Death Scene Page 19

  The door to the interview room opened and a constable poked his head around. He eyed Philippe with professional interest and then looked at Mickey.

  ‘I need a word, Sergeant. Urgently. It’s about Inspector Johnstone.’

  Moments later Mickey was racing out of Scotland Yard to where a car waited to take him to Shoreham. Henry had been found unconscious on the beach, blood pouring from a head wound. A search for the assailant was now on but no one knew how long Henry had been out cold. His attacker could be long gone.

  TWENTY-ONE

  By dawn, Cynthia had taken charge. Henry had been installed in his usual room and a nurse had been hired and was in residence. Mickey didn’t quite know how she’d managed that but supposed that it was one of the advantages of money. Just then he was very glad that someone had that advantage and that Henry appeared to be doing well.

  The blow had been hard. He’d required stitches and the doctor had been concerned about swelling on the brain. But Henry had shown signs of regaining consciousness just after midnight and of recognizing his surroundings a little after that.

  Mickey now sat on one side of the bed, the nurse on the other, both watching the man with his head swathed in what Mickey thought must be too much bandage.

  Henry slept, but it was a more natural sleep now and Cynthia was satisfied enough to have gone off to bathe and change before the children woke.

  ‘What the blazes was he doing there?’ Mickey had demanded. The constables on duty outside Cissie’s bungalow had become concerned that the inspector had not returned. One had gone to investigate and the other had soon been summoned by three urgent blasts on the whistle.

  That had been a little after ten p.m. and Henry had spoken to them just before nine.

  He had been carried to the nearest bungalow and a doctor summoned. Word had been carried to the police station and they had contacted Scotland Yard. Mickey’s interrogation had been interrupted by the news.

  He had then left instructions for Cynthia to be informed, and had chafed and fretted all the way to Shoreham, arriving to find that Cynthia, as usual, had everything under control.

  No one knew exactly why Henry had chosen to walk down to Jimmy Cottee’s railway carriage but Mickey, used to Henry’s habits, guessed that he had something on his mind and simply walking the ground helped to focus his thoughts.

  What was certain was that after Henry had been knocked unconscious, the lock on the carriage door had been cut through. When the constables arrived, the door had been open wide.

  Mickey’s head nodded and his eyes closed. He jerked himself upright in the chair and glared at the nurse as though his fatigue was her fault. Now that he knew Henry would be all right, he was finding it hard to fight sleep.

  The bedroom door opened and Cynthia, scrubbed and changed, came in with a tray of tea and crumpets. She set them down beside the nurse.

  ‘Cook and the kitchen staff aren’t properly up yet. I’ll get them to bring up a proper breakfast later, but this should hold you for a while.’

  She came round to Mickey’s side of the bed and laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘Go and get some sleep,’ she said. ‘He’ll need to talk when he wakes up and no one but you will do, you know that.’

  Mickey nodded gratefully and took himself off to his usual room. Cynthia settled in his chair and took Henry’s hand.

  Constable Prentice had been examining the list that had been found in Cissie Rowe’s bungalow and comparing the brief descriptions of the jewellery to local lists of stolen property. He’d had something of a breakthrough.

  Seven of the ten items on the list tallied with items known to have been stolen in local burglaries though what they had taken to be initial letters set beside them didn’t tally with anything Prentice could so far discern.

  Prentice was excited by his discovery and when Mickey awoke, after a few hours’ sleep, it was to a telegram giving him the news.

  He checked on Henry and then telephoned Shoreham to congratulate the young constable.

  ‘There has been a series of burglaries, sir,’ Prentice told Mickey. ‘I’ve arranged for a messenger to bring the details to you in Worthing so you can look them over. But seven items, sir. That means something, doesn’t it?’

  Mickey agreed that it did indeed.

  ‘And in every case the occupants were at home. One of them was hit over the head with a blackjack, sir. We know that because the assailant must have dropped it. We found it at the scene.’

  ‘That’s interesting, lad,’ Mickey said. ‘I look forward to reading the case notes.’

  Prentice asked about Inspector Johnstone and was told that he was recovering.

  ‘We’ve got every available man down on the beach,’ he assured Mickey. ‘We’ll find who did this, I promise you.’

  That’s usually my line, Mickey thought. It seemed odd for this mere boy to be reassuring him in this way. Odd, and more than a little discomforting.

  Mickey had just finished his call when another telegram arrived, informing him that there had been an early morning raid on the pawnbroker’s shop.

  Mickey was left with the feeling that things were at last beginning to move.

  Cynthia appeared at the top of the stairs. ‘He’s fully awake,’ she said. ‘And grumpy and asking where you are.’

  ‘I didn’t realize he even knew I was here.’

  Cynthia laughed. ‘Of course he knew. Are you hungry? I’ll bring you a tray. I don’t know about you, but anxiety makes me absolutely ravenous.’

  Henry was propped up against a bank of pillows. His face was almost as pale as the bandage around his head but his eyes were alert and his expression irritable. The blond curls, above the bandage, were tangled and matted with blood. Mickey caught his breath. To have survived all they had during the war and now to be attacked on a beach here in England seemed ridiculous. Both he and Henry had been wounded in the line of duty – both police duty and in France – but that made this attack no easier to take.

  ‘So, what’s going on that I should know about?’ Henry Johnstone said.

  After lunch the reports arrived from Shoreham and Henry insisted on working through them with Mickey. Despite his insistence that he was fine, he kept drifting off to sleep. Mickey sat at the bedside reading through the files and bringing his boss up to speed each time he woke.

  There had been seven burglaries in as many months. Each had taken place between two and four a.m. and the locations had all been fairly remote, outside the closest village by several miles. In one case the dogs had been poisoned and in another a manservant who had been woken by a slight noise had been hit over the head and severely concussed. That was the case in which the blackjack had been left behind.

  ‘And what was taken?’ Henry wanted to know. ‘Mainly jewellery?’

  ‘No, the jewellery seems to have been an afterthought. In each case the main target was the safe. Money and bonds were taken in four of the robberies, cash and sovereigns in the others. It’s been theorized that the houses were targeted when the occupants were home both because there was more likely to be cash on the premises at that time and because, had the criminal failed to crack the safe, there would be someone in residence who could be threatened or coerced into opening it for them. If that is indeed the case, then it must have been seen as a last resort.’

  ‘It sounds like a viable theory.’ Henry nodded. ‘It also speaks of confidence and experience and of a more than competent cracksman, if they had no need of their fallback.’

  ‘Which narrows our field. And definitely brings Josiah Bailey and his associates into the frame.’

  ‘Josiah Bailey?’ This was new to Henry.

  ‘The pawnbroker that Cissie seems to have used has done a flit. Word is that he’s in trouble with Bailey for taking too much off the top.’

  ‘Then he’d better hope we find him first. Bailey is a brute of a man. Grieves is a fool if he thought he could get away with cheating him.’

  ‘And he’s known for planning m
eticulously and for employing the best when it comes to safe cracking. And for never being present when a job goes down. Keeps his distance, does Bailey.’

  ‘And the jewellery on the list. How does that fit in?’

  ‘Well, in every case it was out in full view. A piece taken off and dropped into a pin tray. A bracelet left on a dressing table. A brooch pinned to a coat hanging on a hall stand. Small, opportunistic thefts.’

  ‘Always jewellery?’

  ‘No, there’s the odd pill box or table lighter or cigarette case, all small and portable and readily fenceable items.’

  ‘And what we thought were initials on the list?’

  ‘Nothing that I can make a connection to. They are most certainly not the names of the householders nor the names of the houses, nor even the villages closest to the scene.’

  ‘So we need to think again. Cissie Rowe wrote that list, hid that list, considered it important. She listed items of jewellery. She added those initials or whatever they are. And, if we are right, someone went to great lengths to try and find it.’

  ‘She wasn’t tortured, not like Jimmy Cottee,’ Mickey objected. ‘She was murdered, but there’s no evidence that anyone tried to elicit information from her. Again, not like Jimmy Cottee.’

  ‘No.’ Henry lay back against the pillows and closed his eyes. ‘No, you’re right, Mickey. No one did that. Perhaps no one knew that she had kept the list.’

  ‘Why did she? How was she involved? If the assumption is true that she had possession of this jewellery, that she used the pawnbroker, Ted Grieves, to fence it, then who handed it over to her? And why? How did she make that connection?’

  ‘And did they know she wore it first? That was a risky strategy on her part, on two counts. Someone might have recognized the piece or the individual who handed it over, trusted her as his courier, might have feared exposure. It seems to me that she played a dangerous game.’

  Mickey nodded. ‘A thought strikes me,’ he said. He told Henry about his interrogation of Philippe Boilieu. ‘I probed and prodded about what Cissie Rowe might have become, in his eyes, and came close to getting thumped for my trouble. What if he knew about this? What if he knew that she had these, for want of a better way of phrasing it, underworld contacts? What if he knew who they were?’

  ‘We should ask him,’ Henry said.

  ‘I should ask him. Now I know you’re not at death’s door, I’ll take myself back up to London and put the question. You’ll be staying here.’

  Henry grimaced. ‘I keep returning to the first thoughts we had,’ he said. ‘When we first viewed the body of Miss Rowe we concluded that this was a local crime. That the perpetrator had the opportunity to watch her and assess her habits. To see that she was alone, take the opportunity. But the person was also afraid that any blood on their clothing would be seen and have to be explained.’

  ‘And you believe the same of whoever struck you down? I don’t see how it can be otherwise. If they left the scene, they would have passed the constables on the footbridge or on the road.’

  ‘They could have kept close to the river, passed under the bridge.’

  ‘That is also true. And also speaks of local knowledge. To get away from the scene, free and clear, they must know the coastline intimately. Unless, of course, they never left Bungalow Town.’

  ‘Unless they simply went home.’

  ‘And if they did, then we are reliant on a wife, a mother, a brother telling us that they were absent.’

  ‘Mickey, what do we know about the Owenses?’

  ‘Very little. What are you thinking?’

  ‘That we should check more deeply into their background, and the same for any others living on the beach that Cissie counted as particular friends.’

  ‘And why did she keep those two pawn tickets? How did this scheme work? She took the item to Grieves, he gave her a ticket, just for the show of things – or perhaps she had to hand this on as proof that she had completed her task. Was she given money in exchange for the item or was she expected to give the item over for it to be sold on later?’

  ‘Who received the money?’ Henry wondered.

  ‘And did whoever organized the gang know that someone took a little extra on the side? These items were small and random. It’s a reasonable bet that such houses as they targeted were filled with such small, transportable items and yet few were taken.’

  ‘Cash and bonds need no special arrangements for disposal. There need be no fence, no middle man, no loss of profit when the goods are traded.’

  ‘Someone took these items on their own account,’ Mickey decided. ‘Small items, passed to Miss Rowe, taken to the pawnbroker’s when she had the chance or reason to visit London.’

  ‘Opportunity often provided by Mr Clifton.’

  ‘She received the money, perhaps, or at least the ticket. It might be that some kind of notification was sent once Grieves had made the disposal and had the cash in hand.’

  Henry nodded. ‘And someone now wants the remaining tickets. They guessed she might have hidden them in her bungalow or in Jimmy Cottee’s railway carriage.’

  ‘But we’ve now chased this full circle, Henry. Miss Rowe was murdered but there seems to have been no attempt to torture, to coerce, to obtain information of any kind. Whereas Jimmy Cottee received a very different treatment before he died. That, my friend, does not add up.’

  ‘Different reasons for their deaths? Is that possible? Of course it is, but what?’

  Henry closed his eyes and it was obvious to Mickey that he needed rest.

  ‘I’ll get the next train back,’ he said. ‘And don’t worry, you’ll be kept informed. Now rest that brain of yours and allow yourself to be cared for, today at least. And if you must puzzle over something, think what those initials might mean, if they mean anything at all.’

  When Mickey had left, Henry tried to sleep but his mind was too active and sleep would not come. The nurse, returning to check on him, offered a sleeping draft but Henry declined. He wanted his journal and eventually she found it for him. Cynthia looked in to see if he wanted to eat and Henry agreed to tea and a sandwich just to please her. He felt nauseous but didn’t want to tell her that and when he tried to read the words swam and then fluttered before his eyes.

  He managed to drink his tea and ate a little of his sandwich and then eventually he slept for a time. His dreams were of running, of chasing a man from light to shadow and then to light again and eventually into the sea. Henry felt the sea rising, to his ankles, then his knees and then his chest. He woke with a start and, to his shame, a small cry. He lay still for a moment until the panic and the sickness passed and then he struggled to swing his legs over the side of the bed and stand up.

  Unsteadily he made his way to the bathroom, grateful beyond words that in his sister’s house guests had their own en suite. He splashed cold water on his face and gazed at his reflection in the mirror. He’d fallen hard, his face was bruised and swollen and he had a shiner of a black eye.

  Who had hit him? Had they intended to kill or just to disable? Mickey had told him that the lock had been cut on Jimmy Cottee’s door. Did they know what to look for, once they’d got inside? Did they now know that it was gone?

  He returned to his bed and found that he was finally hungry. He managed to eat the rest of his sandwich and drank some water from the carafe on the bedside table. Then he took up his journal once again. Henry wrote,

  What do I recall about Josiah Bailey?

  I first encountered the man a dozen years ago when he was brought in for suspected arson and manslaughter. It took four officers to drag him through the doors and three burly constables to get him into his cell and the man, I recall, was grinning to himself the whole damned time.

  He swore he’d be out by teatime and, of course, he was. Three people came forward to provide him with an alibi and I’ve no doubt he’d have had a dozen more lined up if the first three failed.

  Even when we’ve got a conviction he’s conti
nued as though the cell door never closed and the walls were paper. If he’s at the back of this then we’ll need to go a roundabout way to bring him down. Take a direct route and Bailey blocks your way faster than you can plan it.

  TWENTY-TWO

  The police raid on the pawnbroker’s shop had attracted a great deal of local attention and also interest from the press. By the time Mickey arrived, having been driven straight there from the station, it was mid-afternoon and the press corps was still very much in evidence.

  There was even a newsreel camera and Mickey was reminded of what Fred Owens had told him about cameramen being routinely sent out almost on a roaming brief, to record anything of potential use. He wondered if the newsreel employees were given the same instructions.

  This area close to Brick Lane market was poor – one of the few things the people there had in common, Mickey thought. The ethnic mix was Jewish, Russian and increasingly French and Belgian refugees who had never quite made it home. Mickey listened to the languages and the accents and the whispered gossip as he worked his way through the crowd. He had asked his driver to drop him off at the end of the street, seeking not to attract attention to himself. Sergeant Mickey Hitchens was a well-known figure.

  He thought about Philippe Boilieu, pornographer and sometime blackmailer. He wondered if he was also a pander. During the war and in the years following there had been a dramatic influx of French and Belgian girls, many of them fleeing the fighting, traumatized and alone, coerced into service in the sex trade. Their numbers had fallen in recent years but were still of concern to the police. War makes victims of us all one way or another, Mickey thought.

  He caught the eye of one of the constables manning the barricade around the pawn shop and held up his warrant card. The constable waved him through and Mickey headed into the shop, aware that his arrival had sparked interest among those who recognized him. Mickey Hitchens of the murder squad, showing up at a raid on a pawnbroker’s.

  Camera shutters clicked almost in unison.