Death Scene Read online

  Mickey felt in his pocket for another envelope and slipped the papers inside. He got down from the chair and turned back to the constable. ‘You see what I was doing? Well, get up on that chair and carry on doing it. See if there’s anything else. Then when you’ve done in here, go into the kitchen and do the same.’

  He went out on to the veranda just as Henry arrived back from the police station.

  ‘Anything?’ Henry asked.

  Mickey’s grin was broad and wolfish. ‘Oh yes,’ he said. ‘I rather think we have.’

  It turned out to be a satisfying afternoon. Mickey was still in the middle of explaining to Henry what he’d found when a car drew up behind their own and the desk sergeant, just coming off duty, got out.

  ‘I was on my way home, Inspector, so I said I’d bring the news across. It seems’ – he paused impressively – ‘that we found your car and your gentleman. The one by the name of Geoffrey. It seems that he is the Honourable Geoffrey Clifton, Esquire. And I have his address right here.’

  Henry refrained from telling the sergeant that if he was an Honourable he was not also an Esquire and instead joined Mickey in congratulating the man.

  ‘Next port of call, then,’ Mickey said. ‘We’ll interrupt his pleasant Sunday afternoon, shall we?’

  The first spots of rain were falling as they left, bruised purple clouds rolling in off the sea pursued by even darker, blackened ones driven by a suddenly freshening wind. It looked as though the mild September was losing the battle and more autumnal weather was sweeping in. By the time they had looped back past the Church of the Good Shepherd and on into Shoreham town the rain was falling heavily and the windscreen wipers proving themselves inadequate to the task. Henry stared out through thick weather, wondering if they should wait until it cleared but impatient now that they had a lead. So he drove on, keeping on the coast road and then turning inland about five miles beyond, the road narrowing and climbing on to the South Downs. The large Georgian house occupied by Geoffrey Clifton and his family – apparently the man was married – was set in a little hollow, the entrance guarded by tall stone pillars though the gates stood open. There were several cars parked on the gravel drive that swept around the front of the house but Henry parked the car as close as he could and the two of them ran up the steps and under the porch, then rang the bell. The door opened instantly and Henry guessed that the footman was there waiting for more guests to arrive. He was somewhat taken aback to be greeted by two policemen who showed their identity cards and asked to see his master.

  Music was playing on a gramophone and they could hear the sound of laughter and conversation. Evidently Geoffrey Clifton was having a party, on a Sunday afternoon. And from the sound of it the merriment had already been going on for some time.

  ‘The lady of the house has a birthday,’ the footman told them. ‘I’m not sure the master will want to be disturbed.’

  Mickey scribbled a few words on a scrap of paper torn from his notebook and folded it carefully. ‘Give him this,’ he instructed. ‘Then see what he says.’

  They loitered in the hall, listening to the rain outside beating a tattoo on the windows. Now the rain had begun, it seemed in no hurry to let up.

  A few minutes later a man appeared and gestured to them to follow him through to a smaller room off the hallway and the footman took their coats. They followed the man into what was evidently his study and he introduced himself as Geoffrey Clifton.

  ‘Yes,’ he admitted, ‘I knew Cecily Rowe. I was foolish enough to become involved with the young woman, but it was a casual liaison and I ended it quickly. I heard about her murder.’

  ‘But it did not occur to you that you might have useful information and that you should come forward?’ Henry asked him.

  Geoffrey Clifton looked surprised. ‘No, why on earth should it? I imagine many people knew her. Have they all come forward? Frankly I did not want to be involved.’

  ‘And yet you are involved,’ Henry told him. ‘You have been connected, romantically, with a young woman who has been murdered. Brutally murdered, I might add.’

  ‘Romantically! I was never romantically involved. I admit she was an attractive young woman and a passing interest. But that was all. She was enjoyable company, for a time. My wife was away for several months taking the cure in Switzerland and I will admit to being bored. Miss Rowe, I suppose, alleviated the boredom for a time. It was nothing more than that, and she was aware that it could be nothing more than that.’

  ‘You may have seen it that way,’ Mickey told him. ‘But we have reason to believe that Miss Rowe saw it quite differently.’

  ‘Young women can be foolish.’ He laughed awkwardly. ‘Older men can be foolish too, I will admit that.’

  ‘And the nature of your relationship with Miss Rowe? You can tell us about that. When did it begin? What did you do when you were with her? I imagine you would want to avoid being seen by any of your wife’s friends or acquaintances. I imagine you would want to avoid any kind of scandal.’

  Geoffrey Clifton sighed and, finally realizing that his unwanted guests were in no hurry to leave, took a seat behind his impressive walnut desk.

  ‘She was a presentable enough young woman, I suppose. I took her to restaurants I knew she could never have dreamt of affording. To a couple of the London clubs I frequent and where it is possible to be … invisible, ignored. She was good company, and, as I say, presentable enough. But you must understand, gentlemen, it was a mere dalliance. A time filler. And to be truthful, I lost interest rapidly enough.’

  ‘But to such a young woman it might have seemed that your interest was greater than it was. That you promised more. And I’m curious, Mr Clifton, as to what you requested in return.’

  Geoffrey Clifton must have known that this question was coming but even so he flushed to beetroot red and rose to his feet, stretching to his full six feet plus in height.

  Neither Henry nor Mickey was either impressed or intimidated.

  ‘Sit down and answer the question,’ Mickey Hitchens said. ‘Or we’ll be forced to call for back-up and have a constable come in and arrest you.’

  He saw the sudden confusion in Geoffrey Clifton’s eyes. ‘We could do the job ourselves, of course, make nice with your guests and tell them that you are attending to some urgent business. But, frankly, why should we?’

  ‘W–why should you?’ Geoffrey Clifton stuttered.

  ‘Why should we?’ Mickey confirmed. ‘My colleague here, well, he’s accustomed to much more gentlemanly behaviour but me, well, as you can see, I’m just an ordinary plebeian. Of a similar class to our poor Miss Rowe and so also beneath your concern. By the same token, Mr Clifton, you are beneath mine.’

  Henry stood quietly by and, when Geoffrey Clifton looked to him for support, he simply shrugged mildly.

  ‘You’ll get no sympathy from the Chief Inspector,’ Mickey told him. ‘Now, do we use your telephone to summon a nice constable or two and make a pretty scene for your guests to see, or do you provide us with dates and times that we can check and cross check and a list of places where you and our unfortunate murder victim might have been noticed together?’

  ‘You might also tell us whether you made any gifts to Miss Rowe,’ Henry said quietly. ‘Particularly if those gifts were jewellery.’

  ‘Jewellery?’ Geoffrey Clifton sounded genuinely dumbfounded.

  The study door opened and a cloud of cigarette smoke and rich, floral perfume drifted in, followed by a young woman dressed in ivory silk and carrying an extraordinarily long cheroot holder. ‘Geoffrey, have you forgotten that we have guests? Oh!’ She eyed the visitors curiously.

  ‘I doubt it,’ Henry told her. ‘We have just been reminding Mr Clifton about them.’

  ‘Really?’ She studied Henry carefully, cautiously. ‘Geoffrey, introduce me.’

  ‘My dear, I really don’t think … This is my wife.’

  ‘He’s a little reluctant,’ Mickey told her. ‘On account of us being policemen.’r />
  Geoffrey Clifton changed colour again. He managed it with astonishing rapidity, Henry thought.

  ‘Police officers? And they are here because?’

  ‘My car—’ Geoffrey began, but Mickey was ahead of him.

  ‘An acquaintance of your husband thought he saw your vehicle involved in a hit-and-run accident. It would seem that he was mistaken but we have to check these things out, you understand.’

  ‘Of course.’ From her tone it was apparent that she didn’t believe a word of it.

  ‘Nice of you to lie for him, Mr Policeman, but he really doesn’t deserve it, you know. I assume it’s really because of that poor young actress who was killed down in Shoreham. Very sad, I’m sure, but I can assure you that my husband ceased his involvement with her several months ago.’

  Henry wondered, idly, if it was possible for the redness of Geoffrey Clifton’s face to deepen any further. It had extended now to his neck and hands.

  ‘Sit down, Geoffrey,’ his wife said sternly. ‘And do calm down, my dear. You’ll make yourself ill.’

  She picked an onyx ash tray from the desk, flicked the ash from her cigarette and then drew deeply on the elegant black and amber holder, blowing out a long stream of smoke.

  She doesn’t inhale, Henry thought. It’s just for show.

  ‘My husband has his dalliances,’ she said. ‘He usually confesses when they’re over or I find out about them and he becomes embarrassed and ends them.’

  ‘And how do you feel about that?’ Henry was aware that such a direct question might not be the most appropriate but he recalled the conversation he’d had with Cynthia about Albert’s little peccadilloes and was genuinely curious.

  ‘None of your damned business,’ she replied calmly.

  ‘It is if it impacts upon our investigation. A jealous wife is capable of revenge. You must have felt put out by your husband’s liaisons.’

  She flicked the ash again and then sashayed over to where Henry stood. ‘Confidentially,’ she said, leaning her head close to his so that his senses were invaded by a mélange of tobacco, rose and vermouth. ‘Confidentially, I enjoy his efforts to make it up to me.’

  ‘Your husband was just about to provide us with some information,’ Henry told her. ‘Once he’s done that, you can have him back.’

  She smiled. She had a nice smile, Henry thought, and wore a deep red lipstick that emphasized the voluptuous mouth. ‘Perhaps you could join us?’

  ‘Perhaps not,’ Henry said coldly.

  ‘No.’ She took a step back. ‘Perhaps not. A pity, though.’ She glanced back at her husband before leaving. ‘I’ll give your excuses to our friends,’ she said. ‘I’m sure they’ll understand. Join us when you’re ready, Geoffrey.’

  She drifted out, the beaded silk emphasizing the sway of her hips, the cloud of tobacco smoke and perfume following in her wake.

  ‘And now’ – Mickey settled himself in one of the button back leather chairs and laid his hat on the arm – ‘perhaps you’d be so kind as to provide us with the list we asked for. Your wife may be wise to your goings on, Mr Clifton, but I doubt you’d want them broadcast further. We can still make that telephone call. I’m sure you wouldn’t want to obstruct officers in pursuit of their duties.’

  It took another hour for Geoffrey Clifton to consult his private diaries – kept in a locked drawer in his desk – and provide them with the list of dates and times and locations where he had spent an evening or even a full day with Cissie Rowe.

  Significantly, there were no hotels. Henry queried that. ‘You are expecting us to believe that she never spent a single night in your company?’

  It was now time for Geoffrey Clifton to recover a little of his smugness. ‘Perhaps she wasn’t that sort of girl, Inspector. Have you thought about that? Just because she was a theatrical type, an actress, it doesn’t mean that she was a common whore.’

  ‘Or even an uncommon one,’ Mickey muttered as they left. ‘Just very good at stringing people along, perhaps.’

  ‘Or simply surviving,’ Henry said gently. He was thinking of Cynthia, refusing to give in to Albert’s blandishments until she was safely married and her legal status assured.

  The footman handed them their overcoats in the hall and also gave Henry an envelope. ‘The mistress said you’d be wanting this,’ he said.

  Henry thanked him but waited until they were in the car before looking inside. He was uncomfortably aware that Lillian Clifton was watching them as they left, perfumed and silk clad and blowing uninhaled smoke from between her cherry lips.

  ‘So, what have you got there?’ Mickey enquired as he manoeuvred the little Ford out from between its larger and more illustrious cousins. Obviously further guests had arrived while they had been occupied in the study and a range of Bentleys and Royces and De Dions now crowded the driveway.

  Henry laughed, both shocked and amused. ‘She had him followed,’ he said. ‘Mrs Clifton hired a private detective. She’s given us his card and also a selection of pictures and other information, not all concerning Cissie Rowe.’

  ‘Who would cheat on a woman like that?’ Mickey wondered aloud and, almost against his will, Henry found himself wondering the selfsame thing.

  SEVENTEEN

  It had been decided that Mickey should return to London and follow up on the pawnbroker’s tickets that had been found in Cissie’s bungalow and the railway carriage that had been Jimmy Cottee’s home. He would also interview the private detective that Lillian Clifton had employed to keep an eye on her husband and visit the various locations that had been listed by Geoffrey Clifton for his assignations with the young woman.

  Or young women, as it now seemed.

  Henry was to continue with the investigation on the south coast. He dropped Mickey at the train station, intending to go back to see Sophie Mars, the little photographer, and find out if she had included Geoffrey Clifton in any of her candid images. He had also retained the list of jewellery that had been found with the pawn tickets, oddly satisfied that one of the items listed was a snake bangle. The list had been written on a slip of blue paper that Henry was sure had been torn from an air mail flimsy. It was thin and could be folded easily, hidden well.

  Geoffrey Clifton had claimed never to have visited the studio, but Henry was curious as to whether or not that was the truth. He also planned a further visit to see the Cliftons. On their first visit the focus had been on getting Geoffrey Clifton to speak about his connection to Cissie Rowe but Henry was also curious about the cocaine that had been forced down her throat on the day she had been killed. Were the Cliftons users of the drug? Were any of their guests? Was this the connection or must he look elsewhere?

  Of everything he had seen and discovered, this was one thing that puzzled Henry deeply. It seemed so odd, incongruous, somehow even wasteful. Why use what was an expensive substance in such a way? It was unlikely, they now knew from the post-mortem, to have contributed to Cissie’s death. Had she ingested it earlier then the effects on her body would have been clear. Cocaine broke down the walls of red blood cells, destroyed their integrity and could indeed kill, but Cissie had been half way to that state when the powder had been forced into her throat.

  It carried a weight of meaning that Henry did not yet understand but which he thought must be significant – must, in some way, speak of the state of mind of her killer. If he could comprehend something of that process, he felt, he might be brought closer to discovering the identity of the man.

  Or woman. Could it have been a woman? Cissie had been struck on the back of the head, probably with sufficient force to cause loss of consciousness, if only briefly.

  She was small and slight and a strong woman could have carried her as easily as a man. The pillow that had been pressed against her face, smothering the breath from her lungs, would have taken little force to keep in place. The victim would still have been almost helpless, perhaps just starting to regain her senses; it would have taken relatively little effort or strength.
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  So yes, a woman could have done it. Possibly.

  That Cissie had not been fully unconscious was certain; she had swallowed some of the cocaine and the water that followed it, though evidence of sputum and cocaine on the pillow showed that she had choked and coughed some of it back up.

  Had the killer waited for her to regain her senses enough for the act of swallowing to be possible before forcing the drug down her throat and then smothering her?

  Henry pondered this as he drove away from the train station in Worthing – they had spent the Sunday night at Cynthia’s home – and along the coast road towards Shoreham. The day was bright and clear though a little chill and in the glimpses Henry caught of it, as the road twisted and turned along, the sea sparkled in the morning light.

  Henry had seen many terrible things in his life but evidence of asphyxia always disturbed him. It was, he knew, because he had experienced the fear and dread of this for himself. Twice in his life. Once in water, and once it had been mud and flesh and dead bodies pressing down upon his chest and legs, and the fear – no, it was beyond fear – that he would not have the strength to struggle free.

  The dread lived with him of it happening again and, by extension, it resurfaced when he came across deaths where the breath had been crushed out of the victims or someone had deliberately and callously deprived them of life-giving air.

  He would admit these thoughts only occasionally to himself, write them in his journals. Even more occasionally he would speak about them to Cynthia or to Mickey. Cynthia because she loved him and he loved her and because she knew him better than almost anyone. Mickey because his sergeant had been there and needed no explanation.

  Henry had reached Shoreham. He found himself singing softly, humming the tune to ‘West End Blues’. It was not, he owned, particularly hummable but he liked the way the twelve bar blues swung so lazily and drew the melody reluctantly along. Cynthia had been playing it on the gramophone when they returned the night before. She and Albert had actually seen the maestro Louis Armstrong in action when they had visited New York that summer, though Albert was less keen than Cynthia to show his enthusiasm in public.