Princes Gate (10 page)

“Come on. It’ll do you good.”

“Alright then, but…?”

“What?”

“You’re telling the truth – Joan wasn’t anything to you was she?

“Of course not.” He bent down and gave her a quick hug. “I’ll go and get those drinks.”

Merlin leaned back in his chair and planted both his feet on the desk. He felt exhausted. It had been a long day. After his trip to Hammersmith he had joined Bridges at Princes Gate for the interviews of embassy staff. It was past eight by the time they got back to the Yard.

“So what do you make of all that, Sergeant?”

“You learned more about Joan Harris at her lodgings than we did from all our interviews.”

Merlin scratched his neck where his shirt collar was particularly stiff.

“Pretty unhelpful bunch weren’t they? Apart from that Irish girl, no one admits to having had more than a work relationship – and none of the men acknowledged the slightest interest in her, which is a little hard to believe. You couldn’t tell from the mortuary slab but I found a photograph of her in her lodgings and she was a very pretty girl. Here, look.”

Bridges took the photograph and whistled.

“Almost as pretty as my Iris.”

Merlin smiled. He, together with everyone else in CID, was well aware of the extent of his Sergeant’s besottedness with his wife of three months.

“I missed Morgan. Did he have anything interesting to say?”

“Not really. Said Miss Harris was a nice, quiet girl. Said he passed the time of day with her. That was about it.”

“Confident sort of chap, Morgan, for such a young man in his position. What’s his background?”

Bridges searched through his notebook. “Up to London from South Wales about eighteen months ago. Says an uncle of his living here helped him to get his driving licence and then a friend of his uncle’s gave him an introduction to the Embassy. He was then given a junior chauffeur’s job and has been doing that for about a year.”

The Sergeant’s attention was drawn to a hole in one of Merlin’s shoes. He knew all about holes in shoes did Sam Bridges, and it pained him to see his boss’s in that state. The man desperately needed a woman’s attention, as Iris kept on telling him.

“His background needs a bit more looking into.”

Bridges rubbed wearily at his right eye.

“Will do, sir, but do you mind if I get off home now? Iris said she’d be cooking something special for me tonight.”

Merlin wondered sceptically to what heights Iris’ culinary skills might rise then reproved himself for his meanness. “No, of course. You get on home and enjoy what remains of the evening. We’ve got a few more people to interview tomorrow, haven’t we?”

“A couple of the junior staff were out of the office and we couldn’t get to see some of the more senior people. Here’s the list.”

“Thanks. Goodnight, Sam. Enjoy your meal.”

Several of the names listed meant nothing to Merlin but he recognised some of the senior people. Bridges had put down the Ambassador and his family for form’s sake, but the A.C. would probably have kittens if he got on the phone to Kennedy in Boston or wherever he was. Mr Zarb, the First Secretary, remained to be seen. And Arthur Norton’s name was there. A couple of Morgan’s chauffeur colleagues had also been unavailable for today’s interviews.

His stomach ached with hunger. Lunch, of course, had been a washout and he was starving now. Perhaps he’d stop off for a pie and mash in Victoria, or maybe fish and chips. A brief glance at the photograph of his wife, which he kept in the top drawer of his desk, gave him a different ache in the pit of his stomach. He pinched himself before heading down the stairs and out into the freezing night.

The sharp disc of the full moon shone down, brightly lighting their way. She leaned against his shoulder as he struggled with the stiff lock on the street door. Eventually the door gave and he pulled her up the small flight of stairs. Another lock had to be negotiated but he managed this more easily. Morgan flicked on a light and she saw a bed-sitting room larger and more expensively furnished than her own. “God, it’s cold in here, isn’t it?” He struck a match and lit the gas fire.

“This is a nice place. How did you manage…”

He shrugged then pulled her roughly towards him.

“No, Johnny. I really shouldn’t be here. I must be getting back home. It’s very late and I need to be back at work early tomorrow as Miss Edgar has a pile of things for me to do.” She pulled away.

“Come on, Kathleen. Don’t be boring. I’ve got a bottle of whisky here that someone gave me. Let’s have a nightcap.”

She sat down in the room’s one armchair, while Morgan stretched out at length on the bed. She had already drunk more than she’d ever drunk before. Was it four or five ginand-its? Four, she thought, but were they singles or doubles? She felt giddy and her head was pounding.

Morgan rose from the bed and pulled a bottle of whisky and glasses down from a shelf. “Here you are. Take a swig of this. Best Scottish malt whisky. Macallan it’s called. It’s very smooth. You’ll love it.”

The amber liquid gleamed in the low lamplight as he poured out two glasses.

“No, really, Johnny. I’ve had too much to drink. I don’t like whisky anyway.”

He held out a glass. As she continued to refuse it he lurched forward, tripped and sent the drinks flying.

“Look what you’ve done, you stupid man.”

Morgan displayed a lopsided grin as he raised himself up from the floor. “Not to worry, sweetheart. I’ll clean it up for you.” He moved to a basin by the side of the bed and ran water over a flannel. Kathleen stood in the other corner of the room patting herself down.

“This is my best dress, Johnny Morgan, and look what you’ve done to it now. It’s ruined.”

“No it isn’t. Don’t worry.” He brought the sopping flannel over and started mopping at the stains.

“Give me that. I’ll do the mopping, thank you.”

“Oh come on, let me help you, Kathleen. There’s a spot right there.” He raised his hand to cover her right breast.

“What are you…?”

“And there’s another spot.” His other hand moved to her left breast.

“You cheeky boy. Leave me alone.” Her attempts to sound righteously indignant faltered as she noticed that there was something quite pleasant about the way Morgan’s hands were moving.

“That’s nice, isn’t it? You’ve got a beautiful body, you know, sweetheart.” His left hand slid down and stroked her lower back before moving below.

“Stop it. Stop it.” His right hand turned her face towards his and he kissed her lips hard. She struggled to pull away.

“Johnny. This isn’t fair. I’ve had too much to drink. I’ve not done this sort of thing before.”

“Don’t worry. I have. Leave it to me. I know what I’m doing.” He kissed her again on the lips and then bent, kissing her breasts through the fabric of her dress. His hands moved to her legs and lifted the hem of her dress slowly up to her waist.

“Don’t hurt me, Johnny.”

“I won’t. Trust me.”

As the nearby church clock chimed, he got out of the bed and lit a cigarette. Muffled sobbing sounds came from the pillow in which Kathleen’s face was buried. He went to the window and half opened it. The moon still shone down brightly on the mews. Across the way he thought he saw a moving shadow. A moment later he heard the sound of a dustbin rolling on the ground. He threw the remains of his cigarette out of the window and got back into the bed.

“There, there, sweetheart. It always hurts a bit the first time. You’ll enjoy it more second time round.”

He took a glass from the sink, ran the tap and dropped something in it. “Here you are. Have a little Eno’s liver salts. This’ll make you feel better.”

Merlin decided to walk home. He hadn’t had a good long walk since before Christmas. When he was younger he had been a keen soccer man, turning out regularly for one of the police teams. He hadn’t been a bad player. There had even been some talk of him playing professionally. Scouts from Fulham, Chelsea and the Arsenal had come to watch him. He had been a dashing inside left with a strong right-footed shot and a good head. There had been some overtures from the Chelsea and Arsenal scouts. Requests had been made several times for him to play in trials but he had declined. He hadn’t been able to see much future in it and, though he liked football, the police was his first love. So he passed on the chance. He’d never regretted it but after giving up playing in his thirties he had come to miss the feeling of wellbeing which came with the high level of fitness he’d had to maintain. When he got married he took up tennis, which was a sport Alice had played since her youth, and he enjoyed the game. That had helped him keep in shape but since Alice’s death he hadn’t picked up a racquet. His lean figure these days owed little to exercise and much to nervous stress and missing too many meals.

Tonight would see another missed meal as, by the time he had reached the end of Birdcage Walk and mulled over his morning visit to the morgue, his yen for a pie and mash or anything else had vanished.

He looked up at the Palace. He knew that the sentries were standing out in the cold beyond the sandbags in the courtyard, but although it was a clear night he couldn’t see them. There
was no sign of life, although he knew the King and Queen were in residence. The full moon shone and the stars sparkled brilliantly in a still bomberless sky. Gloomy lines from a Robert Louis Stevenson poem came suddenly to his mind: “Under the wide and starry sky, dig the grave and let me lie”. He shivered.

The quickest way home from the Palace was through Victoria, Eaton Square and Sloane Square. The pavements here had been cleared of most of the ice and snow. He decided to extend his exercise and take a roundabout route home. He walked up Constitution Hill to Hyde Park Corner. Then instead of going down the Brompton Road past Harrods he headed towards Kensington. The odd blinkered car drove by. A couple of drunks weaved their way past him, almost knocking him over.

It was nearly chucking out time and he realised that he was very thirsty. Alcohol didn’t appeal but a glass of lemonade would be nice. He just had time to grab a drink before the pubs closed.

He was near Princes Gate and knew a nice little place around the corner. As he was entering, a young couple, much the worse for wear, fell giggling out of the swing doors. Merlin stood back to let them pass before making his way to the bar. “Have I time for a lemonade?”