Princes Gate (33 page)

“Yes, indeed. Well, keep on eye on the investigation and on Norton. I’ll be in touch after we’ve heard what Mr Kennedy has to tell us.” The phone clicked and the line went dead.

Zarb finished his tea, stood up and walked over to the window. While he had been talking, a thick mist had descended on Grosvenor Square. Disembodied heads bobbed along the pavement nearest the Embassy. He enjoyed watching this odd spectacle for a while before returning to his desk. Pulling a thick file towards him, he attempted to put the Ambassador, Arthur Norton and the dead employees out of his mind by reading the latest batch of intelligence reports from the Continent.

One of the bobbing heads belonged to Kathleen Donovan, who was on an errand to bring some correspondence and files to Zarb’s office. As she emerged from the fog of Grosvenor Square into the brightly-lit hallway of the Embassy, Arthur Norton was coming out of the gentlemen’s toilets to the right of the reception area. He stood for a moment straightening his tie and doing up the buttons of his overcoat, then noticed her. Her back was to him as she walked towards the reception desk and he took the time to appreciate her glowing hair, her curves, her legs. He was a connoisseur of beauty and she figured high in the rankings, as had Joan. Poor Joan. He sighed. “Kathleen. How are you?”

She started and dropped one of the letters she was carrying.

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to surprise you. Let me get that.” He bent down to get the letter but she reached it first. She looked up to find Norton’s face inches from hers. He reeked of after-shave and she put her hand to her mouth. They rose slowly to their feet.

“How do you do, Mr Norton. You’ll forgive me if I don’t stop to chat, won’t you, but I have some letters to deliver to Mr Zarb and Miss Edgar wants me back as soon as possible.”

“Of course, dear girl, of course. Time and Miss Edgar wait for no man, or woman. Glad to see you’re back on the job. I understand you weren’t very well. And then there’s that sad business with your friends. Such a nice girl Joan and poor Johnny. Who could have wished either of them any harm? It’s so puzzling.”

She bit her lip to forestall the tears she knew were close to the surface. “Yes, well. If you’ll please excuse me.” She turned and just managed to avoid Norton’s hand on her rear as she hurried to the stairs.

Norton remained in the middle of the lobby enjoying the charming swing of her hips as she retreated. He smiled as he put on his gloves. He was in a good mood. He wasn’t even feeling miffed that his hand had missed its target. So Miss Kathleen Donovan, you think you’re so perfect. Too good for Arthur Norton, are you? Joan thought that too. We’ll see, won’t we? We’ll see.

Back in his office, Merlin found out from Robinson that she’d identified the doctor who Joan Harris had visited. This Dr Jones, with a practice just off Brook Green, remembered the girl and, moreover, remembered her being accompanied by a man. A patient with an urgent condition had interrupted before the doctor could give her a description of the man, but in any event Robinson had arranged for a sketch artist to visit the surgery the following morning. From Cole he learned that the Land Registry showed ownership of the Kensington Mews residing with two companies whose background Cole would be investigating at Companies House the next day.

Merlin was sitting back in his chair with a feeling that the fog was slowly beginning to lift just a little, when Inspector Johnson appeared at the door.

“Sit down, Peter. Got anywhere with Fraser?”

Johnson shook his head. “I went out to the country yesterday to see Lady Pelham. She was the hostess of the weekend party to which he was driving when he supposedly ran into the deer. She remembered him mentioning such an accident.”

“That doesn’t prove much.”

“No. Except that he’s been consistent with this story from day one.”

“And forensics?”

“No progress, sir. The only fresh information I’ve got is the names of the others at the party, who will no doubt confirm hearing Fraser’s story. I’m wondering whether it’s worthwhile speaking to them. I don’t really like giving up but the A.C. thinks I should pack it in. Says he’d like me, with your approval, to move over to either the dock case or to our IRA investigations.” Johnson’s shoulders slumped with resignation.

“Anything more on the victim?”

“Not really. The Ministry have clammed up completely.”

“Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?” Merlin gazed up at the ceiling.

“Sir?”

“Whether there’s something more to this. You know. Scientific boffin providing important advice to the MOD. Enemy activity perhaps?”

“Of course I’ve considered that but I really think Fraser’s the man. Whether he had some sort of motive, rather than it being an accident – well there’s little point worrying about that when we can’t pin the physical facts on him.”

“I don’t like throwing in the towel either. I suggest you give it another forty-eight hours, Peter. See what turns up. I don’t want to hamper your case but since your Mr Fraser is a friend of Norton’s and was seen with him and Miss Harris, I might want a routine chat with him myself. See if he’s got anything on Norton. Will that be alright?”

Johnson nodded and headed for the door.

“Hang on a minute, Peter. You might be interested in this.” Merlin walked over to the box of Myerson’s photos which Bridges and Cole had lugged up the stairs earlier and, after lifting the cover Bridges had taped onto it, removed a few photographs and passed them to his colleague.

Johnson caught his breath. “Strong stuff. Where are they from?”

“The work of someone called Bernie Myerson, a photographer who’s in cahoots with Morrie Owen, the uncle of one of our victims.”

“Are these pictures connected with your murders?”

“Perhaps. We’ll just have to sift through the box and see. But these girly pictures aren’t all. Take a look at this.”

From his jacket pocket he produced another photograph of naked flesh.

Johnson’s cheeks reddened slightly. “Anyone you know?”

Merlin held the picture up close and inspected the two entangled bodies.

“This chap here, with his arm up, is someone called Freddie Douglas. He’s an official at the Foreign Office. A colleague of your Mr Fraser in fact. Quite high-ranking apparently. And this other one on his front, it’s not so clear but I think I have an idea.”

Merlin found Jack Stewart settled in a warm and cosy cubbyhole of The Surprise, his head buried in a newspaper. It was getting late and Merlin was thirsty. He had spent the remainder of the afternoon carefully going through Myerson’s photographs. He had recognised none of the girls in the developed photographs and the negatives had been sent off to the police laboratories for processing. Johnson had given him Lady Pelham’s guest list and he hadn’t really been surprised to see the names of Norton and Douglas. However, the photograph of Douglas certainly opened a new range of possibilities.

Stewart looked up as his friend squeezed onto the bench.

“Francisco. Buenas noches. Let me get you a pint.”

“No, I’ll do it. The usual?”

Merlin returned from the bar with two pints of Courage.

“Not so crowded tonight, is it?”

“No, amigo. It’ll fill up before closing time though. People need beer to lubricate their dreams and drown their fears.”

“Very poetic.”

Stewart struck a recitative pose, his head angled back and glistening eyes fixed on some distant object above the bar.

“‘Such hilarious visions clamber

Through the chamber of my brain.

Quaintest thoughts, queerest fancies

Come to life and fade away.

What care I how time advances?

I am drinking ale today.’”

Merlin smiled and nodded with approval before closing his eyes in concentration. A moment later he banged his hand on the table. “Edgar Allan Poe! Am I right?” Stewart clapped his hands slowly and grimaced before looking expectantly at his friend. Merlin swilled his beer around in his glass before copying his friend’s artistic pose.

“‘Here, with my beer I sit,

While golden moments flit.

Alas they pass unheeded by

And, as they fly,

I, being dry,

Sit, idly sipping here

My beer.’”

Merlin relaxed as Stewart ummed and aahed for a couple of minutes before signalling defeat with a shrug.

“George Arnold.”

“That is bloody obscure, Frank! Have you nothing from Cervantes? You’ve usually got something from him.”

“Here’s one for you. ‘Cada uno es hijo de sus obras’.”

“Enlighten me.”

“‘Every man is the son of his works’. Nothing to do with pubs but I think it covers you nicely.”

“And not you?”

“No, I’m the son of my father. He’s the one who drilled
Don Quixote
into me. And all that English poetry. ‘My two heritages’, as he kept on saying before the Zeppelin got him. Anything in the paper?”

“Nothing. Don’t know why I’m bothering to read it. You’d think wee old Adolf would have the courtesy to advertise his plans, wouldn’t you? We’re going mad with boredom at the station. Cups of tea, biscuits, incredibly dull conversations with one’s colleagues, more cups of tea. If only the Fuhrer would just put a neat little notice in the paper, you know: ‘Herr Hitler requests the presence of your company at his bombing party which will commence at 7pm in the West End of London on Thursday, March 1
^st
, helmets will be worn, etcetera,’ well, that would give us all something to focus on, wouldn’t it?”

Merlin smiled and took the froth off his beer.

“Gather you saw my Polish friend this morning.”

“News travels fast.”

“I saw her at lunchtime. Asked me if I had any coppers for friends.”

“Did she?”

“I denied any such friendships.”

“Naturally.”

“Find out anything worthwhile?”

“From your perspective, she vehemently denied being on the game. Said she was just supplementing her meagre shopgirl’s income with the tips she gets at Morrie’s club. She was most indignant in pointing out that she never went home with customers.”

“Think she’s telling the truth?”

“You know, I think I do.”

“That’s nice of you, Frank.” Stewart doffed an imaginary hat in appreciation. “Did she have anything to say which helped your case?”

“She recognised Joan Harris. Said she was in the club a few times with Arthur Norton. She also saw Joan Harris another time and I was hoping you might be able to help me there.”

“Me. How so?”

“She says she was on a date at Quaglino’s with, she thinks you, before Christmas, in November or December. She can’t remember, and she saw Joan Harris at another table. Do you remember?”

“I have taken her to Quaglino’s a couple of times. Once before Christmas and once a few weeks ago. How can I help?”

“She says she saw Joan Harris having dinner with a man she thinks had a New England accent. It could have been Norton, but as she herself pointed out, Norton is a pig and Joan was very happy with the man she was with, so the chances are that it was another man. Did you notice this couple? Apparently they were at a nearby table next to a pillar.”

Stewart stared into his drink.

“Sorry, Frank. I have to say rather cornily that, whenever I’ve been with Sonia, I’ve only had eyes for her. Can’t say I noticed any Americans or other beautiful young things. But maybe I can help a little. I’m quite friendly with the maitre d’ at Quaglino’s. Usually getting these types to give information is like trying to prise open an oyster with a toothpick. Ernesto owes me a few favours, though. I’ll see if I can get him to open up his reservations records to me.”

“Thanks, Jack, but I’d already thought that we could do that.”

“Trust me. If you go as the police to see him you won’t get any worthwhile information. Leave it to me please.” Stewart rose and tapped their empty glasses.

Merlin stretched his legs under the table. “I should tell you something else.”

Stewart paused, tankards in hand.

“If the American gentlemen in question was not Arthur Norton, I have an idea who it might have been, and if it was that person, I’m going to be in something of an awkward position.”