I pointed at his glass. He nodded. When I came back with his drink and a glass of red wine for me, he leant forward intently and started speaking before I sat down.
‘And you still don’t know who the people are who were killed in the house?’
‘There may be an Eastern European connection but nothing solid.’
‘And Milldean – nobody’s talking there, right?’
‘Nobody ever does,’ I said. ‘But I’m out of the loop, remember.’
‘Know what the Israelis would do with that estate?’
‘Flatten it and kill everybody they could?’
‘Nah. They’ve got unrivalled intelligence. Maybe the Jordanians are better. Maybe. You go through that estate house by house. You find out who lives there, what they do for a living, what school they went to, who their friends are, which of their friends’ sisters or brothers they’ve shagged. Once you know everybody’s interrelationships, that’s when you know how things really are there. Grasses just aren’t enough. You’ve got to get the detailed picture.’
I shrugged. He touched my arm.
‘So you want my help?’
‘Please,’ I said. ‘It is, as you say, essentially an intelligence gathering exercise.’
‘Know what would make the police job easier? Get everybody in the land DNA’d and fingerprinted.’ He caught my look. ‘What’s wrong with that?’
‘They’re talking about it. Civil liberties might be a problem.’
I looked at him sitting opposite me. I was thinking about him in Israel. I knew he’d killed Palestinian terrorists – freedom fighters, if you will. I think he’d been in Lebanon for the last shindig against Hamas. I hoped he hadn’t been in Gaza.
‘OK, as I understand it, this is what you need to know for starters, outside of what actually happened in that house.’ He tilted his glass, examined the viscous liquid inside it. ‘Who was the informer who said Grimes was in the house in the first place? Who was watching the house to give the false information about him coming back from the off-licence alone at eight o’clock? Who the hell were the people in the house? Oh, and what happened to the disappeared policemen – Finch and Edwards?’
I nodded.
‘That’s a start.’
Tingley downed his drink in one, gently replaced the glass on the table and spread his hands.
‘Easy-peasy.’
SEVEN
Gilchrist’s treat for the day was to investigate a body found in a secluded cove at Black Rock. The drift patterns for bodies at the whim of the tides suggested it was probably a suicide from Beachy Head, the high chalk cliff that vied with the Clifton Suspension Bridge in Bristol for the most popular place in Britain for people to off themselves.
She was accompanied by Reg Williamson, a policeman she already knew. He was a dour, cynical old stager who had been her boss briefly before her promotion to detective sergeant.
There was little human to see in the bloated body crammed between rocks and wrapped in seaweed. It doesn’t take long for dead bodies in water to deteriorate. Undersea scavengers get to work almost immediately, waves and rocks buffet them, water mixes with gases to pump them up to twice their actual size.
Gilchrist didn’t get nearer than five yards. Sometimes, she knew, bodies exploded, letting out foul and noxious fumes. She talked with the medical team who were getting the body on a stretcher to take back to the lab, spoke to the local coastguard about tides, then scrambled back over the rock to where Reg Williamson stood, belly out, fag in his mouth, his face tilted towards the sun.
‘Beachy Head?’ he said when she came up to him. He was still taking in the sun’s rays.
She nodded and moved past him.
Kate Simpson was a meticulous researcher. Before she went to her meeting with Brian Rafferty at the Royal Pavilion she went into the local history library in the Brighton Museum to see what it had on the Trunk Murder.
There were a handful of people sitting at desks or in front of the microfiche readers. Kate went to the card index and found a dozen or so entries for the Trunk Murders. She was hoping for a quick in-and-out, but the books and pamphlets were in the basement and would take ten to fifteen minutes to deliver to her. She asked about using the fiche machine to look at newspaper reports from 1934.
‘You’ve got to book in advance,’ the stocky guy behind the enquiry counter said. ‘And there’s nothing free for a couple of days.’
He looked down at the list she’d compiled.
‘The Trunk Murder? Hang on.’
He came out from behind the counter and walked over to a filing cabinet. A couple of seconds later he pulled from it a see-through folder and proffered it to her.
‘We’ve made files of newspaper cuttings and other stuff that we’re always asked for. This is the one for the Trunk Murder.’
‘It’s that popular?’
‘Sure.’ He smiled shyly. ‘This should get you started.’
There were some thirty cuttings in the file. They were from the Brighton and Hove Herald or the Brighton Gazette. The Gazette for Saturday 23rd June had the headline ‘Ghastly Find At Brighton: Body In Trunk: Woman Cut To Pieces.’
Kate read the article and scanned the rest of the cuttings quickly. She hadn’t realized quite what big news the Trunk Murder had been at the time. It had attracted both national and international coverage.
A woman’s torso had been found packed in a trunk in the left luggage office on 17th June 1934. The next day her legs and feet had been found in a suitcase at King’s Cross station’s left luggage office.
The famous pathologist, Sir Bernard Spilsbury, had examined the remains and provided a profile of the victim that concluded she was a well-nourished young woman, aged around twenty-five, who was pregnant for the first time. There were no body scars, no poison in the stomach, no sign of violence on the body (except, of course, its dismembering), no sign of death from natural causes.
For twelve months Scotland Yard led the murder hunt throughout Sussex, much of Britain and other parts of the world. The investigating officers were swamped by information – thousands of letters, hundreds of written statements and over one thousand telephone messages.
Eight hundred missing women were reported to Scotland Yard. Impressively, 730 were traced and accounted for. The case histories of the others were examined but none revealed a link with the dead woman.
In the event she was never identified. The cause of death was never established. And her killer was never caught.
As they drove along the coast road, Williamson went on and on about Beachy Head.
‘Don’t know why they don’t fence the whole of the Seven Sisters off.’ He was chewing a nail as he spoke. ‘It’s not safe at the best of times, lumps of chalk falling off. It’s not long ago they had to move that converted lighthouse back a hundred yards so it didn’t fall into the sea.’
‘You think it might have been accidental death?’ she said, for something to say.
‘Fuck knows. Beachy Head has won Suicide Spot of the Year twice running. Sometimes I think we should station somebody up there permanently just to make sure the suicidal form an orderly bloody queue.’
He chewed at his nail some more then, when Gilchrist didn’t say anything: ‘Or two queues – one for jumpers and the other for people in cars. I don’t mind so much if they do it when the tides in. I fucking hate it when you’ve got a fifteen-year-old Ford scattered across the beach.’
‘Not to mention the driver.’
‘Yeah, right,’ he said, laughing until he realized from her expression she wasn’t joking. He scratched the stubble on his chin. ‘Listen, Sarah. Anybody selfish enough to top themselves I ain’t got time for – they can drop dead as far as I’m concerned.’
‘They do.’
‘Yeah, well.’ His face was flushed.
‘Well, what?’
He glared at her.
‘I see the pain they cause for the people they leave behind,’ he said vehemently. ‘Children without
mothers . . .’
Gilchrist glanced across at him. He was working his jaw and looking out across the sea.
Kate Simpson was ten minutes early for her meeting with Brian Rafferty so spent the time mooching along the corridors of the Royal Pavilion. She’d always regarded the Prince of Wales’s early-nineteenth-century Indo-Chinese confection as the height of kitsch. Her favourite story about it was that during the First World War it was used as a hospital for wounded Indian soldiers, presumably on the assumption that they would feel at home there.
She imagined them waking up, looking round at the gaudy decorations, the dragons and the other mock-Chinese and Indian decorations and thinking: ‘Where am I?’
She ambled into the banqueting room and looked up at the giant chandelier suspended from a dragon’s maw. She’d dined here a few times. Usually it was during Labour Party Conferences when her father invited her to be his guest so he could kill two birds with one stone – seeing to business and seeing her.
Rafferty’s secretary was waiting when she walked back down the corridor. She was a dumpy woman of indeterminate age who gave Kate the once over then led the way up the staircase, leaning heavily on the bamboo banister. Rafferty’s office was at the end of a meandering series of narrow corridors.
‘Delighted, delighted,’ he said, gathering her hand unctuously between his.
He was a curious little fellow. Probably in his late forties, with floppy hair and narrow shoulders. His manner made Kate think he must be gay, despite the photograph of his wife and children on his desk that he was keen to show to her.
He insisted on signing then presenting Kate with one of his books, a turgid-looking guide to Brighton: Past and Present. She flicked through it whilst he scurried around sorting out coffee. The book didn’t feature any kind of present Brighton she was familiar with.
‘So you have some files from the police investigation of the Trunk Murder,’ she said. ‘You don’t have the trunk itself, I suppose?’
‘I so like words with multiple meanings, don’t you?’ he said.
Kate looked quizzical.
‘Well, a torso is a trunk – the victim was found in a trunk.’ He smiled an awful, coy smile. ‘And, of course, if we were American, the trunk would be the boot of a car. Why, I wonder?’
‘You don’t have the trunk, then?’ Kate repeated. She took a sip of her coffee. It was good.
‘Alas, no. I have files. Lots of files.’
‘Which categories?’ Kate said, remembering how punctilious the Scotland Yard detectives had been about separating things out.
Rafferty steepled his fingers.
‘Do you know, I think I might risk a sherry. Will you join me?’
Kate glanced down at her watch. It was eleven a.m.
‘No, thank you.’
‘Ah – you’re thinking it’s a bit early. It’s all right – I won’t tell.’
He jumped up and scurried for a cabinet in the corner beside a replica of a large antique rocking horse that she’d also seen on sale in the Pavilion’s shop.
‘No – really,’ she said as he took out two glasses and a bottle. ‘I’m fine with coffee.’
He looked peeved but poured himself a glass and brought it back to his desk.
‘Most of the files don’t seem to be categorized,’ he said. ‘I’ve been reading up and, as far as I can gather, after some months, when the police hadn’t in reality got anywhere, the two Scotland Yard detectives heading the investigation moved back to London to oversee the investigation from there.
‘One would assume that all the files would have gone up with them but that was not the case. In 1964 the then Chief Constable of the South East Constabulary ordered all the files relating to the case held in Brighton Police station destroyed. Under, I presume, some thirty-year rule.’
He stood again and beckoned her over to another desk beneath a large window. When she approached she saw that the window led out on to a balcony. There were three cardboard boxes, each filled with brown and green files. Kate looked down at them, excitement stirring in her.
‘But these had been left here?’ she said.
‘In error, of course. There may be others.’
‘In the Pavilion?’
‘No, no. But the Scotland Yard detectives continued to take statements and carry out their investigations for a further year in London. They would have had their own files. I don’t know if they were destroyed.’
Kate nodded. She pointed at the nearest box.
‘May I look?’
‘By all means.’
She was aware that Rafferty was standing uncomfortably close. He smelt of something fusty, as if he slept in mothballs. His waxy cheeks, she noticed, had little points of red on them. She glanced at the empty sherry glass on his desk.
She lifted out an unmarked brown pocket file. Opening it, she saw a sheaf of foolscap pages, lined, each page headed ‘Brighton Police’. She looked at the first sheet. Beneath the heading someone had typed ‘Witness Statement of Andrea Stewart’. The statement itself was handwritten in neat, sloping letters decorated with loops and curlicues.
‘Ah, yes,’ Rafferty pointed at the page with a stubby finger. ‘She saw a man burning something foul-smelling when she was out for a walk with some friends over at Pyecombe. He told them he was burning fish but he wouldn’t let them near enough to see for themselves.’
Kate flicked through the sheets aimlessly. She felt excitement stirring as she wondered if within these files there might be some clue to the identity of the Trunk Murderer. What a coup that would be.
‘I don’t have time to work with you on this,’ Rafferty said. ‘But I expect the Pavilion’s discovery to be part of the story.’
‘Oh, of course. And for the programme I thought I might invite a policeman to comment on the evidence we have.’
‘Indeed? Do you have someone in mind?’
‘I was thinking about Robert Watts.’
Rafferty’s mouth twisted into a grimace.
‘That odious man.’
‘Is he? Do you say that because of what happened?’
‘Not at all. Simply because of who he is. I don’t think I would be able to work with him.’
‘You probably won’t need to,’ Kate said.
Rafferty smiled and giggled.
‘Ah – that snippy policewoman – I’ve just realized who she is.’
Gilchrist and Williamson parked at the lay-by just below the lip of Beachy Head. The converted lighthouse was some hundred yards up a steep incline behind them. Williamson didn’t say anything but Gilchrist could tell he was pissed off at having to walk up the hill.
He trailed behind as she strode ahead. She was enjoying the view: in one direction the sea and in the other the rich green folds of the Downs.
The wind was fierce, blowing in sharp gusts from the sea, sending clouds scudding across the vast arc of sky.
When Gilchrist reached the door, Williamson was still clumping along some fifty yards behind. The door opened before she had even located a bell.
‘Another suicide?’
The speaker was a woman somewhere in her fifties, dressed in a loose linen top and matching trousers, her hair drawn back from her sculpted face. She introduced herself as Lesley White.
She looked like a retired dancer, an impression reinforced when she moved back to usher Gilchrist into the house then led her down three steps into a spacious living room.
‘Possibly,’ Gilchrist said when the woman turned back towards her. ‘This is just routine.’ She looked around the thirties modernist room. ‘Lovely. And it must be lovely living here.’
‘It is and it isn’t. This stretch of cliff is very popular among tourists. And among suicides.’
There was a heavy rapping on the door.
‘Sorry,’ Gilchrist said. ‘My colleague.’
Williamson was sweating as the woman led him into the living room.
‘This is Sergeant Williamson,’ Gilchrist said. ‘We’ve found a
body, as you surmised, down the coast a little way. At the moment we don’t know whether this is suicide. However, our visit is strictly routine.’
White gestured for them to sit down on a cream sofa. Gilchrist worried Williamson would somehow mark it, perhaps with nicotine-stained fingers. In consequence she sat particularly gingerly herself on the edge of the sofa, her hands clasped between her thighs
‘How long has it been in the water?’ White said, casually familiar with the procedure.
Gilchrist looked at Williamson, giving him an opportunity to join in the conversation.
‘We don’t know for certain yet,’ he said gruffly. ‘Probably a couple of weeks, judging from the deterioration. I don’t suppose you remember anything from back then?’
‘Well, we don’t keep a suicide watch here, if that’s what you mean.’
She sat so neatly, so straight-backed, that Gilchrist immediately felt lumpen and heavy. Looking at her face again she thought she might be early sixties – but looking very good on it. Gilchrist pushed her shoulders back.
‘Is there anything unusual you can recall?’
‘All I can recall is that we lost our cat.’
‘What was his name?’
Gilchrist blurted out her question without thinking. She was a sucker for animals. Williamson caught the soppiness in her voice and gave her a disgusted look. She flushed but ignored him.
‘Phoebe,’ the woman said. ‘But Phoebe was a boy.’ She smiled quickly, showing small, even teeth. ‘We got muddled when he was a kitten.’
‘No wonder he ran away,’ Williamson said.
White smiled again but her eyes didn’t. Gilchrist could tell she didn’t like Williamson, especially sweating on her pristine sofa in his sports jacket and greasy trousers.
‘He’s chipped by the way,’ White said to Gilchrist. It took a moment for Gilchrist to realize that White was hoping she would try to find her cat.
She stood.
‘OK, well, that will be all for now.’ She handed White her card. ‘If you can think of anything else.’
City of Dreadful Night Page 9
