Old Cases New Colours (A Dudley Green Investigation) (The Dudley Sisters Saga Book 9)

by Madalyn Morgan

  ‘Smithfield Market,’ the bus conductor shouted.

  There was mumbling as people left their seats and the clatter of shoes as others clanked down the metal stairs of the bus. A woman left first and waited on the pavement for four young boys who, one after the other, piled down the stairs followed by Selwyn Horton. Ena hung back until everyone from the upper deck had alighted before she too got off.

  She followed Horton past the derelict poultry market that had burned to the ground two years before and watched him go into The Tavern. It was only half-past-six and she was twenty yards away from the pub, but the aroma of fried breakfast made her mouth water. In case Horton had seen her on the bus, she took off her red felt hat, folding it and put it into her briefcase before going in.

  In a costume, carrying briefcase and handbag, she stuck out like the proverbial sore thumb. Noticing an empty seat, she said, ‘May I sit here?’

  The rotund middle-aged man in a white coat that looked as if it was covered in blood laughed and said, ‘Are you lost?’

  ‘No, but I feel a bit out of place.’ She bit her bottom lip. ‘I came down from the north on the early train. I’m going to a job interview in Islington, but I think I got on the wrong bus. Not that it matters, I have plenty of time.’ She smiled sheepishly at the man in the blood-stained coat. ‘I saw this pub, or rather I smelt breakfast cooking.’ She looked at the man’s empty plate. It still had egg yolk on it. ‘So, as I’m starving, I came in.’ She leaned over the table. ‘It is alright me being here, isn’t it?’

  The man laughed again. ‘Course it is.’

  ‘It’s only, everyone’s wearing white coats with…’

  ‘Blood, love. We’re all ere at this time a the mornin’ ‘cause we’ve all come in for breakfast after a twelve-hour shift at Smithfield’s meat market. Most of the lads in here are Bummarees.’

  Ena screwed up her face. She didn’t have a clue what a Bummaree was.

  ‘Bummarees are porters. We haul the meat from the lorries when they deliver at night and in the early hours, take it to the butcher’s stalls and then when it’s sold to butchers for shops, hotels, market stalls and the like, we take it to the individual butcher’s vans. We push it on carts or haul it on our shoulders. I’m a Bummaree. Harry,’ he said, offering Ena his hand.

  ‘Ena,’ she replied, shaking Harry’s hand. ‘I’ve never heard the word Bummaree until now. Where does the name come from?’

  Harry burst into laughter. He laughed so much his fleshy cheeks wobbled. ‘Well,’ he said, when he had recovered, ‘The lads at Billingsgate fish market reckon it comes from the French word, “bonne maree.” But that means, fresh seafood,’ Harry said knowledgeably. ‘Here at Smithfield, the word goes back hundreds of years to the days when if a cow was stubborn; wouldn’t leave the lorry or follow the other cows into the market, porters would prod them on their posteriors. Get it? Bum and rear?’ Harry laughed again and two men on the table next to him who had been listening to the conversation laughed with him.

  Ena pretended to see the funny side of Harry’s explanation of Bummarees. In all honesty, she felt sorry for the cows.

  Harry picked up his glass and drained his beer. ‘Yes, when we’ve done, we come in here and have a full English and a couple of pints before we go home to bed.’

  Harry looked around the room and Ena did the same. She glimpsed Selwyn Horton at a table with two men in blood-stained white coats. He was leaning forward, his left hand at the side of his mouth. He was speaking quickly, his face animated, yet serious.

  ‘Can I get you anything, Harry?’ Ena asked, getting up and putting her briefcase on her chair. She didn’t want to lose her seat. Being near the door she would be able to leave quickly if she needed to.

  ‘I’m alright, darlin, I’ve a pint o stout in.’

  Ena went to the counter and ordered eggs, bacon, tomatoes, toast and a cup of tea. She paid and said, ‘Harry has a pint of stout in. I’m sitting with him if you’d like me to take it over?’ The barman pulled on the beer pump and filled a pint glass with black velvety beer. ‘I’ve left a head on it. If he complains, tell him it was to make it easier for you to carry.’

  Ena thanked him and, assuring the barman she’d relay his message, she made her way back to where she was sitting with her new friend. She placed the dark beer in front of him. ‘Sorry it’s not quite a full pint, but the barman was worried I’d spill it.’

  Harry took a drink. ‘Perfect,’ he said, leaving froth as a white moustache on his top lip. Before taking her seat, Ena glanced again at Horton. He looked no happier as he ate his breakfast.

  She didn’t have to wait long before her own breakfast arrived. There was a lot of it. Two eggs, three thick rashers of bacon — with plenty of crispy fat on them — and goodness knows how many tomatoes on fried bread, two thick rounds of buttered toast and a half-pint mug of tea. Ena stared at the feast before her.

  ‘If yer get that lot down ya you’ll be set up for the day,’ her Bummaree friend, Harry remarked.

  ‘If I get half of it down me, I’ll be doing well.’ While she ate, Harry drank his beer. When she’d finished, Ena put her knife and fork down on her plate and Harry rose from his seat. Not only did he have a large girth, but he was well over six feet tall.

  ‘I had better be off,’ he said, consulting his wristwatch. ‘My wife’s only a little un, but she’ll give me what-for if I’m late getting ‘ome. She’ll accuse me of stopping off for breakfast and a couple of pints. As if I would,’ he said and winked at Ena. ‘Good luck with your job interview. If you get the job we might see you in ere regular.’

  Ena got to her feet, shook Harry’s hand and said, ‘I’d love that. Job or not, I’ll see you again sometime.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Several men left the pub at the same time as Harry, including the two Bummarees who had been sitting with Selwyn Horton. Ena wondered whether, because he was on his own, it would be a good time to approach him. Her thoughts were dashed by the barman ringing a bell and calling last orders. A sudden surge of burly men in white stained coats left their seats and pushed their way to the bar. Horton wasn’t one of them. He got up when the others did, but instead of going to the bar he walked towards the door. Ena picked up her handbag and made for the door at the same time. Then, suddenly remembering her briefcase was hanging on the back of her chair, she turned round and bumped into him.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Mr Horton,’ she said, ‘I left my briefcase on the chair.’ She stepped away from him, picked up the briefcase and hooked it over her arm. ‘Oh,’ she said, turning back and seeing Horton standing in the doorway. ‘I almost bumped into you again.’

  Horton was staring at her. Ena looked past him to his left and then his right. ‘Excuse me, Mr Horton, you’re blocking my way.’

  ‘Do I know you?’

  ‘I don’t think so. Unless you were on duty the night of the art viewing at La Galerie Unique.’

  Ena watched the colour drain from Horton’s face.

  ‘Mr Horton, my name is Ena Green, of Dudley Green Associates. I’m a private investigator. I’m not here to accuse you of anything. In fact, I can help you. I want to know why Louis Mantel threatened you and forced you to take his money.’ Ena motioned to the chair that Harry had vacated. ‘May we talk?’

  ‘If it’s about stolen paintings, I know nothing about them. I swear on my granddaughter’s life.’ Horton shuddered. ‘I mean, I swear on my life.’ He began to perspire and was breathing heavily. He took a handkerchief from his trouser pocket and mopped his face.

  When he pushed the hanky back into his pocket, Ena said, ‘I know. I saw you yesterday in Slingsby Street talking to Louis Mantel. I saw him offer you money and I saw you refuse it. When you walked away, he came after you. He said something to you that made you change your mind and you then accepted his money.’

  Horton took a bunch of notes from the inside pocket of his jacket. ‘He gave me this.’

  Ena looked around cautiously. ‘Put th
e money back in your pocket, Mr Horton, before anyone sees it.’

  ‘He threatened me,’ Horton said, returning the money. ‘And he threatened my daughter and her baby. He said he’d get me the sack if I told anyone what happened that night.’

  ‘I don’t understand. You said you didn’t do anything, so how could Mantel get you the sack?’

  Horton got up. ‘They’ll be chucking us out soon. The pub’s been open since four o’clock this morning. The staff have to clean up and have a rest before they open at eleven for the lunch time customers.’ Ena picked up her bags and followed Horton outside. He took a packet of cigarettes from his pocket and offered one to Ena. She declined, though she’d have liked one, but out of habit she didn’t smoke in the street. Horton cupped his hands around the match and lit his cigarette. It wasn’t windy. Ena guessed that was his habit.

  He took a drag of his cigarette, inhaled deeply and blew out a stream of smoke that disappeared into the morning air. ‘My daughter telephoned the gallery at midnight. She said Lily – that’s her little girl, my granddaughter – was poorly. I told her there was five pounds in the drawer of my bedside table and to get a taxi to the hospital, but she began to cry. She begged me to go home. I told her I couldn’t leave the gallery and then a man’s voice said, “If you want to see your daughter and granddaughter again, you’d better do as she asks.” Well, that was it, I knew I shouldn’t have left, but my daughter’s life was at stake. So, I took the keys from the office, let myself out and locked the door behind me. I thought, five minutes by taxi to get home, five minutes to sort out whatever it was that was going on at home and five minutes back. I would never have left unless I thought it was an emergency – and this was.’ Horton dropped the spent cigarette on the ground, stamped it out and took another from the packet. After he’d lit it, he said, ‘When I got home, the thug who had barged into my house and threatened Linda was gone.’

  ‘And your granddaughter?’

  ‘In her cot fast asleep. He hadn’t even been in her bedroom. She knew nothing about what had happened. Linda, on the other hand, was hysterical. She threw herself into my arms as soon as I walked through the door. She was terrified.’

  ‘Was your daughter able to describe him, the man who threatened to hurt her and the baby?’

  ‘Better than that, she drew a picture of him. Before you ask, no I didn’t recognise him. I’d never seen him before and I haven’t seen him since.’

  Ena nodded. She believed him. ‘Then what?’

  ‘I got my neighbour to take Linda and the baby in for the night and I returned to the gallery. No sooner had I let myself in than I felt a sharp pain on the back of my head and everything went black. I didn’t know what had happened until I woke up with a hell of a headache and blood all over my shirt and jacket. I got up and managed to stumble to the washroom. I then grabbed a towel, put it under the cold water tap and held it on my head until it stopped bleeding. Eventually, when I was able, I went to the front of the gallery and checked the main entrance doors. They were locked. I went to the back door. That was locked too and all the windows were secure.’

  ‘Did you call the Police?’

  ‘No!’ Horton looked terrified by the idea. ‘The bloke at my house made it clear to Linda that I wasn’t to say anything to the Police. Besides, I went into every room, checked each painting against my lists and they were all there. So, because whoever hit me over the head knows where I live, and more to the point because Linda and Lily live with me, I decided not to say anything to anyone. Not only that, I can’t afford to lose my job, which I’d be sure to do if Miss Aubrey knew I’d left the gallery.’

  ‘Did you check the jewellery display cabinets?’

  ‘Yes. There was nothing missing.’

  Selwyn Horton looked pleadingly at Ena. ‘Does Miss Aubrey have to know? Because whoever hit me – and I’d put money on it being the bloke that held Linda hostage – probably thought he’d killed me and scarpered.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Ena wasn’t convinced.

  ‘I don’t know what would have happened to my daughter and the baby if the paintings had been stolen and I went down for it.’ Horton gave a cynical laugh. ‘Jailbirds love bent ex-coppers.’

  ‘Don’t worry, even if something is missing, I’ll do my best to make sure you don’t go to prison. As I see it, you had no choice but to leave the gallery because your daughter and her child were being held against their will by someone.’ By one of Mantel’s men, Ena thought, but remained silent because as yet she had no proof.

  ‘God knows what would have happened if I hadn’t agreed to go home.’

  ‘Don’t think about it, you did go home and your family are safe. I suspect what happened was, as soon as you said you were on your way home, the man holding your daughter left your house and while you were in a taxi heading away from the gallery, he was in a car going towards it. Whatever the so-called burglar wanted he had got by the time you returned. It was bad timing on his part and bad luck on yours that you arrived back as he was leaving. If you’d been two minutes later, he’d have been gone and you’d have been spared a crack on the head.’

  ‘Who would believe it?’

  ‘I would, it’s too ridiculous to be anything but true.’

  ‘I should never have taken Mantel’s money.’

  ‘He was blackmailing you. I saw Mantel force the money on you.’

  ‘I told him I didn’t want it. I was going to give it back to him last night, but he didn’t come to the gallery.’

  ‘Give it to me,’ Ena said. ‘It’s evidence.’

  Horton took the money from his pocket and handed it to her. ‘I didn’t want to take it.’

  ‘I know. I told you I saw you and Mantel. I saw you refuse his money and walk away.’ Ena looked into the security guard’s eyes. ‘What did Mantel say to you that made you change your mind about taking his money before you went into the café with him?’

  The colour drained from Horton’s face. The look of relief that he’d displayed minutes earlier was replaced by a look of fear. ‘He said if he can’t tell his bosses that I was onside; that I was willing to close my eyes to paintings being stolen from the gallery and…’

  ‘Replaced by forgeries?’

  ‘Yes. How did you know?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. Carry on.’

  ‘Mantel said if I didn’t work with him, he couldn’t guarantee the safety of Linda and the baby. I begged him not to hurt them, that it was me they should take it out on, but he said he had no influence over what his bosses on the continent did.’

  ‘Mr Horton, I know you weren’t working on the night the gallery previewed paintings that were going to auction. How well do you know the security guard who was working that night?’

  ‘Quite well. His name’s Bob Smith.’

  ‘Do you know which agency he’s with?’

  ‘The same as me. Sure Security, in Leicester Square.’

  ‘Was it Bob Smith I saw arriving today just before you left the gallery?’

  ‘Yes. He was working the night you were there, but he’s on days now. He messed up the day before the preview. He was in charge of transporting paintings from The Savoy to the gallery and he lost one of them. It was found by someone staying at the hotel and they took it to Bow Street Police Station. After that Miss Aubrey had someone come in and authenticate it.’

  ‘Who knew the painting was being authenticated that evening, do you know?’

  ‘I didn’t. I was on days then. Bob might have known and Miss Aubrey would have told Mantel.’

  That’s why the painting that went missing wasn’t replaced by a forgery, Ena thought, and Henry authenticated it because it was a real Hogarth, as were the others on show that night. ‘It’s beginning to make sense to me now.’

  ‘I wish it made sense to me,’ Horton said.

  ‘The less you know, the better, don’t you think?’ Horton nodded. ‘I need to go back to the office. You go into work tonight as normal and for the time being, do a
s Mantel says.’ Ena took a card from her pocket and gave it to him. ‘Don’t take this into the gallery, leave it at home. It’s my office telephone number. If you ring and I’m not there my associate, Mr Mallory, will be. You can leave a message with him.’ She took a pen from her handbag and scribbled down her home phone number on the back of the card. ‘My job doesn’t allow me to keep office hours, but if you can telephone during the day it would be better. If you can’t, ring this number. If I don’t pick up keep trying. Alright, Mr Horton?’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Ena was at her desk drinking coffee when Artie arrived. ‘Good morning.’ She put on a comical frown. ‘You look as if you’ve had a rough night.’

  ‘Reporters can’t half put the beer away.’ Artie went to the kitchen and came back with a mug of coffee. ‘I met the editor and the only reporter on the Brickham News. It’s a local news and views paper. The reporter was the first on the scene after the accident. He’s a local man and said rumours about the accident were rife. Mrs Thornton’s son and his wife were taking their daughter, Andrea, back to boarding school in the Surrey Hills area. He didn’t say which boarding school. Anyway, he said the daughter didn’t want to go. She was fourteen and a bit of a tearaway by all accounts. She looked older than she was, liked the boys and was often seen hanging around the pubs with a couple of local lads.

  ‘She, Andrea that is, told the Police that her father was shouting at her because she didn’t want to go back to school, lost control of the car and it careered off the road into a tree.’

  Artie consulted a newspaper cutting. ‘The report is pretty much what we already know, but a couple of weeks after the accident the guy I spoke to wrote another report. There’s a quote here from the grandmother. “My granddaughter has survived the accident, thank the Lord, Mrs Thornton said. She has no physical injuries, but she isn’t the same child. Seeing her mother and father killed and her little brother so badly injured, has broken her heart and her spirit.”’