Dead of Winter (39 page)

Shortly after one o’clock the sound of heels rapping on the bare wooden floor of the corridor outside heralded the return of Billy Styles from Paddington. He had taken Grace with him, having earlier reported to Sinclair that Lofty Cook was down with bronchitis and would be off for a few days.

‘We still don’t know for sure whether it was Ash who topped Horace Quill,’ he announced even before they had shed their coats and hats. But we’ve got a name for the client who called on him two nights ago.’

‘It wasn’t by any chance a Mr Pratt?’ Sinclair asked in all innocence, and had the satisfaction of seeing Billy’s jaw drop in amazement.

‘Blimey, sir! How’d you know that?’

When he heard Sinclair’s explanation, he shook his head in wonder.

‘So he’s changed his name again. I don’t know how he does it. You’d think he’d get confused. Wake up some mornings wondering who he is.’

While Grace, on Sinclair’s instruction, went upstairs to the canteen to order tea and sandwiches to be sent down for their lunch, Billy gave the chief inspector a resume of what he’d learned.

‘They found the name in a pocket diary Quill kept in his flat, which was just a room above his office. The name “Pratt” was jotted down on the 22nd with the time of the meeting, which was 8 p.m. What’s interesting was there was no diary found in his office and nothing on his desk to indicate what business he was dealing with. It looks as if whoever killed him took the time to remove anything incriminating. Quill’s notes on the case he was handling, for example. Or maybe his report to the client. The desk had been rifled, too, and someone had been through the filing cabinet. Roy Cooper has had the room and the banisters dusted for prints; we’re going to compare them with what we lifted at Ash’s flat in Wandsworth.’

‘Tell me about the murder,’ Sinclair said. ‘The report in the crime sheet said his head was crushed.’

‘That’s right. With a brass vase, big as an urn, filled with soil and a dead plant. It must have been standing on a table behind the desk near the window. Quill was sitting at his desk when he was hit – the chair was overturned – and it looks like the vase came down straight on top of his head, which means the killer must have been behind him. He couldn’t have done it from in front; the thing was too heavy.’

‘Strange …’ the chief inspector mused. ‘Perhaps he was feeling nostalgic.’

‘Sir—?’ Billy didn’t understand.

‘That was how Ash killed Jonah Meeks thirty years ago, only he used a rock.’

Billy shrugged. ‘I don’t know about that. What I thought was he didn’t want to use the wire again, give us such an obvious lead. The vase was handy, and provided Quill was otherwise occupied, which he probably was, it would have been a simple way of doing it.’

‘Occupied? How?’

‘He was obviously at his desk, as I say, and this bloke – Ash, if it was him – must have got up from his chair and started wandering about. Maybe he went over to the window. Anyway he got himself near enough to the vase so that he could take hold of it. All that time Quill was sitting at his desk, and from the evidence it looks as though he was counting some money.’

He was interrupted by the door opening. Joe Grace came in carrying a tray loaded with a teapot, cups and a plate heaped with sandwiches.

‘Thought I’d better bring it down myself, sir,’ he said to Sinclair as he laid the tray on the chief inspector’s desk. ‘They’re short-staffed upstairs. Didn’t know how long we’d have to wait.’

There was a brief pause while they helped themselves from the tray. Not hungry himself, Sinclair accepted the cup of tea Billy poured for him, but waved away the plate of sandwiches. Sipping the hot liquid, he glanced out of the window and saw that it was snowing again.

‘We’ve been going over the murder itself,’ he told Grace as he turned back to face them. ‘You were just saying it looked as though Quill was handling money when he was killed.’

He looked at Billy, who nodded, brushing the crumbs from his lips.

‘They found a blood-stained fiver under the desk. It must have been on the blotter when Quill was hit with that vase. The blotter itself was soaked with his blood. Now it’s unlikely to have been a note of his own – his wallet was in his pocket with a couple of quid in it – so it must have been given him by his killer. Along with a wad of them, perhaps. That would have got Quill’s attention, all right. Stopped him from looking up to see what his visitor was doing.’

Does it mean ‘So you think he was being paid for services rendered?’ Sinclair nodded. ‘That sounds plausible. Does it mean he’d found this Polish girl, then?’

‘That’s what we don’t know.’ Billy glanced at Grace, who was sitting beside him. ‘What he was doing was stringing this client of his along. We got that from Quill’s tart, Molly Minter.’

‘Stringing him along? You’d better explain that.’ The chief inspector’s brow had furrowed.

‘After Cooper had shown us the murder site we went back to the station with him to talk to Molly. They’d been holding her there.’ Billy grinned. ‘Roy wasn’t best pleased at the way Poole had stuck her nose into this, but I told him to let it go. Either that, or take it up with you. Anyway, they’d pulled her in and put her through the wringer and they came up with more details about the job Quill had been on. He seems to have run off at the mouth about it to Molly, mainly because he was so pleased with himself. The girl he was supposed to be looking for lived in the country not too far from London. That’s what he told Molly, and he said finding her would be a piece of cake. She knew for a fact that he’d made at least a couple of trips out of London.’

‘With what result, though?’

‘That’s what’s unclear.’ Billy frowned. ‘You see, Molly didn’t live with him. She’s got a room of her own where she takes her customers. Every now and then Quill would get in touch with her and she’d go and spend the night with him. But her information’s patchy. She only knows what he told her, but she gathered he was playing this bloke, this client, making out that the job he’d been given was harder than it was. He’d been paid a fat advance, and according to Molly he thought he could probably get more if he handled him right, plus a final payment when the job was done.’

‘Which might have been the case? He could have already found her, but was withholding the information for the time being.’

‘That’s right, sir.’ Billy nodded. ‘We just don’t know. It’s likely the man Quill was seeing two nights ago when he was topped was this same client; it’s the only job he was working on. And from what Quill had told her earlier it’s quite possible all he was going to tell him was he needed another advance; that he was searching high and low but still hadn’t found her.’

‘But in that case, why would Ash have killed him?’

‘Well, I can think of one reason.’ Billy scratched his head. ‘He might have twigged he was being made a fool of and decided to cut his losses, look for the girl some other way and close his account with Quill. The way I see it he was always going to top him, Ash was. Quill already knew too much about his business and of course he could identify him by sight. He may have pretended to go along with his request for more money, and then done him when the opportunity presented itself.’

‘Alternatively, he may have decided to give Ash the information he wanted and claim his final payment; not being aware, of course, just how final it would be.’ The chief inspector rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘But I take your point: we can’t be sure whether he found the girl or not. And the worst of it is we still don’t know who she is or why Ash was after her. I take it Quill gave the Minter woman no details.’

‘Not her name, that’s for certain. Only that she was Polish.’

‘And living in the countryside. Just as Rosa Nowak was. We are absolutely sure it wasn’t her Quill was looking for?’

Having earlier answered Bennett on this very point, the chief inspector now sought reassurance himself.

‘Oh, yes, sir – there’s no doubt.’ Billy was positive. ‘It simply doesn’t fit that way. Quill was still supposed to be searching for this other girl weeks after Rosa was murdered. He’d been in touch with his client by phone: he told Molly that. If it was Rosa he’d been hired to track down, Ash would have killed him right after he’d topped her. He wouldn’t have waited till now.’

Nodding, Sinclair expelled his breath in a long sigh. He glanced at his watch.

‘I’m afraid you’re not going to have much of a Christmas, either of you. It’s quite possible we’ll locate Ash under the name of Pratt today. He has to stay somewhere, and that means either a hotel or a boarding house. They’re being checked now: the word’s gone out to all stations in the metropolitan area. The process will continue tomorrow if necessary, and you’ll have to be on call.’

‘That’s suits me, sir.’ Billy’s smile was wry. ‘Elsie and the kids are still up in Bedford. I wasn’t expecting to see them anyway till this was over.’

‘How about you, Sergeant?’ Sinclair turned to Grace, who had been silent all this time.

‘It’s no hardship to me, sir.’ Joe Grace’s pockmarked face broke into a wolfish grin. ‘I want to be there when we catch this bloke. I want to see his face when we put the cuffs on him.’

‘The cuffs, yes …’ The chief inspector nodded. Then his gaze hardened. ‘But just as a precaution, I want you both armed from now on. Collect your weapons from the armoury. I’ll authorize it. We may get word of Ash’s whereabouts at any time and I want you ready to move at once.’

He fell silent and the detectives waited. They saw he had something more to say.

‘When you come to approach him, you’re to do so with your revolvers drawn. Don’t take any chances. If you’re in any doubt as to how dangerous he is, cast your minds back to Wapping and what happened to Benny Costa.’

He paused to give his words time to sink in.

‘And if he makes any move to draw a gun, you’re authorized to shoot him. I take full responsibility. Is that clear?’

Billy nodded. His lips had tightened.

‘Sergeant?’ Sinclair looked at Grace.

‘Oh, don’t worry about me, sir.’ Grace’s grin widened. ‘It won’t bother me none. Not with a cold-blooded bastard like that. Mind you, shooting’s too good for him. I want to see him swing. Or better still, hand him over to the Frenchies. They still use the guillotine, don’t they? Now that would go down with me a treat.’

27

‘I’
M SORRY,
M
R
M
ADDEN,
I really am, but this is something I can’t discuss with you, not until Evie gets back. You must ask her. She spoke to me about that incident on the train, but in strictest confidence. You’ll have to wait until she’s here. It won’t be long now.’

Mary Spencer hung her head. Slightly built, and with fine features set off by a pair of expressive brown eyes, she was clearly upset at having to refuse him, but equally determined not to budge from her resolve. Glancing at the kitchen clock, she tugged distractedly at the buttons on the thick cardigan she was wearing. Her eyes met Madden’s for a moment, then slid away. She reached for the teapot on the table between them.

‘Would you like another cup?’

‘Thank you, no.’

Struggling to contain his frustration, Madden glanced at the clock himself. It was just after half-past twelve. He had arrived at the Grange half an hour earlier having walked from the crossroads where he’d been dropped through a flurry of snow, which had lasted only a few minutes and then cleared. The road had led through a small wood before reaching the fork he’d been told about, where the ruins of an old mill stood by a pond and where he had kept to the right as instructed. Shortly afterwards he had seen the chimneys of a house thrusting up above a ridge and then the place itself, a sprawling brick-built dwelling, larger than the average farmhouse and standing a little way off from the road he was on. A narrow, rutted lane had led to a stable yard at the rear of the house, bordered by stalls behind which Madden glimpsed some pigsties and a chicken run. The yard itself was covered with snow out of which a handsome snowman had been erected quite close to the kitchen door. Some five feet in height and broad in proportion, it had conkers for eyes and a carrot for its nose and was sporting a black bowler tilted rakishly to one side.

The yard had been deserted as he’d entered it through a pair of gateposts stripped of the wrought-iron gates they must once have had, but he had taken only a few steps across the snow-covered cobbles when the back door opened and a woman had put her head out.

‘Yes … can I help you?’

‘I’m looking for Mrs Spencer,’ Madden had replied.

‘I’m Mary Spencer.’ Her tone had been friendly.

‘How do you do. My name’s Madden. John Madden. I live not far away. At Highfield, in Surrey. I took the train over this morning.’ He’d walked across the yard to her. Actually, the person I want to speak to is Eva Belka. I understand she works for you. Would it be possible for me to see her?’

‘Eva … Evie?’ Her eyes had widened in surprise when she heard the name. ‘Yes, of course. But I’m afraid she’s not here at the moment.’

Before Madden had had a chance to respond, he’d been interrupted by a sound, the creak of an unoiled wheel, and glancing behind him he had seen the crouched figure of a man emerge from one of the stalls at the rear of the yard pushing a wheelbarrow heavy with cut logs. Elderly by the look of him, he was bent almost double by the load he was propelling through the snow and Madden had moved instinctively to help him.

‘Here, let me give you a hand with that,’ he’d said.

‘Hello—!’ Taken by surprise – the old fellow had been plodding forward with his head down – he came to a halt, letting go of the wheelbarrow handles as he did so. Its metal supports rang dully on the snow-cushioned cobbles. Between the scarf he had wrapped around his neck and a cap pulled down low, Madden glimpsed a pair of cheeks covered in white stubble and a rheumy eye. ‘Didn’t see you there, sir.’

‘Oh, Hodge, you really mustn’t. That’s much too heavy for you.’ Mrs Spencer came to life. ‘You’ll do yourself an injury.’

She had hurried down the steps from the door, but was too late to prevent Madden from taking hold of the handles himself and wheeling the barrow over to a woodbin that stood against the wall of the house near the back door.