A Donation of Murder (16 page)

Pike's dislike and distrust of Shepherd escalated to utter contempt. The man had either been easily hoodwinked or was part of the deception himself.

Shepherd took a large slug of brandy, swallowed then exhaled with satisfaction.

Now was not the time for accusations, Pike reasoned; Shepherd was but a minor cog. If he were apprehended now they might lose the big wheels, Giblett and James. Best to humour the old blaggard. He stood up and clinked his balloon against Shepherd's. ‘Well done, sir.'

‘Well, it was a team effort — to a degree. A grand start to the New Year, what?'

‘Where is the necklace now, sir?'

‘Hatton Gardens. In the strong room of the jeweller chap who verified its authenticity. He telephoned the news through first thing this morning and I immediately organised an armed guard.'

‘May I ask this jeweller's name?'

Shepherd waved his hand. ‘Goldstein, Silverstein, Copperstein—'

‘Goldstein?' Pike queried.

‘Yes, that's the chap.'

One of Giblett's aliases. Pike fought the urge to leap to his feet and give Shepherd one between the eyes. He folded his arms to keep them under control.

‘The documentation's not come through yet, but you will be the first to see it, Pike, when it does.'

In other words, when one of Giblett's famed counterfeiters had finished with it. ‘And does His Majesty know about the find?' Pike asked.

‘Yes, and he wants nothing more to do with it. Hardly surprising, really. Wants the necklace sent back to the Duke of Abercorn.'

A curt knock and the office door opened. Shepherd's male secretary entered and requested the superintendent's attendance to the telephone in the outer office. It appeared that someone from a courier service wished to speak with him. Pike took a large swallow of Cognac, his mind racing.

‘Don't hurry off, Pike, there's more to discuss. Just wait a moment.'

Through the open door, Pike stole a glance into the outer room. The char had vanished.

As soon as Shepherd left the office, Pike hurried over to the desk and rifled through the desk drawers. He was looking for anything that might incriminate Shepherd: a photograph, a receipt, money. Shepherd's voice continued to boom down the telephone in the outer office. Pike moved swiftly to an imitation Stubbs hanging on the wall above a sideboard. Pushing the painting aside revealed Shepherd's wall safe. From his months occupying the office he was familiar with the simple lock and
he opened it in a heartbeat. Behind the usual wads of stacked banknotes he found a pouch of gold sovereigns, but no necklace. Where the hell was Shepherd hiding the fake necklace? Had he been telling the truth about it still residing with the jeweller who'd verified its ‘authenticity'?

He had just finished readjusting the painting when Shepherd ambled back into his office like a well-satisfied bear filled with honey. ‘That was the courier service. We've organised the transportation of the necklace back to Abercorn.'

‘Courier, sir? Isn't it an established truth that the postal service is the safest way to send valuables?'

Shepherd touched the side of his bulbous nose. ‘Exactly what any potential thief would think — double-bluff, my boy. Ha!'

‘Well done, sir, a brilliant plan,' Pike said through clenched teeth, his acting skills never so tested.

*

Superintendent Callan was not in his office when Pike called in, his secretary saying he was under the weather and staying at home for the day. Pike returned to the records department. The clerk slid a stack of information on the Selfridges jewellery theft along the counter towards him and Pike signed the documents out.

‘Nothing on a Margaret Doyle from Dalston, sir,' the clerk explained, ‘but this lady here,' he handed Pike a single slip of paper, ‘also lives in North London, and has a few things in common with her. Might be the same woman, might not.'

Pike glanced down at the document headed ‘Diamond' Peggy Doyle. Looked like his suspicions were realised. The woman had been an initial suspect in the Selfridges heist, but investigations had stalled due to her sound alibi. Pike slammed his fist in his palm. Good God, what had Dody got herself involved with this time?

With the documents tucked into his briefcase he caught a motorised taxi — public transport being thin on the ground this snowy New Year's day — and asked to be taken across the bridge to Callan's residence in Southwark. There were no hold ups and it was a pleasant drive. There was little water traffic and the river, weighted with cold, appeared to be marching at half time. The snow had purified the muck-encrusted city streets, icing the horse droppings, dirty grey pavements and piles of rubbish, and piping the brackets of the street lamps in brilliant white.

Callan's suburban home was almost identical to those surrounding it. The area was part of a wave of middle class housing that had been commenced at the end of
the previous century. Pike walked the path, swept of snow, to the gleaming red door, the only thing setting this Victorian villa apart from the rest of the neighbourhood. He knocked and waited, watching the icicles dripping from the porch eaves. By afternoon they would be gone.

A maid invited Pike in and asked him to wait in the front parlour. As Pike settled into the familiar armchair he heard the laughter of children down the hall, one of them shouting, ‘Get the sledge from the shed,' and then Mrs Callan's chastising voice telling them to hush so as not to disturb their father. The front door slammed shut. The aroma of roast meat wafted beneath the study door, making Pike's mouth water.

A few minutes later, Callan pushed through the door carrying a tray laden with tea things and a half eaten Christmas cake with ragged edges.

‘Good of you to drop by, old man, I couldn't face the office today. We saw the New Year in and then the children had us up at dawn, badgering us to take them sledging. You arrived in the nick of time. Now poor Kate has to take them out on her own.'

‘Please give her my apologies when she returns.'

‘She's used to it. She's been a policeman's wife for a long time now.'

Pike tried to imagine a similar domestic situation featuring himself and Dody — and failed. Sharing a home with Dody would never be conventional. Still, he was steeled for that. Nothing about Dody or her family could ever be construed as ‘normal'.

He smiled as he contemplated the adventure ahead.

‘What are you grinning about?'

‘You.' Pike gestured to the cosy parlour. ‘You seem somehow out of context here: a young family, a life beyond the Yard.'

‘And it's time you started thinking the same. A young family, when you're no longer young yourself, is bloody hard work.' Callan reddened and cleared his throat. ‘I do apologise, Matthew. Of course, you have travelled that road before. Forgive me. I tend to think of you as a confirmed bachelor.'

Pike was happy with that. This was the image he had wanted to project, even to his friend. He hoped it would reduce the credibility of any allegations Shepherd might choose to make about himself and Doctor Dody McCleland.

Pike smiled. ‘No apologies necessary. I am quite content as I am.'

‘All the better for a bit of undercover work then, eh? No little woman around to worry and fuss.'

Pike's jaw slackened. ‘Undercover work?'

‘Yes. I have a job for you that Shepherd knows nothing about.' Callan picked up a file from an occasional table and handed it to Pike. He continued talking as Pike flicked through it.

‘Charles Kilner, aka Pianner Charlie,' Callan said. ‘About your age and born in Yorkshire too. He's lived in the United States now for over twenty years. He killed another criminal up North after squabbling over the takings of a local robbery, and fled to America to avoid arrest. There he formed his own gang based on the Anchors, though I expect he sees himself above them now — he specialises in jewellery heists only, whereas they've dabbled in just about anything. He was arrested off the boat in Dover the day before yesterday.'

‘Why did he come back?'

‘His mother's dying, and he's willing to risk arrest to see her — or so he initially said. He also wants to meet with John Giblett and put in a bid for La Peregrina.'

‘And he told you all this?'

‘My officers were very persuasive.'

‘I'm sure they were.' Pike hated to think what condition the man's face was in now. ‘But the boat trip takes at least ten days. The necklace hadn't even been stolen when he set off.'

‘Giblett contacted him in advance; he was entirely confident of success.'

‘How did you recognise Kilner?' Pike nodded at the file on his lap. ‘There's no photograph here, and only a very vague description of a man who would have been quite young at the time of the Yorkshire murder.'

‘Customs found a money belt stuffed with cash on his person and took it from there. He sang like a bird after a few threats were made. If this plan of mine works, he'll be deported and sent back to America. He's their problem, anyway. We told him we'll forget about the old murder charge if he cooperates.'

‘Where was he supposed to be staying? If it's De Keyser's I can't be involved, I'm known there.'

‘Get to the Dorchester often, do you?'

Pike shook his head.

‘Good, because he's booked in there. You'll only need stay at the hotel for one night, anyway. He's supposed to meet Giblett at a dinner party Giblett's holding for prospective buyers of La Peregrina tomorrow, and I'm expecting an instant result.'

‘Does this Pianner Charlie look anything like me?'

‘About your height, clean-shaven, but that's about the only resemblance. He's jowly, has a paunch and wears spectacles.' Callan reached into his inner jacket pocket. ‘Like these, only these have plain glass lenses. Here, try them on,' he said, handing Pike the specs.

Pike slipped them on. ‘How's this?'

Callan grinned. ‘Not bad at all.'

‘But how do you know no one at the dinner will recognise him?' Pike said, folding the specs and putting them in his inside jacket pocket.

‘They won't, Pike. Charlie's never even met Giblett. His patch was the North of England, Giblett's is the South.'

‘But what of the other guests?'

‘Unfortunately we don't have the rest of the guest list. If he had met any of them it would have been years ago.'

That wasn't much of a reassurance. Pike wondered if Malcolm James would be there. Lucky for him he hadn't been spotted tailing the bruiser.

‘Don't worry, old man,' Callan said. ‘It's just for one night. You play the piano, as he does, and that's all that really matters. Plus you'll have a money belt of ready cash that I doubt Giblett will be able to resist.'

It sounded like a reasonable plan, Pike thought to himself. But what on earth would he say to Dody? This might well prove to her that staying in the police force is just as dangerous as being in the army — if not more so.

The sisters sat in the morning room drinking tea, Violet having been driven back to the nurses' home by Fletcher. Florence's face still held the bloom of her exercise on the ice and she ate her late breakfast ravenously.

‘Party last night, your engagement, skating this morning — such fun. It is so good to be home,' Florence enthused as she scraped the last bit of scrambled egg from her plate. She looked up at Dody then stopped with the fork halfway to her mouth. ‘All things considered though, Dody, you're looking a bit pale and wan this morning. You and Pike should have come to the park with us, put some colour in your cheeks.'

‘I didn't sleep well,' Dody replied.

‘Excitement, I suppose. It's not everyday one gets presented with a beautiful pearl engagement ring. But I wouldn't worry about Mother and Poppa if I were you. Pike will win them over and they'll soon forget he's a policeman. It could be worse — he could still be with Special Branch. They're the ones who really gave our parents grief. Fancy their thinking Mother and Poppa were trying to organise an English revolution.'

‘Surely you know it's not our parents' reaction that's worrying me,' Dody said. ‘It's his talk of rejoining his Regiment that's the problem. I can't bear the idea, especially with all these rumours of war. And I can't believe you encouraged him, Florence.'

‘Because I knew it was poppycock. He's deluded if they think they'll have him back — he's far too old.'

Despite having thought something similar herself, Dody took this as a personal insult, on Pike's behalf. ‘Too old? No, he's not!'

‘And he has a gammy knee. They'll never let him in,' Florence said, smearing a thick layer of marmalade on her toast.

‘He is a highly decorated officer, held in great esteem by all who served with him,' Dody retorted. ‘Of course they will have him back.' Hearing herself say this she felt the first glimmer of understanding. It had never registered with her before that for Pike, rejection would equal failure. It was not much different to how she had felt when she was turned away from the numerous specialist courses to which she'd
applied
after her graduation. Even though she knew it was irrational to take the
rejection to heart, knew it was her gender that had influenced the decision against her, it had nevertheless been a huge blow to her pride.

The army had been a significant part of Pike's life. At fifteen years of age he had run away from home to avoid an audition organised by his ambitious mother for the Music Academy. He had joined the Regiment at the lowest rank and slowly worked his way up, a massive achievement for someone with no money or connections. Whether she liked it or not, Dody now understood that this youthful experience was part of the identity of the man she loved and something that could not be changed. She must not stand in his way.

Nothing, however, could make her come to terms with the possibility that he might have to go to war. That prospect was still unthinkable, but again it was unstoppable.

‘Why aren't you wearing your ring?' Florence asked.

‘I can only wear it when he resigns from the police force,' she said.

Florence sighed and took a sip of tea. ‘Then I fear you will be waiting a long time. He will not be accepted by the army.'

‘In that case I will resign from the Home Office.'

Florence looked up in surprise. ‘You would do that? End your career for a man?'

It took a moment for Dody to answer her sister's question. ‘As a last resort, yes.'

‘Goodness me, I never would have expected to hear you say that.'

‘Well, now you have, though I pray it will not come to that.' Dody paused. ‘But there's also something else worrying me.' She went on to explain the morning delivery of Margaret Doyle's earrings. ‘My problem is that Pike thinks the earrings may have been stolen.'

‘Dear, oh dear,' Florence said, her cup clattering onto the saucer.

‘Indeed. And there are more “oh dears” to come. I think the anonymous donation to the clinic was probably also from Margaret.'

Florence covered her hand with her mouth. ‘So you think it really
is
blood money? I thought you were just overreacting as usual.'

‘I do not overreact, Florence,' Dody said with asperity.

‘Of course not.'

Dody chose to ignore the sarcasm. ‘I think it might be blood money — or the proceeds of crime, anyway. But I need to be certain. I need to find out the truth about the money and about Margaret. Will you help me?'

‘I will indeed. It will be good to have some excitement again.'

‘I can't ask for the money back from the clinic, so I will have to borrow it from Poppa to reimburse Margaret. I'll pay Poppa back over time from my Home Office salary.'

‘But even Poppa doesn't have that kind of money lying around. And as he is yet to install a telephone you will have to write to him first to test the waters. Then, if he agrees to help, he will have to withdraw it from the bank. This will all take time, Dody. It's not a question of just rolling up to Margaret's and handing her back the money.'

‘I know. All I can do is present Margaret with an IOU. And I will tell her that as well as being unable to accept the money for the clinic, I cannot accept the earrings.'

‘Which you can't give back either. You don't have them in your possession, because you have handed them over to your lover who happens to be a policeman. It's all a bit bizarre, darling, and she won't thank you for it.'

‘But what else can I do? I can't just sit back and do nothing. I need to find out the truth about her, and I won't rest until I do.'

‘You like and admire the woman, that is obvious. What will you do if you find out that she herself is a criminal?'

‘I am not naive, Florence. I have considered the possibility.'

‘Well?'

Dody's gaze dropped to her hands, and to the napkin she was wringing between them. ‘I don't know. It depends. I need to take one step at a time. Firstly, I want to find out exactly where Margaret lives and do some investigating of my own before the authorities get involved. If I find her to be innocent I will fight tooth and nail on her behalf. If she is guilty, well, I shall cross that bridge when I come to it.'

Florence got up from the table and pushed it back into place in front of the mantelpiece mirror. ‘Sounds reasonable to me.' Satisfied with her coiffure, she turned back. ‘We'd better start now before the police turn up and muddy the waters with their dirty great clodhoppers.'

*

Fletcher pulled the Benz to a stop about two hundred yards from the Anchor and Whistle public house in Hackney Road. Dody told him not to wait. They would make their own way home once they had finished their business. She also told him to inform Cook they would not be home for lunch.

They tightened their scarves and picked their way down the icy footpath. Florence put a foot wrong and slipped and would have fallen had Dody not caught her by the arm.

‘I don't see why we couldn't get Fletcher to drop us straight outside the pub,' Florence complained.

‘Because the patrons won't be the type to appreciate the company of anyone who arrives by a chauffeur-driven motorcar.'

‘You have visited the place before?'

‘No, but I know its kind well enough.'

Florence tightened her grip on Dody's arm. A previous bad experience made her anxious in the East End. On the other hand, Dody's job took her all over the place and she was more at ease in the seedy side of town. Even so, the nature of their mission was giving her an unusual case of the jitters. She'd had enough experience with the police to know about the notorious Anchor Men and the Anchor and Whistle public house they frequented. They were literally about to walk into a den of thieves.

The pub's shingle, a painted depiction of an anchor and a sailor's whistle, creaked in the chill breeze. To reach the front door they were forced to skirt around a tumbling pile of discarded bottles and broken glass on the footpath. A ragged young man looked up from his task of draining the empties. He held a half filled bottle out to them with a blotchy, frostbitten hand.

‘Whatya, my darlins, care for a swig?' he leered, pushing the bottle towards them. He had a thin ferrety face and the beginnings of a fluffy beard.

‘Ignore him,' Dody whispered to her sister.

‘But look at his poor hands; he has no gloves.'

‘Hush,' Dody said as she pushed her weight against the heavy pub door. ‘We might be able to help him later.'

The sisters entered the public bar, where women were usually excluded. Dody expecting a sudden, palpable silence. The gentle murmuring continued, however, and they were barely afforded a second glance. Dody squinted her eyes against the smoke, trying not to breathe too deeply the unpleasant fumes of wet wool, unwashed clothes and stale hops.

‘Look over there, Dody,' Florence hissed. ‘That beggar man with no legs is talking to a woman dressed like a duchess.'

Indeed he was, although the ‘duchess' appeared better dressed than most of the aristocrats Dody had met, even if her costume was a trifle on the gaudy side. There were also bookies, labourers, sailors and toffs. Never had she seen such a diverse collection of people congregated in one place other than at the races. A dwarf talked to a tall woman with broad shoulders who, given her five o'clock shadow, might well have been a man. Many of the patrons seemed otherworldly, like creatures Alice might have come across through the looking glass.

There were more male customers than female. A handful of scantily dressed women lounged on the knees of a select few men. But it was another group of women that caught Dody's attention. These women varied in age from about eighteen to forty and wore the latest respectable fashions. They appeared to be conducting an earnest conversation around a table tucked away from the main bar in the snug. Some were sipping gin, others appeared to be drinking barley water. They seemed incongruous in the surroundings and yet so relaxed that their presence gave Dody courage. No wonder the sisters' appearance barely caused a stir, they could have been part of this group themselves. Dody scanned the faces at the table for Margaret, but she was not one of them.

They pushed their way towards the bar with little effort.

‘What'll it be, ladies?' a barman with a shoestring moustache asked them. Dody asked for two lemonades and remained standing at the bar once they had been served. No one mocked the sisters' choice of refreshment. In fact, Dody thought as she looked around, even some of the men were drinking non-alcoholic beverages.

‘Haven't see you in 'ere before.' A man in clerk's sleeve-holders leaned on the bar next to Florence. ‘New to the neighbourhood, are you?'

‘We're not from the neighbourhood at all, actually,' Florence replied.

The barman glanced up from a glass he had been polishing. ‘People don't tend to just stumble in 'ere off the street, miss, if you know what I mean.'

Florence turned to the man with the sleeve-holders. He was no longer lounging, but had straightened and now towered above her. ‘Oh, is this a private club?' she asked, her eyes big and round. ‘I am so terribly sorry . . .'

‘Actually, we're looking for a friend of ours,' Dody said, interrupting her sister's performance. ‘She comes here often. Her name is Margaret Doyle.'

Both the barman and the clerk relaxed. ‘You mean Peggy?' the clerk asked. ‘You should have said that in the first place. But no, Peggy's not 'ere. Haven't seen her for a few days.'

‘Do you know where she might be?' Dody asked.

‘Haven't the foggiest. Probably at home.'

‘Dalston, isn't it?' Dody touched her head as if trying to retrieve a memory. ‘Bother, for the life of me I cannot remember her address. She's friendly with a man called John. Perhaps he is here?'

‘There's 'alf a dozen men called John 'ere, ma'am,' said the barman. ‘There's John the carter, John the grocer, Old John Shoesmith—'

‘I'll take you to Peggy's, if you like,' a gravelly voice cut in.

The sisters turned in the direction of the voice, noticing for the first time a man lounging against the bar next to the clerk. ‘As it happens I have some business with Peggy myself.'

The man smiled at them. He had a badly set broken nose and his eyeteeth had been filed into points — a practice common among prisoners, Dody had been told. She smiled back at the man, despite the sudden feeling of cold on the back of her neck.

‘Thank you, you are very kind,' Florence said, not at all bothered by the bruiser's appearance. Her sister never ceased to amaze her. She had been a nervous wreck while walking the relatively safe streets, yet in this den of thieves, butter wouldn't melt in her mouth.

‘Are you coming, Dody, or are you planning on standing by the bar for the rest of the day?' Florence said, turning from the pub's swing door. Dody thanked the barman for the drinks and hurried after them.