Death Scene Page 18

  Mickey, feeling oddly restless now he was back close to his old patch and watching proceedings in which he would once have been a very willing participant, found himself almost wishing that Philippe would resist arrest.

  A constable trotted across the road to hand the key over to his colleagues.

  ‘Keep a low profile, why don’t you?’ Mickey grumbled.

  ‘Our suspect should be in the back,’ the sergeant standing at his shoulder told him.

  ‘And how do we know he’s not set up surveillance in the front? In cahoots with the other tenant.’

  His oppo grinned at him.

  The front door swung open. Mickey watched as the constables went inside.

  NINETEEN

  Henry had returned to Shoreham and went to call on Sophie Mars. She was not helping out in the shop that day and was preparing to go out with her camera.

  Henry explained what he was looking for.

  Sophie Mars screwed up her face and thought about it. ‘A blue car,’ she said. ‘A man in a blue car … doesn’t ring any bells, but we can take a look if you like.’

  That, Henry thought, had been the general idea.

  She fetched more of her shoe boxes and set them down on the parlour table – Henry, it seemed, was now an honoured guest, no longer confined to the kitchen.

  Sophie chattered happily as the two of them worked their way through her photographs. Not knowing exactly what Henry was looking for, she fished out every image that depicted a car. Any kind of car.

  For half an hour Henry looked at a number of cars, none of them connected with Geoffrey Clifton. And then, ‘I’ve found him,’ he said.

  ‘Ooh, show me. Oh yes, I remember him – or at least I remember his car. A great long bonnet on it with a horse mascot. Yes, he came to the studio to collect Cissie just a few days before … you know.’

  ‘Before she was murdered.’

  ‘Yes, that.’ Sophie looked suddenly troubled. ‘Do you think he …?’

  ‘Miss Mars, I’m just looking for a photograph. Nothing else. And I’m sure I don’t have to remind you—’

  ‘To keep quiet? No, you don’t have to remind me of that.’ She glanced at him uncomfortably. ‘I won’t say anything. I promise you that, but if, when this is all over, you could maybe mention my name? Say how helpful I’ve been? And I have been helpful, you said I have.’

  ‘Miss Mars, may I borrow this? And if you should find anything similar, be sure to let me know.’

  She nodded sullenly, disappointment evident.

  ‘And you have been helpful,’ Henry assured her. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  Once back in his car he took another look at the image she had taken. Geoffrey Clifton had not been the focus of her attention. He was off in the background, sitting in his car, with Cissie Rowe in the passenger seat. Behind them was the glasshouse sound stage, which gave the lie to his statement that he had never been to the studio. But what had really caught Henry’s attention was that Philippe was also there. Standing off to the side, an incidental figure caught up in a group shot, he was staring at Cissie and Geoffrey Clifton with a face like thunder.

  Henry spoke to Mickey Hitchens, telephoning from the police station, and they exchanged news.

  ‘He’s not said a lot so far,’ Mickey told his inspector. ‘We had a quick word when he was first brought in. Told him that we had questions to ask regarding Miss Rowe’s death and then dropped him off in a cell to think about it. I’ve a mind to fetch him up sometime this evening and see what he has to say and then leave him to stew for the night.’

  ‘His lodgings have been searched?’

  ‘And some items of interest found. Several films of specialist interest and a number of photographs. And cash to the sum of two hundred and forty pounds.’

  ‘And has he said anything about Miss Rowe?’

  ‘Only that he’d heard she was dead and was very sorry for it but that it was nothing to do with him.’

  ‘And when did he last see her?’

  ‘He claims it was two days before she died. Then he clammed up and we stowed him in his cell.’

  ‘So what now?’

  ‘I asked at Mr Clifton’s office and a very nice young secretary confided that he might be at the New Empire.’

  ‘On Leicester Square? I thought that had become a cinema.’

  ‘No, you’re right, it did. This is a new incarnation, just off Wardour Street.’

  ‘One of the places he took Cissie Rowe, perhaps. Nothing new on the pawnbroker?’

  ‘Ted Grieves is still notable by his absence. Josiah Bailey is being kept under surveillance. It’s likely he’ll be brought in tomorrow, but I’ll not be holding my breath. He’s a man well used to our interference and concerns for his welfare. I received the photograph, by the way.’

  ‘Good.’ Henry had sent a messenger with the photograph he had borrowed from Sophie Mars. ‘I doubt there’s any concrete connection between them but it will be interesting to see how each of them reacts. Clifton was adamant he never visited the studio.’

  ‘So, what else might he be lying about?’ Mickey said.

  What indeed? Henry thought.

  Geoffrey Clifton sat with a young blonde at a table for two in a discreet corner. It was, Mickey thought, a plush kind of place if a little overblown. The walls were red and inset with murals depicting scenes of devils dancing with bright young things and a jazz band played on a small stage at the far end of the long room. Couples danced and dined and while the dance floor itself was well lit the tables were in slight shadow. It was, Mickey thought, an ideal location to meet with someone who was not your wife.

  The maître d’ had been reluctant to let him through, but Mickey threatened – subtly – and had been allowed to proceed, though his lack of evening dress drew many curious glances and more than a little disdain.

  Now he drew up a chair, sat down at Clifton’s table and laid the photograph in front of the man. Only then did he wish him a good evening.

  ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ Clifton demanded. ‘What’s the meaning of this?’

  ‘You took a little tracking down,’ Mickey said. ‘But I’d not finished asking questions. You told us that you’d never been to the Shoreham Film Studio and yet there you are, large as life and twice as … well, never mind. I suppose you’ll tell me that you never met this young man here.’ He pointed at Philippe Boilieu. ‘As you know doubt know, he was a friend of the late Miss Rowe.’

  ‘As indeed I don’t know.’

  The young woman sitting across the table reached for the picture and looked at it hard. ‘And who’s she?’ she demanded. ‘Sitting in your car.’

  ‘No one you need be concerned about.’

  ‘She was a young actress,’ Mickey said. ‘Sadly, the young woman is dead. She was murdered, wasn’t she, Mr Clifton?’

  ‘Are you suggesting …? If you are, then you’ll hear from my solicitor. You can’t go around accusing respectable people—’

  ‘I don’t know that I am,’ Mickey told him. ‘Accusing respectable people, that is. You had a relationship with Miss Rowe. You’ve already lied to us about not visiting her at the studio. It is of interest to me and to my boss to know what else you might have been untruthful about.’

  The blonde had latched on to just one thing.

  ‘Murdered!’ she said. ‘That’s terrible.’ She looked accusingly at Geoffrey Clifton. ‘I think I’d like to go home now, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘My dear girl, I—’

  ‘Are you a policeman?’

  ‘I am indeed. Sergeant Hitchens, at your service.’

  ‘And are you going to arrest him?’

  ‘At the moment, no. At the moment I just need to ask him some questions.’

  ‘Well,’ she said, ‘you don’t need me here for that, do you?’ She gathered up her clutch purse and her gloves and flounced away.

  Geoffrey Clifton had turned bright red again. Mickey moved into the vacated seat and p
ointed at the photograph. ‘So, you went to the studio.’

  ‘And what if I did?’

  ‘Not so much that you did as when you did,’ Mickey said. ‘You told us – and indeed your wife believed – that you had broken relations with Miss Rowe some time ago. The fact is, this picture was taken in the past ten days or so. We know that for certain. You lied to us and you fooled your wife. Interesting, Mr Clifton.’

  Mickey was aware that one of the waiters was hovering. Geoffrey Clifton waved him away. ‘Maybe I did visit the studio. I could simply have forgotten. But that could have been at any time.’

  ‘No, Mr Clifton, it could not.’ He tapped the photograph. ‘This young man here, his name is Philippe Boilieu, and it seems he only returned to Miss Rowe’s life a matter of days ago. Two weeks at most, perhaps. And he does not look at all pleased with you. Not pleased at all.’

  Geoffrey Clifton glared at him. Mickey was making assumptions here – there had only been reports of Philippe Boilieu turning up in Shoreham in the past weeks, but for all he knew that could simply have been the first time anyone had noticed him. ‘You knew that your wife had hired a detective?’

  ‘I knew. He wasn’t exactly subtle. You have that in common with him.’

  ‘How long have you known?’

  ‘This past year, I suppose. I challenged Lillian and she admitted she had hired him. I was irritated. I made it my business to approach the man and tell him that I knew what he was doing.’

  ‘And his reaction?’

  ‘He told me that he didn’t care. He was being paid to monitor my movements and that’s what he planned to do.’

  ‘But, on this occasion at least, you gave him the slip.’

  Geoffrey Clifton shook his head. ‘He can’t watch me all the time. He’s a one-man band, so far as I know. I think he saw my wife as a cash cow. She was willing to pay him and he was willing to take her money. On that particular day I was evidently not under surveillance.’

  ‘And how often did you drive Miss Rowe to London? Did you take her to Whitechapel?’

  ‘And why would I do that? What would she want there?’

  ‘A pawnbroker’s, perhaps?’

  Emotions chased across Geoffrey Clifton’s face but Mickey could not read them. The man was disturbed, but was that because of what Mickey said or because he was genuinely confused? ‘Anything you’d like to tell me, Mr Clifton?’

  ‘Nothing to tell. So, I kept in contact with Cissie Rowe for longer than I liked my wife to know about. I’m a man, Sergeant. Men are often easily bored. I am genuinely fond of my wife, but I also need variety, if you understand my meaning. Now, as you have completely ruined my evening, I’d ask that you leave.’

  Mickey retrieved his photograph and slowly got to his feet. ‘Have a think, Mr Clifton. Did Miss Rowe ever talk about this man, Philippe Boilieu? Did you speak to him?’

  ‘Sergeant, until you showed me that photograph, I didn’t even know the man existed,’ Geoffrey Clifton said.

  Henry had wandered back down to the crime scene to speak with the constables on duty. Their colleagues on the footbridge and positioned on the main road had kept Bungalow Town largely clear of the press and the police officers on watch outside Cissie’s bungalow had endured a boring if peaceful day.

  Henry wandered on. This was a curious place, he thought. A small community, strangely isolated and somewhat insular, despite being only a half mile from the town centre, just across the river.

  Conversing with the residents, he heard about the tennis club and Arthur’s, a club on Ferry Road where residents met to drink and chat and sometimes to dance. Regular ‘shilling hops’ were held at the church hall and there was even a school, just for the smallest children, presided over by Mrs Baker, who lived at La Marguerite. This short and narrow slither of land was an extraordinary spot. A village, Henry thought, filled, it was true, with performers and those involved in the technical craft of film, but linked also to the wider community. He had been talking to the Maples and the Lakers and the Pages, who fished the Adur and the coastal waters with seine nets, rowing out in groups of two or four rowing boats. The tradesmen too, like the Patchings, who sold paraffin and candles and cleaning materials from their cart, and of course the Bungalow Stores which provided for daily needs.

  Even actors needed their tea and their milk and their potatoes and candles.

  His walk had brought him to Jimmy Cottee’s little home. It was getting dark now and most of the bungalows glowed as lamplight shone out through uncurtained windows or was filtered through muslin and chintz drapes. Jimmy Cottee’s home was distressingly dark. Automatically, Henry checked the padlock and was satisfied that it had not been tampered with.

  A small movement caused him to turn. Henry frowned; he was certain that he’d seen something stir between the bungalows.

  ‘Who’s there?’ he called out. It was probably nothing, probably just someone out for an evening stroll, but he felt suddenly uneasy. If so, why didn’t they respond?

  Henry turned again, instinctively knowing that he was not alone, but he was too late. The blow fell and so did Henry, hitting the shingle hard.

  TWENTY

  Mickey waited until he thought Philippe might have settled for the night and then had him brought up from the cells. He was satisfied to see that the younger man looked tired and confused.

  ‘So, tell me about your relationship with Cissie Rowe,’ Mickey said.

  ‘What is there to tell? We had no relationship. Cécile made it clear that she had done with me. That I no longer mattered to her.’

  ‘And how did that make you feel?’

  ‘How do you think? I was angry, confused. Upset. She had told me that we would always be there for one another. That we would find each other after the war and we would be together.’

  ‘So you knew her before she came to England?’

  Philippe sighed. ‘We grew up together. Cécile was my cousin. I hoped she would one day be my wife.’

  ‘Are cousins allowed to marry?’

  ‘Second cousin, then. Though she called my parents her aunt and uncle. We were related. We were also in love.’

  ‘And you parted when?’

  ‘In 1917, when she was almost seventeen and I was almost twenty-one. Her parents sent her away, hoping to follow, but they were killed. Cécile survived. I came and found her.’

  ‘What took you so long?’ Mickey said bluntly. ‘I understand you have a record. You’ve broken the law both here and in your homeland. Were you in prison, lad? Is that why you failed to turn up until now?’

  Philippe nodded. ‘In part. In part it was because I wanted to come to her and tell her that I had been successful. That I could provide for her in a proper way.’

  ‘And what stopped you? Were you ashamed in case she found out about your record?’

  ‘No, not that.’

  ‘So did you tell her?’

  He shrugged slightly. ‘Not all, no.’

  ‘And why was that? I put it to you, my boy, that you spotted your one time paramour, saw her pictures in the papers and figured you were on to a good thing. Oh, maybe she wasn’t famous yet, but tipped for the top, wasn’t she? One of the few that could transfer easily from the silent cinema to the talkies, isn’t that the way of it? You thought the time was right to … shall we say, re-engage.’

  ‘I didn’t think that way. It wasn’t like that.’

  ‘No? Then what way was it?’

  ‘I loved her. I thought she might still love me.’

  ‘And so you turned up unannounced. And was she happy about that?’

  ‘I believed so. At first.’

  ‘And after that?’

  Philippe turned moist blue eyes on Mickey. The young man was pale and his face showed the strain of weariness and, Mickey thought, grief. ‘I did not touch her, did not harm her. She told me to go and so I did. She told me not to interfere in her life and so I left. There is nothing else to say.’

  Mickey changed tack. ‘Your ro
oms were searched. Films were found. Will we find Cissie Rowe on any of them?’

  Philippe stiffened but said nothing.

  ‘Of course, someone like Miss Rowe starring in one of your two reelers would be a real coup, I suppose. I can imagine that would be something to feed your profits. Did you ask her and she refuse? Is that why you quarrelled? Is that why you killed her?’

  ‘I didn’t kill her. I could never do that. Never!’ Philippe slammed his hands down hard upon the wooden table. Mickey didn’t flinch.

  ‘No use doing that, my lad. Losing your rag with me will get you nowhere. Truth might do better.’

  Philippe said nothing.

  ‘What did you argue about? Was it because she rejected you? Because she no longer loved you? Or was it because she despised what you’d become, eh, boy?’

  ‘What I’d become?’ he laughed uneasily.

  Mickey, sensing that he was on to something, regarded the young man more closely. Philippe was handsome, he supposed, but in a rather coarse way, as though age had already added fleshiness that in five or ten years’ time would run to flab. His eyes were very blue and his hair, previously brushed back from a central parting but now falling untidily across his forehead, was thick and dark, though now Mickey looked more closely it looked as though it might have had a little assistance to remain that way.

  ‘And what had she become?’ Mickey asked. It was a shot in the dark but he saw the change in expression and realized that he might actually have scored a point. ‘Did you disapprove of her profession? Ironic, considering where most of your earnings come from. No, that’s not it, is it? It’s something more.’ He leaned across the table and stared hard. ‘Look me in the face, lad, and tell me she wasn’t selling herself.’

  Philippe was on his feet. He launched himself across the table and grabbed at Sergeant Hitchens, then found himself lying on his back a moment later with Mickey’s fist curled tight around his own.

  ‘Now, now, my boy. We don’t have that here.’ Mickey squeezed gently and twisted the wrist until Philippe squealed in pain.