Dance of Death (5 page)

‘What’s wrong with that?’ he repeated, voice rising dangerously.

‘Nothing,’ said Ellen, ‘nothing at all.’

‘Yes, there is. You’re holding something back. What is it?’

‘Forget that I spoke.’

‘You want to
stop
her coming, don’t you?’

‘No, I don’t.’

‘Yes, you do,’ he went on, stopping in his tracks and pointing an accusatory finger. ‘I’m old enough to make my own decisions. I want to see Mavis and nobody’s going to stop me so you can mind your own bloody business!’

‘Paul!’

Pushing his mother away, he lurched off down the street. Fuelled by anger and forgetting how limited his eyesight was, he blundered on until his shoulder collided with a lamp post. Ellen winced as a stream of expletives poured out of him.

The ride back to Chingford was conducted in silence. Stunned by what they’d seen at the morgue, both women were lost in thought. They were seated in the rear of the car while Keedy occupied the front passenger seat. When they got to the house, however, he had to speak. He waited until all three of them entered the living room.

‘I’m sorry to put you through that, Mrs Wilder,’ he said.

‘I had to be certain that it was Simon,’ she murmured.

‘I’ll look after her now,’ said Grace, dismissively. ‘Thank you, Sergeant.’

‘There’s something I need before I go,’ said Keedy with quiet firmness. ‘In due course, we’ll have to talk to Mrs Wilder at length about her husband. This is clearly not the best time. What would be helpful to us is to borrow Mr Wilder’s appointments book.’

Catherine looked up at him. ‘You won’t find the killer in there, Sergeant. My husband’s pupils worshipped him. Why do you want the book?’

‘It will give us some idea of his routine.’

‘I can tell you what that was. He gave lessons on a daily basis and, from time to time, organised a dance at the hall. It was always well attended. My husband and I built up a thriving business.’

‘They were like Vernon and Irene Castle,’ Grace interjected. ‘That’s what they were called in one of the newspapers.’ Her gesture took in the whole room. ‘Look at any of these photographs. You can see what a wonderful couple they were on the dance floor.’

‘Who provided the music?’ asked Keedy.

‘We hired a small band for the dances,’ replied Catherine. ‘If it was a case of private lessons, we either used a gramophone or an accompanist.’ She brought both hands up to her cheeks. ‘Dear me!’ she cried, ‘I’d forgotten Mrs Pattinson.’

‘She’s their pianist,’ explained Grace.

‘Wait until
she
hears the news. It will be a crushing blow.’

‘Why is that?’ asked Keedy.

‘Mrs Pattinson has been with us from the start. She idolised my husband. When she learns that he was murdered, it will destroy her.’

The more time she spent with Iris Goodliffe, the more Alice liked her. Proud to be wearing a police uniform – albeit a rather tight one – Iris felt a sense of importance as she strolled along with her new friend. To the casual observer, they presented a stark contrast and, when they saw their reflections in shop windows, they realised what an odd couple they looked. The Women’s Police Service had been founded two years earlier yet there were still people who refused to accept it as a necessary organisation. While they fielded warm smiles of encouragement, therefore, they were also given the occasional hostile glance by those who felt that women had no place whatsoever in law enforcement. Alice took it all in her stride and Iris followed suit.

‘What’s the worst thing you’ve had to do?’ asked Iris.

‘It was being on night duty in central London.’

‘Was it rowdy?’

‘The noise was deafening.’

‘Did you have to make any arrests?’

‘We had a policeman with us to do that. He also gave us welcome protection, of course. I wouldn’t have liked to walk those streets on my own.’

‘Neither would I.’

‘Drunks were the big problem,’ recalled Alice. ‘They were often soldiers on leave, either spoiling for a fight or looking for women.’

‘You mean women who …?’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘I’ve never met … one of those.’

Alice grinned. ‘You probably have without even realising it, Iris. They lead normal lives when they’re “off duty”, so to speak. Some of them are forced into it because they lost their husbands at the front and can’t make ends meet. Gale Force thinks that we should clean up the city by getting rid of all the prostitutes but that’s impossible. There are thousands of them. And there’s always a demand.’

‘Is that all soldiers do when they’re on leave – get drunk or …?’

‘It’s what some of them do, Iris. They drink to forget the horrors they’ve seen at the front and they snatch at pleasure because they think it may be their last chance. In some cases, I’m afraid, it probably is.’

‘I can’t believe your brother is like that.’

‘No,’ said Alice, defensively, ‘Paul is … above that sort of thing.’

And yet, she admitted to herself, her brother had gone off to a pub with friends whenever he was on leave. Until he was invalided out of the army, he’d been a typical soldier. When he’d broken up with his girlfriend, there’d been nobody else waiting for his return. Alice realised that she’d never even considered the possibility that he might have paid for the services of a prostitute. It had seemed so unlikely that she’d pushed it to the back of her mind. Thanks to Iris, she found herself thinking about it for the first time and she was troubled. What if Paul was not the decent, clean-living young man she believed him to be? He would not be the first soldier whose moral standards had
crumbled under the pressures of war. The thought was unnerving.

‘I always wanted a brother,’ said Iris, brightly. ‘Instead of that, I had an older sister who used to make fun of me and pull my hair.’

‘Paul did that to me sometimes but we had so much fun together.’

‘I had very little.’

‘What does your sister do?’

‘She works in one of the other shops. We own three altogether. You’ll find a Goodliffe Pharmacy in Camden Town, East Finchley and Walthamstow. Actually, Evelyn – that’s my sister – has been so much nicer to me since she got married.’

‘Is her husband in the army?’

‘No, Alice, he’s in a reserved occupation. He’s a doctor.’

‘I see.’

‘I doubt if I’ll ever get married,’ said Iris, pulling a face.

‘Why not?’

‘Who’d look twice at me? My sister was always the pretty one. You’re a bit like her, really. You must have had offers.’

Alice smiled. ‘I got the one I really wanted.’

As they came round a corner, they saw a news vendor selling copies of the lunchtime edition. On the board propped up against his stand, two headlines had been scrawled in large capitals. The first was
ZEPPELIN SHOT DOWN.

‘I heard about that,’ said Iris, excitedly.

‘We actually saw it.’

‘Did you? What was it like?’

Alice didn’t even hear the question. Her eye had been caught by the second news story –
BRUTAL MURDER IN CHINGFORD.

In all likelihood, she guessed, her father would be involved in the investigation and so would Joe Keedy. She bit her lip in disappointment.
The detectives were going to be busier than ever now, putting their social lives aside. Alice feared that she might not see Keedy for some time.

Though it was early afternoon when he got back to Scotland Yard, Keedy had already been up for well over eight hours. His body was reminding him of the fact. He felt tired and sluggish. He went straight to Marmion’s office and found him poring over a street map of London.

‘What are you looking for?’ he asked.

‘Inspiration.’

‘Well, I can’t help you there. I ran out of it years ago.’

Marmion stood up. ‘How did you get on at the morgue?’

‘I was in luck. I managed to keep Mrs Wilder away from the slab itself.’

He explained how he’d let her see her husband’s effects and how that had deterred her from wanting to view his corpse. He then described the return to the Wilder house and held up a large leather-bound appointments book.

‘I had a real job getting this out of her.’

‘It’s vital to the investigation, Joe.’

‘I just couldn’t convince her of that. According to Mrs Wilder, every name in here belongs to someone who thought that Simon Wilder was a kind of god. I had a closer look at some of those photographs in their living room,’ said Keedy. ‘He really was a striking figure in tails. It turns out that he and his wife beat all-comers on the dance floor. That was before the accident, of course.’

‘What accident?’

‘It was something the next-door neighbour told me when she let me out. Simon and Catherine Wilder won every competition they entered
until she had a fall and did something to her back. It ruined her career. Mrs Wilder had to give up something she loved dearly. It’s made her very bitter.’

‘I’m not surprised,’ said Marmion. ‘It must have been a cruel blow. What about her husband? Has he withdrawn from competitive dancing as well?’

‘Oh, no – he’s found himself another partner.’

‘And who’s that?’

‘I’ve no idea but her name will be in this appointments book somewhere.’ He put it on the desk and opened it at the page that referred to the previous day. ‘I had a look at this on the drive back here. It’s the list of classes he had yesterday.’

Marmion studied the page. ‘There were six of them in all.’

‘Two involved couples but four ladies came for individual tuition.’

‘So he was dancing for all of six hours. I could never do that.’

‘He always kept himself very fit, apparently,’ said Keedy. ‘I wondered how he’d managed to avoid conscription but Mrs Chambers, the neighbour, explained that as well. Wilder was forty-two when it was brought in earlier this year. If he’d been twelve months younger, he’d have been in uniform at the front.’

‘That might have saved his life.’

‘Or it might have shortened it just as brutally.’

‘Too true!’

Marmion picked up the book and flicked through it. He was impressed both by the number of would-be dancers who’d come for instruction and by the amount of money they were prepared to pay out.

‘Four pounds an hour! No wonder he could afford a lovely house like that.’

‘That’s almost as much as we get,’ joked Keedy.

‘I wish it was.’ They shared a hollow laugh. ‘I reckon that Mrs Wilder looked after this,’ he went on, tapping the book. ‘It’s so meticulously kept. She was his secretary as well as his dance partner.’

‘Do we have to interview
everyone
named in there?’

‘That’s how we’re most likely to pick up valuable clues.’

‘But the murder may have nothing to do with his occupation.’

‘He didn’t
have
an occupation, Joe. He had a way of life. Artistes are not the same as lesser mortals like us. They dedicate themselves to their calling.’

‘Isn’t that what
we
do?’

‘Not in quite the same way,’ argued Marmion. ‘Simon Wilder lived and breathed dancing twenty-four hours a day. That’s why his death has to be connected to something that happened in the course of his work.’ He looked at the page in front of him. ‘I wonder what this means.’

Keedy looked over his shoulder. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘There’s a letter beside each name. It’s either a “p” or a “g”. Does that indicate the grade each dancer has reached?’

‘Do you mean they’re either poor or good?’

‘It’s a possibility.’

‘Well, I can make a better guess than that.’

‘Go on, then.’

‘Wilder sometimes used an accompanist and sometimes he didn’t. I think we’re looking at “p” for piano and “g” for gramophone. How does that sound?’

‘It sounds very convincing to me, Joe.’

‘His pianist was a woman named Mrs Pattinson who adored him.’

‘He seems to have surrounded himself with adoring women. What’s more,’ said Marmion, rolling his eyes, ‘he made them pay four pounds an hour for the privilege. What does that tell you about him?’

‘He was a lucky devil!’

‘Why did his luck run out?’ He turned to the page listing the most recent pupils. ‘We’ll start with these last two names.’

‘Why pick on them?’

‘The first four sessions of the day had piano accompaniment whereas the last two – both of them ladies – danced to music from a gramophone. That may not be an accident. If you took an interest in a woman, would you rather have a third person in the dance studio with you or would you prefer to keep it more private?’

‘It may be that the pianist was not available for those sessions.’

‘A moment ago, you told me that she adored Wilder. I reckon that she’d have played for him until her hands dropped off. What was her name?’

‘Mrs Pattinson – Audrey Pattinson.’

Marmion closed the book. ‘Let’s have a word with her, shall we?’

She knew that something had happened. When she got to the studio that morning, Audrey Pattinson had found Catherine Wilder in an agitated state, explaining to the woman who’d come for a dance lesson that her husband had gone missing and that the class would have to be cancelled. Having gone there to provide accompaniment, Audrey instead found herself pinning a notice on the door, warning those due for a class later in the day that all instruction had been suspended until further notice. She then returned home in a complete daze. Her husband, Martin, had made her a cup of tea and tried to stop her speculating on Wilder’s disappearance. It took him hours to calm her down. When he felt able to leave her, he went off in search of information.

Audrey sat there in utter dismay, holding the framed photograph of Wilder that he’d given her as a Christmas present. He was leaning on a
piano with her beside him. Audrey felt a thrill whenever she looked at the photograph. Wilder was a brilliant dancer and she felt that it was an honour to play for him. The notion that their partnership might somehow have come to an end was terrifying. Audrey was a shapeless, grey-haired lady in her fifties with the kind of nondescript face that made her almost invisible. After leading a largely anonymous life, she’d been employed by Wilder and suddenly blossomed. Her name was printed on the poster outside the studio and she was mentioned in all of his publicity. Wilder had given her an identity and purpose in life she’d hitherto lacked.

When her husband had returned, she’d risen from her chair and rushed into the hall. One look at his face confirmed her worst fears. Martin Pattinson was a tall, straight-backed, sharp-featured man in his sixties with well-groomed white hair and a neat moustache. He’d shrugged helplessly. Then he’d simply taken his wife into his arms and held her close. Audrey had sobbed until there were no more tears left.

Simon Wilder had gone for ever. Her life was empty once again.

Marmion and Keedy sat in the rear of a car that took them in the direction of Chingford. The inspector was engrossed in the appointments book, going through page after page in the search for patterns that might yield clues. Having bought a copy of the lunchtime edition as they left Scotland Yard, the sergeant was holding it open and looking for a mention of the murder. He found it on an inside page.

‘There’s not very much,’ he complained. ‘All that it says is that the body of a man was found in Chingford in the early hours and that the police have launched a murder inquiry. They don’t even give Wilder’s name.’

‘The paper was printed too early for that, Joe. By the time Chat held
his press conference, that edition was already finished. And it doesn’t worry me that we’ve been overshadowed by the Zeppelin story,’ he continued. ‘I’d always prefer to give newspapers too little information than too much.’

‘Tomorrow will be even worse. There’ll be photos galore of the wreckage. The papers will really make a meal of that. Simon Wilder is going to be hidden away on an inside page once again.’ The car slowed to a halt in thickening traffic. ‘We can’t be shuttling to and fro all the time,’ he went on. ‘It’s the best part of a ten-mile drive. We lose valuable time darting to Chingford and back.’

‘I disagree,’ said Marmion. ‘Time in transit is never wasted. We have a chance to discuss the case and read through any documents we have – such as this.’ He held up the appointments book. ‘It’s fascinating, Joe. It’s a far better read than any of those novels Ellen takes out of the library.’

‘I still think we should establish a base in Chingford.’

‘The idea is appealing, I grant you that. It would be wonderful to put ten miles between us and Chat. I hate it when he’s breathing down our necks.’

‘I hate it when the old so-and-so is breathing.’

Marmion laughed. ‘Don’t wish him dead. Chat has his faults and there are plenty of them but it could have been worse.’

‘I don’t see how.’

‘What if
I’d
become superintendent? I might have turned into a real tyrant and you’d have been working hand-in-glove with Inspector Chatfield instead of with me.’