Murder at the Ritz

by Jim Eldridge

  ‘But I’m guessing that mere influence wasn’t enough for Mussolini.’

  ‘That’s right. Dictators and tyrants want absolute control. Hence the invasion.’

  ‘Which Zog saw coming and left, taking with him most of the country’s money.’

  Blessington nodded. ‘Exactly so.’

  ‘So why would the King’s private secretary be spending time as the house guest of a British aristocrat who supports Mussolini?’

  ‘Perhaps because two million is a large amount to dispose of easily,’ said Blessington. ‘To get a good price you’d need someone you can trust as an intermediary in any transaction. And Lord Mainwaring has interests in banks in different countries. Some of those interests in hostile countries are officially frozen, of course. But not all. And there are other, unofficial, channels for moving money around.’

  ‘So, it’s about the money,’ said Coburg.

  ‘Isn’t it always?’ said Blessington.

  Rosa caught a train to Clapham High Street. She’d never been to Donna’s family house before, but all three housemates had given the addresses of their families to each other ‘to be contacted if anything happens’. And now it had happened. The worst news ever to be delivered. Rosa knew from things Donna had said that her father was in the army, somewhere in North Africa, and that her brother, Tom, had died at Dunkirk. Tom had been her only sibling, so Rosa was coming to tell Mrs Dunn that her only surviving child was dead. No parent should lose their child, thought Rosa, and now this poor woman has lost both of hers.

  Chelsham Road was just a short walk from the railway station, and Rosa found the neat little house with bright red and purple flowers in the window box. She had met Mrs Dunn just once before, when she’d come to visit Donna soon after the three women had moved into the house off Oxford Street. She rang the bell. The door was opened, and Mrs Dunn looked out at her warily, then her face cleared and she smiled in welcome.

  ‘Oh, it’s Miss Weeks, isn’t it? I met you when I came to the house. I never forget a face.’

  ‘It is indeed, Mrs Dunn. I’m sorry to be calling on you—’

  ‘Not at all. Please, come in.’

  Rosa hesitated. Then she told herself: You can’t deliver this dreadful news on the doorstep and then just rush off.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said,

  She followed Mrs Dunn inside and was shown into the front parlour, which was immaculately clean and smelt of polish. Reserved for visitors, she decided.

  ‘Do sit down,’ said Mrs Dunn, gesturing at a comfy padded armchair. Then, as they sat, her face suddenly took on a worried expression. ‘Nothing’s happened, has it? I mean, if you’ve come looking for Donna she’s not here, she’s still in London.’

  ‘No, I haven’t come looking for Donna,’ began Rosa awkwardly. ‘I’m here because I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news. Donna and I were heading for the air-raid shelter in Oxford Street last night—’

  At the mention of Oxford Street, Mrs Dunn suddenly went deathly pale and put her hand to her mouth.

  ‘N-n-no,’ she stammered, and she slumped back into the chair. ‘Not Donna.’

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ said Rosa.

  The woman suddenly bent forwards, her head in her hands, and began to cry, at first small mewing noises, and then suddenly she gave a roar of pain which became a howl. Rosa got up from the chair and went to her, putting her arms around the sobbing woman as she rocked to and fro in distress.

  ‘I’m sorry to be the bearer of such bad news,’ she said.

  Mrs Dunn looked up at her. ‘You were with her?’

  Rosa nodded. ‘She didn’t feel any pain. It was very quick. Her … her body’s at Paddington Hospital. I know you’re on your own, so I’d like to help. You know, with funeral arrangements.’

  Mrs Dunn shook her head. ‘I can’t talk about that now,’ she said hoarsely, her voice almost a whisper.

  ‘Please, let me make you some tea,’ offered Rosa, getting to her feet. ‘Where’s the kitchen?’

  ‘No,’ said the woman. ‘No. I need to be on my own. To take this in.’

  ‘Is there anyone who can be with you?’ asked Rosa.

  ‘My sister,’ said Mrs Dunn. ‘She lives round the corner.’

  ‘Do you want me to go and see her? Tell her and bring her round to you?’

  ‘No,’ said Mrs Dunn. ‘That’s for me to do. It’s family, see.’ She sat there, stunned, staring straight ahead, seeing nothing. After a silence, she finally said: ‘I’d like to be alone, please. Thank you for coming, but I’d like to be alone.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Rosa. ‘And I’m so sorry.’

  And she let herself out of the house, leaving the devastated woman alone with her memories of her daughter and the abject misery that she was gone for ever.

  Unlike Mrs Watson, the widow of Alf, the dead van driver, Mrs Angela Porter, the widow of the deceased tobacconist, still mourned her late husband, Wilf. She invited Lampson into the back room of the small shop while her teenage son, Jimmy, stayed to mind the counter. The back room seemed to double as a storeroom and also a small living room, with the stock piled in crates and boxes occupying most of the space, but one end given over to two armchairs and a small table, and even a fireplace, although there was no fire laid in the grate. On the mantlepiece above the fireplace were two framed photographs, one of Mr and Mrs Porter standing with their son between them, all three smiling at the camera. The other photograph had a black ribbon draped along the top, and showed Mr Porter, a plump man, standing proudly in front of his shop.

  ‘He loved this place,’ said Mrs Porter as she and Lampson each took a seat in one of the armchairs. ‘Over twenty years we’ve had it. We opened it right after the last war, when Wilf came back from France. He said he never wanted to work for anyone else again, only for himself. He’d been in factories before, and he said the war had shown him just how little time we have on this earth. Loads of his comrades were killed, see. He said there was no sense in wasting the little time we have, we should do what we wanted to do with that time. And so he opened this shop.’ She sighed. ‘He built up a good business. People liked him. He talked to them when they came in and listened to them and their troubles. People appreciated that. He had this bad heart. I think he got it during the war, from being in them damp trenches, but he didn’t let it bother him.

  ‘I was with him here when the robbery happened. Four blokes wearing masks, and a truck outside. One of them had a gun. They came in and started shouting, and the one with the gun pointed it at me and said he’d shoot me if Wilf didn’t do as he was told. I thought Wilf was going to collapse there and then, you could see the shock on his face. He had to sit down he was shaking so much.

  ‘Then the others grabbed all our stock – tobacco, cigarettes, cigars, everything – and took it out to their van while the one with the gun stayed inside pointing his gun at me and Wilf. When it was all gone, they went, and it was no sooner they’d left the shop that Wilf collapsed. And that was it. His heart, the doctor said. But I knew it was the shock of them blokes that killed him.’

  ‘Do you know who did the robbery?’

  She shook her head. ‘And I don’t want to know. If I did, I’d have to face them in court, and I couldn’t do that. It would be too painful.’

  Lampson nodded and stood up. ‘Thank you for talking to me, Mrs Porter,’ he said. ‘I know it must have been hard for you.’

  ‘Is this because you’re still looking into the robbery?’ she asked as she led him out of the small room and back into the shop.

  ‘No, but it may be part of a different enquiry,’ said Lampson.

  ‘Which enquiry’s that?’ she asked.

  ‘The deaths of a Mr McGuinness and a Mr Thackeray.’

  ‘Why would that be part of what happened to our shop?’ she asked.

  ‘It was just a lead that someone suggested,’ said Lampson. ‘But I don’t think it is. Do you happen to know either of those men?’

  ‘What were their n
ames again?’

  ‘McGuinness and Thackeray. They’ve been involved in crime in this area and we’re looking into everything they might have taken part in, just to see if there’s a pattern. Did you know them?’

  She shook her head. ‘No. We’ve always kept ourselves to ourselves. I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help, Sergeant.’

  ‘No problem, Mrs Porter. Thank you for your time, and I’ll wish you good day.’ He gave a pleasant nod to Jimmy who was behind the counter. ‘And to you, Mr Porter.’

  Jimmy watched as Lampson left, and when he was sure the policeman was out of earshot, he turned to his mother.

  ‘You know McGuinnnes and Thackeray all right,’ he said accusingly. ‘After Dad died, you kept pressing that copper at the station about who might have done it, and in the end he said they suspected those two blokes, Thackeray and his mate Williams and some other blokes, but they couldn’t prove anything. He told you they worked for Big Mel McGuinness, which was why no one was giving them up.’

  ‘Well? There was no need for that copper to know all that. That’s our business.’

  ‘You said you wanted them dead, and you were going to find someone to do it.’

  ‘That was just the spur-of-the-moment talk,’ said Mrs Porter. ‘I didn’t mean it. It may have been something I thought at the time, but I was upset. It’s not something I’d ever do. And don’t you forget it. I don’t want you saying anything like that to anyone, understood?’

  And she thrust her face close to her son’s and glowered at him, her mouth tight and the look in her eyes intense.

  ‘Understood?’ she repeated, harder this time.

  Jimmy gulped and nodded. ‘Yes, Mum,’ he said. ‘Understood.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Once again, when Lampson called at Anna Gershon’s address there was no sign of her. ‘She’s still away,’ he was told. He received the same reply at the cafe where she worked. At both places, as before, he left his telephone number at Scotland Yard.

  ‘When you see her, can you please give her this and ask her to telephone me? We need to talk to her urgently.’

  Then he made his way to the address in Norwood that Sergeant Moss had given him for Mike Bassett. There was no response to his knocking at the door.

  ‘This is turning out to be a wasted day,’ he muttered to himself.

  He banged the knocker again, loudly, in case Bassett, or anyone else, was asleep, but the only reaction came from the neighbouring house, where the front door opened, and a middle-aged woman peered out.

  ‘If you’re looking for Mr Bassett, I don’t think he’s there.’

  Lampson produced his warrant card and identified himself.

  ‘Police?’ said the woman. She shook her head sorrowfully. ‘Poor man, I hope it’s not more bad news. I don’t think he can take any more.’

  ‘The robbery at his warehouse, you mean?’ asked Lampson.

  The woman shook her head. ‘No, that sort of thing people can cope with. Things happen and you deal with it. No, I mean what happened to his family.’

  ‘You’ve known Mr Bassett for a while?’ asked Lampson.

  ‘Years,’ she said. ‘My name’s Hudson. Mrs Hudson, though I’m a widow now. My Jeff died four years ago. The Bassetts were wonderful to me. Really good neighbours. I wish I could have been as good for them, but with all that happened, there wasn’t much I could do.’

  ‘What happened to his family?’ asked Lampson.

  ‘Well, first his eldest son, George, was killed at Dunkirk. At least, they presume he was killed because he was one of them who never came back, and they had a letter from the War Office telling them he had died in action. It was shortly after that that Mike’s wife, Sonia, died. Heart attack, they said. Terrible it was. They’d been together for thirty years. Childhood sweethearts. Coming on top of George being killed, it sort of destroyed Mike. I’d see him, sitting in his front room, just staring out of the window, like he didn’t know what was happening.’

  ‘Poor bloke,’ said Lampson.

  ‘That wasn’t the end of it,’ said Mrs Hudson. ‘His youngest son, Bob, joined the RAF, wanting to do his bit, but he never even got the chance. He was killed in a training accident. The plane he was in crashed, and him and the instructor with him were killed. Dreadful. I was worried he might top himself after that. First his eldest son, then his missus, and finally his youngest. All gone in the space of a few months. All he had after that was his business and then that got robbed.’ She gave a sorrowful sigh. ‘Strange, ain’t it, how some people seem to get more than their fair share of tragedies?’

  When Lampson got back to the Yard, Coburg was already in the office and looking severely unhappy.

  ‘How did you get on with the Count?’ asked Lampson.

  ‘I didn’t,’ said Coburg. He filled Lampson in on his meeting with the Count, and then those with Hibbert and Blessington. ‘It’s been dead ends all the way. So, tomorrow I’m going to call on Lord Mainwaring and see if I can get to the bottom of the mysterious connection between him and King Zog, which I’m pretty sure will be about the money. How did you get on?’

  Lampson gave an unhappy shrug and told him that he’d also experienced a frustrating bunch of dead ends. ‘And I heard about Ramsgate.’

  ‘What about Ramsgate?’ asked Coburg.

  ‘It got bombed yesterday,’ said Lampson. ‘By all accounts, terrible destruction. I’ve tried to find out how badly, but no luck. The thing is, you remember I said I’ve got an aunt and an uncle who live there? Well, I’d like to make sure they’re safe so I can tell my mum. It’s her sister.’

  Coburg picked up the phone and asked the operator for a number in Whitehall.

  ‘There’s someone I know who’s quite senior at the Defence Ministry,’ he told Lampson as he waited for the connection to be made. ‘A chap called Wesley Pithy. I don’t usually play the Eton Old Boys card, but Wesley and I got on quite well when we were at school. He’s a decent chap.’

  Lampson watched Coburg intently as the connection was made.

  ‘Wesley,’ said Coburg. ‘Edgar Coburg.’

  ‘Edgar,’ said Pithy. ‘Long time no speak. To what do I owe the pleasure of this call?’

  ‘There was a German air raid on Ramsgate yesterday,’ said Coburg.

  ‘Yes, sadly, there was,’ said Pithy, his tone angry and bitter. ‘So much for the Germans claiming they’re only striking military targets.’

  ‘The thing is, and normally I wouldn’t ask this, but my sergeant has an uncle and an aunt in Ramsgate, and he’s having difficulty getting any information on them. We’re trying to find out if they were among the casualties. We understand there were quite a few.’

  ‘A couple of hundred from what we can make out, maybe more,’ said Pithy. ‘The problem is no one knows exactly who may have been caught up in it. They’re still lifting bits of bombed houses while they look for anybody who may, by some miracle, have survived and been buried under the rubble. Or likely, more bodies. The situation’s made worse because not all the bombs the Germans dropped went off, so as the fire brigade, ARP and Civil Defence wardens dig through they’re coming across unexploded bombs, so they have to stop and wait until the bomb disposal people have made them safe before they can carry on. On the plus side, when the sirens went off many of the residents made for the tunnels.’

  ‘The tunnels?’ asked Coburg.

  ‘There’s an old railway tunnel from Victorian times that runs under the town towards the harbour. The trains stopped running but a few years later the local council decided to open it again as a tourist attraction, with other tunnels linked to it. Then last year, when war was on the cards, they decided to use it as an air-raid shelter if war broke out. It’s now a catacomb of linked tunnels that run for three miles, seventy feet beneath the town. But not everyone wants to go down into them.

  ‘The authorities are doing their best to identify those who died in the raid, but it’s not easy. Look, if you give me their names, I’ll see w
hat I can find out and get back to you, but it may take a day or two. Like I say, things are very confused.’

  ‘Thanks, Wesley, I appreciate that. But in the circumstances that wouldn’t be fair, I know the pressure you’re all under there at the moment. I’ve got another avenue to explore through police channels, I’ll try that.’

  ‘Give me their names anyway, just in case I do get a chance.’

  ‘Hang on, I’ll get them,’ said Coburg, looking questioningly at Lampson.

  ‘George and Ada Brewer,’ said Lampson. ‘They live in Belle Vue Road near Camden Square.’

  Coburg repeated the information to Pithy.

  ‘Got that,’ said Pithy. ‘I’ll see what I can find and get back to you.’

  Coburg hung up and looked at Lampson. ‘No joy there, I’m afraid,’ he said. ‘So tomorrow I suggest you take the car and go to Ramsgate. You’ll be able to find out more there.’

  ‘No, that wouldn’t be right,’ protested Lampson.

  ‘I won’t need it,’ said Coburg. ‘Tomorrow I’ll catch the train to Sevenoaks to call on Lord Mainwaring. I can do it on my own. As to the murders of McGuinness and Thackeray, you’ve already got a list of possible victims who might have been looking for revenge and you can follow them up again another time.’

  ‘But—’ protested Lampson.

  ‘It’s family, Ted. And you can call it selfish on my part, but I need you alert and concentrating on the cases at hand, which you won’t be if you’re worrying about your uncle and aunt. So, that’s an order. Go to Ramsgate. I’ll need the car tonight, but I’ll leave it in the parking area at the back, and the keys with the desk sergeant for you to collect. We’ll meet up here the morning after tomorrow and catch up.’