An Empty Death (48 page)
Authors: Laura Wilson
Wait. He’d pinched the morphine before the business with Mrs Parker, hadn’t he? That was going to be more difficult to get out of. ‘You see, Inspector, I just pocketed them. Absent-mindedness, I suppose. And, as I believe I told you, I was rather distracted by Nurse Marchant, not to mention the business with the torsion - that was why I’d gone upstairs in the first place, because Mr Hambling wanted to see me about it.’ Mention of the torsion, he thought, had worked so well before - Stratton had practically turned green before his eyes - that it was bound to forestall further questions. Given the seriousness of the matter, Stratton would undoubtedly ask why Dacre hadn’t mentioned all this when asked before. What should he say? ‘Well, Inspector, as I said, I’d used some of it by that time’ - here, the cracked ribs would come into play - ‘and I was rather . . . I am sorry, Inspector. I know that it’s a serious matter. When I realised that Nurse Marchant might get into trouble, I was horrified, because really, this is entirely my fault . . .’ The plausibility of this, thought Dacre, would rely far more on the way it was said than the substance. He practised again, mouthing the words to himself, trying out different hesitations to give a convincing demonstration of charming muddle-headedness, as he crossed Regent Street and turned down Burlington Street towards Savile Row.
By the time he opened the door to West End Central, he was feeling exhilarated by the challenge ahead. He couldn’t alibi Fay for the night of Byrne’s death, but if he admitted taking the morphine, surely the fact that Stratton had bumped into her in the mortuary corridor that night would pale into insignificance? As for Reynolds, there wasn’t anything he could do about that, because he (or, rather, Dacre) hadn’t been working at the Middlesex at the time . . . Unless she’d been somewhere with Reynolds on the night of his death, before . . . Dacre shuddered. He didn’t want to think about that. It was a miracle that no-one had seen him, because then he’d have had some explaining to do.
He’d rescue Fay, and she’d be grateful. Of course she would. He’d apologise to her, over as nice a dinner as could be got, for not owning up before, and he’d say he really hadn’t dreamt she’d be in such trouble, and she (from relief as much as anything) would be bound to forgive him immediately.
An ancient policeman with a pendulous lower lip, who surely would have been retired but for the war, stood behind the desk. Approaching, Dacre caught a whiff of rancid hair oil, and, coming closer, took in the man’s ponderous air and dull eyes, the whites of which were an eggy yellow. ‘I’ve come to enquire after a Miss Fay Marchant,’ he said. ‘Is she here?’
‘Why would you want to know that, sir?’
‘I’d like to speak to the policeman who brought her in - Detective Inspector Stratton. It’s a matter of some importance.’
‘DI Stratton has left, sir. If you wish to speak to him, I suggest you come back tomorrow.’
‘Might I speak to Miss Marchant?’
‘I’m afraid not, sir.’
‘But she is here, is she?’
‘Are you a close relative, sir?’
Dacre almost said yes, but realised that this lie would seem horribly suspicious to Stratton, who would undoubtedly hear of it. ‘No,’ he said.
‘Then I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say, sir.’
Stupid old fool, thought Dacre, you’ve as good as told me she is here. That must mean, he told himself, as he thanked the desk sergeant and left the station, that they’re planning to charge her with something in the morning.
He wasn’t going to let that happen. He needed to go somewhere and think. Retracing his steps in the direction of the hospital, he went into the Black Horse. If the friendly barmaid was on duty, she’d see he got a drink - or several.
She was on duty. Four brandies down, he felt his mind begin to clear. All of this was Stratton’s fault. Why couldn’t he just leave things alone? What he, Dacre, had, was too precious not to be fought for. All his life, he’d been working towards this, and now some bloody flatfoot was trying to take it all away - take Fay from him, maybe even take Dacre, and leave him with nothing. Worse than before, because now he’d had a taste of how his life ought to be. And the thought of Fay in some filthy cell, surrounded by prostitutes and God knows who else, made him furious. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. It wasn’t right, or fair. Nobody ever gave him anything - all they did was try to take it away. Well, he wouldn’t have it. He’d fight for it . . . More than fight, if he had to. He’d done it before, hadn’t he? Well, then. He’d damn well do it again.
He necked the remains of his fourth drink, slammed the glass onto the table and rose unsteadily, heading away from the smoke, noise and sweat into the fresher air of the street. I know where you live, you bastard.
Walking mechanically, his body deadened by the fug of brandy in his brain, he set off towards the bus stop. I’ll fix you, you wait.
Fifty-Eight
W
ith a heavy heart, Stratton left Fay to the mercies of Cudlipp and Policewoman Harris. It was his own fault - he’d been an idiot to tell her that she’d only have to make a statement. Fay clearly felt betrayed, and he couldn’t blame her. The fact that she’d accepted it all, and allowed herself to be led away by Miss Harris without fuss just made it worse. He stood in the lobby of West End Central, rubbing his eyes in a futile attempt to erase the image of her reproachful face, and decided that it was time to call it a day before he cocked up anything else - not that home was much of a prospect with that bloody woman mooning about the place. He’d said goodnight to the desk sergeant and had just walked out of the door when Ballard appeared on the steps, breathless and waving a piece of paper.
ith a heavy heart, Stratton left Fay to the mercies of Cudlipp and Policewoman Harris. It was his own fault - he’d been an idiot to tell her that she’d only have to make a statement. Fay clearly felt betrayed, and he couldn’t blame her. The fact that she’d accepted it all, and allowed herself to be led away by Miss Harris without fuss just made it worse. He stood in the lobby of West End Central, rubbing his eyes in a futile attempt to erase the image of her reproachful face, and decided that it was time to call it a day before he cocked up anything else - not that home was much of a prospect with that bloody woman mooning about the place. He’d said goodnight to the desk sergeant and had just walked out of the door when Ballard appeared on the steps, breathless and waving a piece of paper.
‘Thank goodness I’ve caught you, sir. It’s about Dacre. I managed to get hold of someone at St Andrews. A James Walter Dacre did train there, and he graduated in 1938, but’ - Ballard’s eyes gleamed with excitement - ‘he died in thirty-nine. Car smash, sir.’
‘So our man,’ concluded Stratton, ‘must have taken his identity. But those certificates looked genuine enough.’
‘He might have stolen them, sir. The St Andrews people gave me the next-of-kin: his mother, Mrs Beatrice Dacre, of 16, Bucking-ham Gardens, Norbury, SW.’
‘We’ll see her tomorrow,’ said Stratton. ‘Let’s just hope she’s still there. Right now, we’d better get round to the hospital and see if we can find the man himself. Come on.’
At the Middlesex, an irritable and exhausted Dr Ransome told them that Dacre had left for the day. They trooped back outside, and Stratton consulted his notebook. ‘According to the hospital’s records, he lives in Eversholt Street, by Euston Station. We’d better go and see. Too late to do anything about a warrant to search his rooms, but we might be able to find him. I’m beginning to think,’ he added, ‘that it’s just as well Fay Marchant is in custody. At least she’s safely out of his clutches.’
‘Quite, sir.’ As they began walking towards the Euston Road, Ballard added, ‘Bit run-down for a doctor, sir. You’d think he’d live somewhere smarter.’
‘Except that he probably isn’t a doctor.’
‘That’s true, sir, but all the same . . .’
Stratton knew what the sergeant meant. Eversholt Street was dingy and, even before the war, uncared for, with the anonymous air of transience common to places near large railway stations. The landlady at number 28, Mrs Draper, was a large woman in a low-cut dress, with a three-string necklace of creases round her throat and more at her tightly squeezed cleavage. She ushered them into a dark hallway that smelt of damp and paraffin. Having ascertained that Dacre - or whoever he was - wasn’t currently on the premises, Stratton asked when he had moved into the house. ‘Only a few weeks ago, Inspector. Just before the end of June. Paid a month in advance.’
‘Could you check the exact date, please?’
‘Why? What’s going on? This is a respectable house.’
‘I’m sure it is, Mrs Draper. If you could just consult your book for us. . . ?’
Mrs Draper disappeared down the hallway and returned a moment later carrying a ledger. She licked her finger and grubbed up the corners of pages until she found the right place, then thrust the book under Stratton’s nose. ‘There you are . . . Dr Dacre arrived on the twenty-fifth of June.’
‘Two weeks before he started work at the hospital,’ said Stratton, when they were back on the pavement, heading towards the Euston Road, ‘and two days after Todd left the Middlesex. We’d better go to Kentish Town . . .’ Stratton consulted his notebook. ‘Inkerman Road.’
Inkerman Road turned out to be another dingy street of flat-fronted Victorian terraced houses, many with boarded-up windows. Number 14, although it had retained most of its glass, was decorated by a small wrought-iron first floor balcony slewed at such an extreme angle that it looked as if it might fall off at any moment.
A thickset young tough answered the door. ‘We’re looking for a Mrs Barnard,’ said Stratton.
The man looked them up and down, turned and bellowed, ‘Ma!’ then disappeared.
‘I don’t think he liked us, sir,’ murmured Ballard.
‘Evidently.’
‘What do you want?’ The waistless, bulbous-nosed woman who stood in the doorway, wiping her hands on her overall was, fairly obviously, the man’s mother.
‘Mrs Barnard?’
Taking the grunt which greeted this question as assent, Stratton said, ‘I believe you had a Mr Todd lodging with you until recently.’
‘I already told the other copper about that. He’s not here any more. What’s he done, anyway?’
‘Nothing, so far as we know,’ said Stratton, blandly. ‘When did he leave?’
Mrs Barnard pursed her lips, then said, ‘Ooh . . . somewhere round the middle of June, it was . . . no, I tell a lie - it was the twenty-fifth.’
‘You’re sure about that, are you?’
‘Yes. I remember it because my Jimmy was took bad with his heart. It’s a weakness. The doctors can’t do nothing for it. I was ever so worried - he was laid up for three days.’
‘That was Jimmy who came to the door, was it?’
‘That’s right.’
By the look of Jimmy, thought Stratton, he was more likely to have been laid up by a brawl or a hangover, and milked it for all it was worth. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘he seems to have made a good recovery. Did Mr Todd give a reason for leaving?’
Mrs Barnard thought for a moment, then said, ‘Got a new job, didn’t he? Somewhere north.’
‘You’re sure he hadn’t been called up?’
‘Oh, no. He had a medical exemption certificate, same as my Jimmy. He told me.’
‘Did you ever see the certificate?’
Mrs Barnard looked nonplussed. ‘What would I want to see it for?’
‘Can you show us your son’s certificate, please?’
Mrs Barnard narrowed her eyes. ‘What do you want to see that for? My Jimmy’s a good lad.’
‘I’m sure he is, Mrs Barnard. If you don’t mind . . .’
‘All right,’ she said ungraciously. ‘It’s in his room.’
She returned a couple of minutes later carrying a battered cake tin, with Jimmy lowering behind her. ‘In here.’ She prised open the lid. The tin was empty.
‘Interesting,’ said Stratton, as they headed off. ‘Unless Jimmy Barnard sold his certificate to someone - which I suppose is possible, if unlikely - then I think our friend must have pinched it for his own use. Mind you, we’d better play safe and check that it actually exists.’
‘I’ll do that tomorrow, sir.’
‘Good. Now . . .’ Stratton thought aloud. ‘According to Higgs, Todd was called up. Mrs Barnard has just confirmed that he left here on the same day that the false Dr Dacre moved into Eversholt Street. Quite a coincidence, don’t you think? If Dacre and Todd are one and the same, that means that he was at the Middlesex when not just one, but all of the deaths occurred. Now, I’m not sure there’s any more that we can do tonight, and as Nurse Marchant is in safe hands, I suggest we both cut off home and we’ll see what Mrs Dacre has to say tomorrow morning.’
Stratton looked at his watch. If he went home now, he’d be in time to collect Jenny from the Rest Centre. It would be a gesture of goodwill - she’d like that - and perhaps he could persuade her into the pub for a short while. She wasn’t usually keen, regarding it as a male preserve, but perhaps this time she’d agree, and they could have a bit of a chat away from Mrs Ingram. Try to persuade her that the bloody woman would be better off elsewhere before she drove them all mad. It needn’t be long, and there’d still be time for her to get supper . . . It was a good plan. Things were starting to move on the investigation and now, with luck, they’d get back to normal at home, too. Stratton, suddenly cheerful at the thought of inveigling Jenny into the pub, clapped Ballard on the shoulder and bade him goodnight.
Fifty-Nine
T
he bus ride sobered Dacre, not to the extent of diverting him from his chosen course, but enough to make him realise that he had no actual plan for what to do when he arrived at Stratton’s house. Stepping down from the platform he stood for a moment, uncertain, in Tottenham High Street. The people passing, heads down, jostled him. It’s all right for you, he thought, glaring after them. You’ve got your lives, your women. No-one’s trying to take them from you.
he bus ride sobered Dacre, not to the extent of diverting him from his chosen course, but enough to make him realise that he had no actual plan for what to do when he arrived at Stratton’s house. Stepping down from the platform he stood for a moment, uncertain, in Tottenham High Street. The people passing, heads down, jostled him. It’s all right for you, he thought, glaring after them. You’ve got your lives, your women. No-one’s trying to take them from you.
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