Trenet and Rossi. Not much to sing about in Spain in recent years of course. There was an Argentinean chap, what was his name? Gardel, that was it. Carlos Gardel, a tango singer. He wasn’t bad at all. He’d have to go and see if he could find some of his records. He twiddled on the radio some more but couldn’t find anything good. It didn’t matter as within seconds he was asleep.
