Dead of Winter (13 page)

In the darkness of the narrow alleyway all Billy could see of his lanky colleague was a glimpse now and again of his hatchet features as he drew on his cigarette. The air was freezing and their frosty breath mingled with the smoke they expelled. Footsteps approached from the black pit at the end of the street.

‘I’ve got him, guv.’ The voice was female, the accent pure Cockney. ‘He was in the Black Cat, trying to sneak out the back. Must have heard we were looking for him.’

Billy caught a glimpse of a peaked cap. Then the caped figure of a WPC emerged from the darkness.

‘Where’s he now?’ Lofty asked.

‘In the back of your car.’ She nodded behind her. ‘I left him there with Hoskins. Told him we wanted a word with him down at the station. He’s asking for his brief.’

‘Well, he can whistle as far as I’m concerned.’ Cook trod on his cigarette. ‘This is Poole,’ he told Billy, who’d guessed as much – he remembered the name of the officer who’d been first at the scene when Rosa Nowak’s body was discovered. ‘I sent her off to pick up Florrie’s pimp. He’s a Maltese called Ragusa. Lil, this is Inspector Styles. He’s from the Yard.’

‘Guv.’ She touched her cap.

‘Now let’s all get inside. It’s perishing out here.’

In the dimly lit hallway WPC Poole was revealed to be a fair-haired young woman, still in her twenties, but with a strong, determined face that made her seem older. Short and stocky, her slightly protruding lower jaw gave her the look of a bulldog, one you’d think twice about crossing, Billy thought. Her glance took him in briefly before her eyes, blue as periwinkles, settled into a neutral gaze.

‘Did Ragusa know about Florrie?’ Cook asked her.

‘Yes, he’d heard all right. But he’s not saying much.’

‘What do you know about him?’ Billy asked. ‘How does he treat his girls?’

‘Do you mean, would he top one, like what happened to Florrie?’

The bluntness of her question took Billy by surprise; he was accustomed to more deference from the lower ranks of the uniformed branch. But he nodded, after a moment.

‘Yes, that’s what I mean.’

Poole pursed her lips, weighing the question.

‘I wouldn’t put it past him,’ she said. ‘But they’re his living and you can’t get money from a corpse. Besides, he’s got another way of keeping them in line.’

‘What’s that?’

She shrugged. ‘You can usually tell one of Tony’s girls. Like as not she’ll have a scar on her cheek, just a nick.’ She touched her own with a fingertip, and Billy recalled the mark he’d seen on Juanita de Castro’s face. ‘That’s what he does to them if they make trouble, or he thinks they’re being lazy. Not enough to ruin their looks, just enough to make them think how bad it could be if he really got to work on them. Dago bastard,’ she added, for good measure, causing Billy to blink once more.

‘Is that it, then, Lil?’ Lofty caught Billy’s eye and winked.

‘Not quite.’ She turned to him. ‘I’ve just heard about a bloke who may have been looking for Florrie.’

‘Oh, yes – ?’ Cook’s tone sharpened.

‘He was in the Three Stars the other day. Said he was trying to find a red-headed French tart. Didn’t know her name, but thought she had a pitch somewhere up near Tottenham Court Road tube station. He spoke to Ma.’

‘The Three Stars is a café the toms use,’ Lofty told Billy. ‘In Peter Street. It’s run by an old girl called Ma Hennessy. Did she get his name?’ He put the question to Poole, who shook her head.

‘Ma never asked him. She gave me a description, though. Said he was a skinny bloke with small eyes, like a weasel. She didn’t take to him. Reckoned he’d been inside.’

‘Why was that?’

‘No special reason. But Ma can usually sniff ’em out. He didn’t get anything from her. She told him she didn’t know who he was talking about: didn’t know any red-headed French tarts.’

Lofty clicked his tongue. ‘Skinny? Doesn’t sound like our man, worst luck. Still, you’d better ask around, Lil. Have a word with some of the other girls. See if they know this bloke.’

‘Will do, guv.’ She touched her cap.

‘And find out if any of them gave him Florrie’s address,’ Billy added.

Poole turned her blue gaze on him: though her glance remained neutral, Billy had the impression he was being weighed up.

‘Her address? Right, guv.’

She turned on her heel and went out, shutting the door behind her.

‘Good officer you’ve got there,’ he remarked to Lofty. Got her wits about her. She ought to be in plainclothes.’

Cook grunted. ‘Don’t let Lil hear you say that. She’s put in three times for the CID and been turned down. You know how the Met brass feels about the fair sex. Some of them, anyway. The fewer the better. She’s been warned to stop bellyaching. Told to put a sock in it. She’s not best pleased.’

‘Got a mind of her own, has she?’ Billy had guessed as much.

‘That and more.’ Lofty chuckled. She’s a right tartar when she’s roused, our Lil. Bloody good copper, though.’

It was seven by the time Billy got back to the Yard, and as he stepped out of his car he could see in the distance, to the south-east, searchlights probing the night sky, illuminating the barrage balloons that floated like giant moths above the darkened city. They were there to hinder the approach of flying bombs, though few believed they were of any use, any more than the ack-ack guns that blazed away furiously whenever the strange craft with their fiery tails appeared in the skies. (Rumour said they had yet to hit one.) And neither were they any defence at all against the V-2s, which descended without warning like thunderclaps and which Londoners had come to fear more than any other weapon used against them. Only a few weeks before, one had landed on a Woolworths in New Cross Road, killing more than 150 people, housewives mostly, and Billy could only thank his lucky stars his own family was safe and living out of range of this new sky-borne peril.

He had spent the last hour at Bow Street police station going over the details of Florrie’s murder with Lofty and Grace after the latter had returned from Cable Lane with the news that the forensic squad had completed their examination of the house and had nothing further to report.

‘He must have come in and out like a cat,’ Grace had commented. Didn’t leave a mark apart from a few scratches on the locks. And a dead body, of course.’

He had returned just as Cook and Billy were interviewing Florrie’s pimp, an unrewarding exercise made more difficult by the Maltese’s reluctance to answer any questions except in the presence of his lawyer, whom Lofty had refused to have called.

‘Can’t you get it into your head? We’re not accusing you of anything. We just want a word.’

Dark and dapper, with plastered-down hair and a thin moustache, Ragusa had stayed mum at first. His eyes, moist and motionless as a lizard’s, were fixed in an unblinking stare, and when at last he’d responded it was only to advise them in a heavily accented voice that any attempt to link him with the death of this young lady’ would result in a charge of harassment being laid against the police. These final words had been overheard by Grace as he’d joined them in the interview room, and they brought a swift response from the irascible detective.

‘Harassment? Why, you miserable Maltese insect, you don’t know the meaning of the word. Let me tell you something. You can’t breathe in this country now without breaking the law. I could step into that sewer you call a club and find half a dozen violations of the emergency regulations without blinking an eyelid. We can have you up in court from now until Christmas, that’s next Christmas I’m talking about, and in the meantime we’ll arrest every one of your girls any time she sets foot on the street. They can keep you company in the dock. Harassment … ? Don’t tempt me.’

He had leaned closer, his grin unpleasant.

‘Now be a good little pimp and answer Mr Cook’s questions. And we’ll have no more lip out of you – is that understood?’

Shaken by this verbal assault, Ragusa’s tongue had been loosened at last, but to no avail. He had spent the previous evening at his club and had not learned of Florrie’s death until that afternoon. As for the incident in which she’d been involved on the night Rosa Nowak had been murdered, he acknowledged having heard about it – it seemed Ackers had reported the matter to him – but he knew no more than that she’d been questioned by the police.

‘Did you speak to Florrie about it?’ Lofty had asked him.

‘Only once. I told her she must do what the police say.’

‘Did you think of protecting her?’

‘From what?’ Ragusa had spread his manicured hands. And then, ‘Did you?’

His shaft, though it brought a hiss of anger from Joe Grace’s lips, had gone home, at least as far as Billy was concerned, and he acknowledged as much to Sinclair when he knocked on the chief inspector’s door and found him still at his desk.

‘It never occurred to me she might be in danger, sir. Maybe it should have.’

‘So you also feel it’s the same man?’ Sinclair had listened in silence to Billy’s account of the murder scene. For what it’s worth, John Madden seems to agree with you. I spoke to him earlier. He suggested Florrie might have died because the killer believed she could identify him.’

Lofty and I had the same thought, sir. And if we don’t connect them then we’ve got two murders with no explanation for either.’

Sinclair grunted. ‘Let’s not overlook the obvious,’ he said. ‘She wouldn’t be the first streetwalker to end up this way.’

At the back of the chief inspector’s mind, Billy surmised, was a notorious case that had occurred in London before the war when a number of girls managed by a Paris gang had been strangled for refusing to hand over their takings.

‘That’s true, sir. But there’s a difference here. Florrie didn’t fit that pattern. For one thing her pimp was a Maltese, for another she was valued property. His best girl, Ragusa told us. He’s a nasty piece of work. Nicks his tarts’ cheeks with a blade if they don’t behave. Florrie didn’t have a mark on her.’

Sinclair frowned. He was still not satisfied.

‘I’d be happier if we had something more solid to go on. A link of some sort. Evidence to show there’s a connection between these two crimes.’

‘Well, I can’t give you that, sir.’ Billy shrugged. There’s no obvious link between them. But there is a common factor.’

‘Is there?’ Sinclair’s tone was deceptively mild. ‘I seem to have missed it.’

‘It’s something Dr Ransom put his finger on. The way these two girls were topped. Cold-blooded doesn’t begin to describe it. They were disposed of, simple as that. The evidence points to a certain kind of killer being responsible, and the question then is could there be two of them? We don’t think so, Lofty and I. We reckon it’s the same man.’

Billy sat back. He’d made his case. It was up to the chief inspector now, and as yet he had given no hint as to how he wanted the investigation to proceed. Nor could any clue be deduced from his manner. Sealed by the blackout blinds fixed in the window, his office had taken on the aspect of a cave and the single lamp set low on his desk that of a fire over which he bent like some tribal shaman, his face unreadable in the shadows. After a minute he stirred and looked up.

‘Very well. I’ll go along with your judgement. From now on we’ll treat these two cases as one.’

Billy breathed a sigh of relief.

‘But there’ll have to be some changes. This will become a Yard inquiry. Cook can stay on the case, but you’ll be in charge. Will that be a problem?’

‘Not for us, sir.’ Billy smiled. ‘We’re old pals.’

‘Is there anyone else you want?’

‘Joe Grace, if he can be spared.’

The chief inspector signalled his assent with a nod.

‘Now, you’re to keep me informed,’ he continued. ‘Every day, if you can. That means all developments, no matter how minor. Speaking of which, just where do you propose to start? It seems to me you’ve precious little to go on.’

‘With this fellow who was asking about Florrie a few days ago.’ Billy had his answer ready. He felt more relaxed now that the decision had been made. ‘At least, we think it was her he was after. He’s got to be tracked down.’

Sinclair nodded.

‘And there’s another line of enquiry we want to follow up. Rosa’s murder didn’t give us any leads, but it’s different this time. Whoever killed Florrie jimmied two locks, and according to Myers it was expert work. It’s likely this bloke is a villain, a professional. We’re going to have to go through the records in detail.’

‘And what will that involve?’

‘It’s hard to say, sir.’ Billy grimaced. ‘Up to now we’ve been concentrating on men with a history of violence towards women. But that could be a mistake. These crimes aren’t sexual. But whoever this bloke is he’s likely got a record. If we look carefully enough we may find him.’

‘And equally you might not. The image of a needle in a haystack springs to mind.’ Sinclair scowled. And there’s another problem. From what the Desmoulins woman said it seems this man’s fluent in French, which suggests he may well have been active abroad, which in turn might explain why we’ve no record of him here. If that’s the case we’re not likely to find out any more about him till the war ends.’

He sat brooding.

‘You realize what you’re asking for? It could prove a huge waste of time. I don’t want either you or the Bow Street CID tied up doing this, and I can’t spare another detective. But if the job’s going to be done properly it’ll require someone who’s familiar with both cases. Someone with a sharp eye, what’s more.’

Billy nodded sagely. ‘I was thinking the same thing, sir.’

‘Oh, you were, were you?’ Sinclair eyed him with suspicion. ‘You’ll be telling me next you’ve got someone in mind.’

‘Well, yes, sir – as a matter of fact I have.’

Billy grinned. He didn’t know if he could get away with this, but he was going to try.

‘It’s a uniformed officer stationed at Bow Street. Could be just the person we need.’

9

‘W
E KNOW HIS NAME
now, sir. It’s Alfie Meeks. But so far we haven’t been able to lay hands on him.’

‘And why is that?’ Bennett snapped. He was in a testy mood.

‘Because we don’t know where he’s living. Not at this moment. He’s been moving about in the past couple of months. Renting rooms here and there for a week or two.’