Murder by the Book (13 page)

That evening he poured himself a Scotch, sat in his armchair by the window and tried to read for review. He found it impossible to concentrate; the story seemed trite, the characters one-dimensional. He laid the book aside and poured another drink, telling himself that he could still smell the heady scent of Maria's eau de cologne.

T
wo days later Langham drove south to Wandsworth and parked outside a shabby row of premises which consisted of a run-down betting office, a fish-and-chip shop and a tobacconist's.

The Ryland and Hope Investigative Agency had its headquarters – as Ralph Ryland liked to call the poky, flyblown office – above the chip shop. It was the cheapest place for rent along the row, on account of the smell of fish and stale dripping that drifted up through the cracked linoleum, though Ryland had never stopped claiming that it was only a temporary measure. When the agency made it big, he said, they would move lock, stock and barrel to the West End.

They had occupied the current premises for as long as Langham could recall.

The same blue carpet adhered to the soles of his shoes as he climbed the steps and rapped on the door.

Ralph Ryland sat behind a desk, his chair tipped back and his winklepickers lodged on the blotter. He was a whippet-thin, balding man in his mid-forties, with the shifty, sharp look of an East End spiv. He kept a meticulously clipped moustache and a Woodbine continually burning beneath it.

He quickly removed his feet from the desk when Langham pushed open the door. ‘Oh, it's you, Don,' he said, replacing his feet. ‘Thought I had a punter for a second there. Cuppa?' His cigarette waved in time to his words like a conductor's baton.

‘Earl Grey?'

Ryland laughed. ‘You'll have Typhoo like the rest of us plebs, mate.'

Langham sat down on a rickety chair while Ryland poured strong tea into a chipped mug. He drew the revolver from his overcoat pocket and slid it across the desk. ‘Thanks for this, Ralph.'

Ryland resumed his tipped-back position against the wall. ‘Now, you going to tell me what malarkey you've been up to?' He pinched the Woodbine from his lips with fingertips stained the colour of cockroaches and flicked the accumulated ash on to the carpet. ‘I take it the shooter was for more than research purposes, right?'

‘You're sharp, Ralph. Ever thought of opening a detective agency?'

‘Thought about it, but heard there's no money in the lark.'

Langham sipped his tea, which was dreadful. ‘A good friend of mine is being blackmailed.'

Ryland grimaced and the cigarette stood up like a flagpole. ‘Nasty. What's he done?'

‘Gross indecency. I suppose the legal term would be pederasty.'

‘And just how good a friend is this friend, Don?'

He wouldn't be drawn, either to refute the degree of his friendship, or to divulge his agent's name. He trusted Ralph, but he didn't trust the investigator not to talk when he hit the bottle, which was often these days.

‘He's someone I know in publishing, and he's a good man. Anyway, someone photographed him with a rent-boy.'

He gave Ralph the broad outlines of the case, detailing the delivery he'd made to the bombed-out mill and then the abortive trailing of the motorcyclist.

Ryland whistled. ‘A hundred for starters and then upped it to five hundred? The guy means business.'

‘He has my friend between the old rock and a hard place.'

‘And you thought you could handle it yourself?'

Langham shrugged. ‘I thought I'd give it a go. But after what happened in Sussex … and something else.'

‘Yes?'

He thought back to the minutes after the blackmailer had coshed him in the mill. He gave Ryland the details. ‘Then he placed a gun to my head. My impression was that he was minded to shoot me … but some kids saw him and he scarpered.'

Ryland's shoulders, as slim as a ferret's, lifted in a shrug. ‘Why would he do that?'

‘Anger that I, instead of my friend, had delivered the cash? But why escalate his crime from blackmail to murder? It worried me.'

‘You want me to see if I can find out who the geezer is?'

‘Well, you're the professional. I just write about these things.'

Ryland nodded and tipped his chair upright, suddenly businesslike. ‘OK, so what have you got so far?'

Langham recounted everything, from his encounter with Kenneth at the Hackney baths to the shooting out of Maria's tyres. He described the blackmailer from Kenneth's description of him, then gave Ryland the bullets and the pictures of the footprint and the tyre track he'd had developed yesterday.

Ryland examined the bullets. ‘They're from a service revolver, a .38. Most likely an Enfield. Leave them with me. I'll get an expert to check them out.' He looked at the photographs. ‘You said he was riding a motorbike? Catch the make?'

‘A Triumph Thunderbird.'

‘CC?'

Langham shook his head. ‘I never got that close. There's one other thing – he smokes Camel cigarettes. For what it's worth, one of the envelopes containing a blackmail demand had a Streatham postmark.'

Ryland nodded. ‘Not a lot to go on.' He thought about it. ‘There's not much I can do until your friend gets the next demand. As soon as he does, get it to me, OK? How do you want this played?'

‘Well, the main thing is that the police don't get wind.'

‘Understood. The way I see it …' Ryland nipped the tab end from his mouth, ground it out in a full ashtray, and immediately lit another. ‘Way I see it, we need to get hold of the evidence. The photographs and the negatives.'

‘That's what I thought.'

‘I'll try to trace the bastard and put the frighteners on him until he blabs where the stuff is,' Ryland said. ‘It'll cost your friend, though.'

‘I'm sure it won't be as much as the next demand.'

Ryland grinned. ‘I'll do it for fifty, plus expenses.'

Langham reached out and shook Ryland's thin, cold hand. He took another sip of tea, decided that it really was too foul to finish, and left the cup on the desk.

‘Oh—' Ryland gestured to a bookshelf stuffed with tatty paperbacks, many of them copies of Langham's titles. ‘When's the next one out?'

‘Just before Christmas. I'll send you a copy.'

Ryland saluted with three fingers. ‘Nice one, Captain.'

‘I'll be in touch, Ralph.' Langham left the office and hurried down the sticky stairs.

He drove home slowly, satisfied that he'd done the right thing. He wondered if he'd been a fool to have thought he could handle the problem himself. Perhaps … but he wasn't such a fool to ignore what had happened to Maria's Sunbeam the other day. He had every confidence in Ryland; the man might not look like everyone's idea of a private detective, and he did like his drink, but he was respected in the business as someone who worked doggedly on a case till he solved it or could take it no further.

It was five by the time he reached his flat, and he wondered if it was too short notice to ring Maria and suggest dinner that evening. He poured himself a beer and stood by the window, staring out on the busy street. Late sunlight slanted through the elms spaced along the pavement, and pedestrians hurried like film extras past the shops on the far side of the road. He saw another old codger in a sandwich board, this one advertising Oxo cubes.

He was still wondering whether it would be wise to call Maria when the phone rang.

He hurried into the study and picked up the receiver. ‘Hello?'

‘Donald …'

‘Maria, I was just about to—'

‘Donald, I've just had a call from Charles's solicitor.'

Langham sat down quickly. ‘What's happened?'

‘Charles was arrested earlier today. He's at Bow Street police station.'

‘Arrested?' His heartbeat sounded loud in his ears. ‘He gave himself up?'

‘No …' There was a catch in her voice. She gathered herself and went on: ‘No, he didn't. His solicitor said that the police had “been in receipt of certain incriminating documents …” That can only mean one thing.'

Something as cold as ice turned in his stomach. ‘But that doesn't make sense. Why would the blackmailer …?'

‘I know, I know. It's crazy … I'm going to the station now to try and see Charles. The police are opposing bail, but his solicitor said he'd apply anyway when Charles goes before the magistrate in the morning. He'll be in custody until then.'

‘Did he say how much bail might be, if it were to be granted?'

‘No. I'm sorry, I didn't ask. Donald, I was wondering … I feel sick. I don't feel up to driving. Could you possibly …?'

‘I'll pick you up in ten minutes,' he said. ‘I want to see Charles myself, if they'll allow visitors.'

‘Oh, Donald, Donald … what's going to happen?'

The misery in her voice made him want to hold her. ‘I'll be right over, Maria.'

He pulled on his overcoat and hurried from the flat, wondering why the blackmailer would staunch his source of income by turning in the goose that laid the golden eggs.

L
angham pulled up in front of Maria's apartment, leaned over and opened the passenger door. She appeared at the top of the steps wearing a belted fawn mackintosh and a tiny hat that clung to the side of her head like a limpet. She hurried down the front steps and ducked into the car.

He had wondered how to greet her, but his dilemma was solved when she reached for him. They hugged. She pulled away and dabbed at her eyes, drying tears.

Langham started the engine and pulled out into the street, heading towards Bow.

‘It was such a shock, Donald, when the solicitor called. All I could think of was poor Charles, locked in a police cell.'

‘With luck he'll be out in the morning.'

‘I hope so.' She opened her compact and powdered her cheeks, peering intently at her reflection in the tiny mirror.

‘I've been trying to work out why the blackmailer might have turned him in,' Langham said.

‘Does it make sense to you?'

‘On the face of it, no. Why would the blackmailer put an end to a potentially lucrative and indefinite source of income? I came up with two possible reasons. One is that he thought he'd get out while he was ahead. He's made six hundred from Charles, and so he's happy with that – especially after we tried to trail him the other day.'

Maria thought about it. ‘But it still doesn't make sense. Very well, so he thought he would get out while he was ahead, perhaps fearing that next time we might trace him or whatever. But surely if that were so, then he'd merely stop making the demands – but leave himself the option of threatening Charles in future.'

Langham sighed. ‘That's what he'd do, logically. But what about this: perhaps this isn't so much about making money, but destroying Charles. The demands were just a way of making a bit of cash before he did what he always intended to do: turn Charles in and watch him suffer.'

Maria pulled a pained face. ‘But who would do such a terrible thing?'

‘Someone who bears a hell of a grudge against Charles.'

‘But Charles is a sweetheart, Donald. Surely no one could bear such a grudge?'

‘Who knows?'

He told her about his visit to Ryland that afternoon. ‘I thought it best to get a professional on the case. I was hoping there'd be another demand so that Ryland could investigate. This latest turn of events isn't going to make his job any easier.'

She smiled at him. ‘I'm pleased you did that.'

He glanced at her. ‘You are?'

‘It shows that you know when you're beaten. Many men would have … what is the phrase? … ploughed on regardless. At least you had the humility to engage a professional.'

He smiled. ‘I admit I'm not Sam Brooke,' he said. ‘Perhaps a small part of me thought I was, for a while.'

She reached out and squeezed his arm. ‘You're a good writer and a fine friend to Charles.'

He parked in a side street off Bow Road and they hurried round the corner to the ugly Victorian building that housed the police station and magistrate's court.

Maria linked arms with him, then paused at the foot of the steps to the police station. ‘One moment.' She took a deep breath. ‘I am not looking forward to this, Donald. I just hope Charles is bearing up.'

He squeezed her hand. ‘Come on, let's show our support.'

They climbed the steps and passed through a tiled atrium that reminded Langham, in its stark functionality, of the entrance to Hackney Public Baths. The only difference here was that the tiles were not white but sky blue and navy, and the posters on the walls exhorted citizens to lock their cars and beware of pickpockets.

A beefy sergeant was on duty behind the desk, and he eyed Maria as she strode towards him.

‘Mr Charles Elder's solicitor contacted me earlier this evening, Sergeant.'

He consulted a log book. ‘Mr Winstanley is with the accused at the moment. He should be out presently.'

‘Do you know if Mr Elder will be granted bail?'

‘That's really not for me to say, Miss …?'

‘Dupré. Maria Dupré. Will we be able to see Charles when—?'

The sergeant looked surprised. ‘I'm afraid not, Miss Dupré. Mr Elder has been arrested on a serious charge. Visits are out of the question. I'm sorry. Now if you'd care to take a seat, Mr Winstanley should be finished shortly and he'll brief you …' The sergeant indicated a bench facing the desk.

Langham took her arm and led her away. They sat side by side on the uncomfortable wooden bench and Maria whispered, ‘This place depresses me.'

He looked around. ‘It's not exactly the foyer of the Ritz, is it?'

She removed her gloves and smoothed them out on her lap.