The Saint Valentine's Day Murders (19 page)

‘No. But I’ve talked to him on the phone. He seems to be getting on OK. I’m taking Rachel down to meet him at the weekend. We can have an evening in the pub. I feel it’s the least I can do… Well, unless you’ve anything else to report, I’ll be off to bed.’

‘You might be interested in what I’ve been talking over with Pooley. He believes that we should be taking action on two new fronts. One is to go into the past lives of all the suspects in case we come up with a trace of any abnormal behaviour. The other is that since we’ve drawn a blank at home we should be looking to places abroad for a source of supply.’

‘But they never go abroad.’

‘Certainly only Henry admits to any recent travel. He hated the dagoes, you’ll be surprised to learn. Thought the women disappointing, the food fit only for natives, and objected to their jabbering in a foreign language.’

‘In Majorca? I didn’t know they had any Spaniards left.’

‘Too many for Henry. I suggested Gibraltar next time, but he said he’s never setting foot outside his own country again. Anyway, to please Pooley, I’m going to check on whether any of the others have passports. He’s preoccupied with the mechanism for getting false ones spelled out so helpfully in
The Day of the Jackal
. This led him to propose that if any of the suspects denied having a passport, we should check his photograph and physical characteristics against those on application forms of the last two years. Then we should follow up any apparent resemblances and find out if the applicant actually existed.’

‘That would certainly keep you out of mischief for a while.’

‘It would probably keep the whole of the Met out of mischief for weeks. Can you imagine how many Illingworth look-alikes we’d find? No. It’s an attactive theory, but I’d never get authorization.’

‘What about the past lives idea?’

‘Same problem. It would take weeks and would involve sending teams around the country asking how they all performed at infant school. And we’d almost certainly be no better off at the end. But I did take up his idea of checking on their National Service backgrounds. Maybe one of them got a dishonourable discharge for some nasty offence that didn’t warrant a criminal charge. We’re clutching at straws, but I’m in the frame of mind to do just that.’

‘Pooley seems a bright fellow.’

‘Very. You’ll be amused to hear that he’s an ex-civil servant. He went into the Home Office straight from university, full of reforming zeal. Left after two years and came in on our graduate entrant scheme. I hope he doesn’t give up through frustration.’

Amiss lit another cigarette. ‘Jim,’ he said. ‘If he survived two years of the Home Office he’s a better man than I am. Let me tell you the story of the one time I had any dealings with them…’

Thursday, 24 February

‘I doubt if he’d be prepared to swear to it, sir.’

‘I don’t want him to. It’s enough for me that he considers it a probability.’

‘Oh, he certainly does, sir. He told the sergeant the incident stuck in his mind because the customer bought so much sneezing powder. And he seemed so nervous and out-of-place. Not at all typical of the usual clientele. He might well be able to confirm his identification if we held a parade.’

‘No thanks, Trueman. I’ve got enough with this, unless Illingworth has more nerve than I give him credit for.’

‘Good luck, sir.’

‘Thanks.’

Trueman turned to leave and Milton called after him. ‘Will you ask Romford to have Pooley ready with the car at seven? And tell him not to make any appointment with Illingworth. I’d prefer to turn up on his doorstep without any advance warning.’

26

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That the night was relatively mild was a considerable relief to DC Ollie Richmond of the Essex force. He had already sat for three nights on the trot and for hours on end in an unmarked saloon car fifty yards from Henry’s house. The change in the weather at least meant that he was not now in actual discomfort. But he’d only been on the job an hour and the best part of the night stretched before him.

Around eight o’clock he was reflecting bitterly yet again on a recent advertising campaign for police recruits. ‘ “DULL IT ISN’T” my arse,’ he muttered to himself. Pounding the bloody beat in the middle of the night was boring enough, but there was always the chance of a drunk or a villain to keep you on your toes. It had been heaven compared to this job. It would have been all right if he’d been allowed to do a bit of reading in the car, but the inspector wouldn’t hear of it. He mimicked his high-pitched peevish tone to himself. ‘I never heard of such an idea, Richmond. Are you anxious to make yourself visible to the whole neighbourhood? Really! I am horrified. Horrified!’

Bloody old woman. This fucking neighbourhood was dead. Stone dead! What was it that killed people and left buildings standing? Neutron bomb, that was it. Maybe they’d let one off without telling him. Might account for the change in the weather, too.

What about this old Crump geezer then? He’d only seen him once when he was sent to lurk early on the first evening. Fat old slob in a grey tweed coat climbing up the hill with a plastic carrier bag, packet of cornflakes sticking out the top. He didn’t look like a cool callous poisoner. Didn’t look like anything really except a tired old man. Must be fifty-five at least, thought Richmond, who was twenty-three and still believed life ended at forty. He began to feel pity for this decrepit object of police attention. It’s not fair, he thought. All the poor old bugger does is sit at home all evening – watching the telly, I suppose – and off he goes to bed at ten or eleven o’clock. He’s probably very upset about his wife. He shouldn’t be spied on like this.

Richmond was beginning to work himself up into a state of righteous indignation when he saw the front gate of the victim’s garden open and a portly figure step briskly into the street. He wheeled to the right and strode off downhill. Richmond scrambled out of his car, locked it and set off in pursuit. He’s probably just out for a constitutional, he thought. He was happy with that prospect himself.

Ten minutes later he realized that Henry was almost certainly heading for the railway station. Richmond checked his watch and tried to remember the train times he had studied on the inspector’s instructions. The only train due during the next quarter of an hour was the 8:35 to Liverpool Street. That was the wrong direction for this to be a family visit. Maybe he was going to call on some old friend up the line? Shit, thought Richmond, all I need is to have to stand outside someone’s house for two or three hours. It’s not only colder than sitting in the car, it’s fraught with the danger of being spotted. He wouldn’t get much sympathy from the inspector if that happened. He imagined the reaction: ‘Slipshod! Slipshod, Richmond. I will not tolerate my men being slipshod in their work.’

Henry turned into the station and Richmond followed cautiously. When he saw him safely through the barrier, he quickly purchased a return ticket to London. He was pleased that he timed his entry on to the down platform to coincide with Henry’s absence from view as he crossed the covered bridge that led to the up platform. Richmond shot over to the bridge and waited out of sight at the opposite end until he heard the train pulling in. Peering cautiously around the edge he saw the now familiar form climbing into a carriage half-way along. Richmond catapulted himself from his cover and managed to leap into the adjacent carriage just as the train began to move. He wiped his brow. Dull it isn’t, he thought as he sank back into his seat. This is bloody nerve-wracking.

He was grateful to fate for making him the solitary occupant, for he could check on whether Henry was alighting only by peering out the window at each station. It was a relief when they got to Liverpool Street and he saw his quarry again. All the way up the platform, through the barrier and across the concourse, Richmond prayed that he would not be faced with a taxi pursuit. He had never had to do one yet, but he had heard too many stories for comfort about mocking drivers, changing traffic lights and stranded detectives. He let out a sigh of relief when he saw that Henry was headed for the tube. Then he began to fret. What if the old bastard uses a season ticket? He could get out of reach while Richmond was queueing at the ticket-office. Then he remembered that he had automatically equipped himself with plenty of change to meet such emergencies. But suppose the machines were out of order? That often happened.

He was beginning to sweat again as he followed Henry towards the Central Line. When he came level with the boxes, Richmond jammed two fifty-pence pieces into the £1 machine, grabbed his ticket and speeded up until he could see Henry now proceeding rhythmically down the escalator. But would a £1 ticket be enough? What would he do if they ended up at one of those stations where the London Transport busy-bodies had set up excess fare offices? Could he flash his warrant card at the collector?

Listen, he said firmly to himself. Just get on with it and worry about the problems as they come up. He focused his attention on Henry’s disappearing bald patch and narrowed the gap between them to ten yards. He’s going west, he thought. That means probably into the West End. I hope he’s off to the pictures. I couldn’t half fancy a couple of hours at a decent movie for a change.

Richmond managed to get into the tube unseen without any difficulty. Looking sideways through the window between his and Henry’s carriage he could see him sitting staring straight in front of him. Just after Holborn, Henry began to rise and Richmond got up and waited by the exit door to alight at Tottenham Court Road. He was grateful that Henry had to turn right for the exit, so sparing him the need to hide until he had passed him by. His luck continued to hold. It became clear that this was Henry’s destination, so there would be none of the aggravations of changing trains and Richmond’s ticket would more than cover the journey.

He emerged from the station only five or six yards behind. There were crowds enough to make him invisible. For the first time in his life he was grateful for being neither tall nor striking-looking. He walked after Henry down Oxford Street and took the first left after him. He looked up at the street name and suddenly realized where they were headed. The dirty old devil, he said to himself. He’s going to Soho, and I bet it’s not for the food.

At that moment he realized that he had almost cannoned into Henry, who had stopped at the end of the street and was surveying Soho Square, his head turning from right to left apparently in search of something. Richmond dodged into a doorway and watched with interest. Henry pulled from his pocket what looked like a street map and bent over it under a street lamp. Then he slammed it shut in a purposeful way and turned left. Richmond followed him around two sides of the square and then into Greek Street. He speculated busily on where they would end up.

The next half hour was one of the worst of Richmond’s life. Had he not had his watch he would have claimed that he spent two hours trailing Henry through the crowds and the web of narrow little streets – almost losing him several times. Henry, he realized, had not a clue about Soho. He wandered aimlessly and kept stopping to feast his eyes on photographs of huge mammaries. Occasionally he would allow himself to be engaged in conversation by a pimp or a club doorman, but then he would abruptly dart away until he came to the next arresting set of pictures. Richmond was almost faint from tension when Henry at last stopped dead in front of a cinema and marched inside.

Richmond hastily looked at the poster display and realized that there were three separate films on show. Through the glass doors he could see that Henry was at the box office. He waited till he disappeared from view and then entered.

‘The gentleman who just bought a ticket from you is a friend of mine,’ he said to the unsavoury olive-skinned youth dispensing tickets. ‘I’ll join him. Which film did he choose?’

‘
Submissive Virgins
,’ said the youth in a bored voice. ‘That’ll be five quid.’

Richmond blushed to the roots of his hair, shoved his money through the aperture and set off in search of Henry.

An hour and a half later, feeling he had had enough erotic stimuli to last him the rest of his life, he left the cinema, wondering how Henry was proposing to get home. The silly old sod had made them both miss the last train, and it would be a hell of a job for either of them to persuade a black cab to take them such a distance. He was feeling hungry, thirsty and cross. Then he realized that Henry was showing no interest in taxis. He was conducting negotiations with a doorman touting for customers for what purported to be ‘An all-nite extravaganza of sexy strippers and friendly hostesses’. Henry was apparently satisfied with their chat and duly vanished inside.

Richmond gave him five minutes to settle, paid the exorbitant membership fee and was ushered into a small room furnished with candle-lit tables for two and red plush chairs. At the far end was a small dais, presumably for the sexy strippers. Even to someone as unsophisticated as Richmond, the predictable tawdriness was evident. He sighted Henry at a table commanding an excellent view of the stage and chose for himself an unpopular table at the back. Henry was already being tended by a friendly hostess. Richmond decided to stay on his own and drink beer.

He was approached within moments by a girl of about his own age who offered to keep him company. Richmond explained his wish for solitude.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said sweetly. ‘I’m afraid it is a club rule that gentlemen should be accompanied by a lady. If you’d prefer to be with one of the other girls, that would be quite all right.’

He looked at her and then at the row of smiling women sitting at the back. Like them, she was wearing a low-cut dress and was made-up and coiffed more elaborately than he would have wished. But rules were rules, and she had a nice smile.

‘Please join me,’ he said, with as much enthusiasm as he could muster. ‘Would you like a drink?’