War Damage (23 page)

She laughed – it was so blatant. Ironically, Neville had been right, after all. Alan misunderstood her reaction. He didn't pick up on the anger beneath her smile, and when she said, still smiling, ‘Alan, please! I couldn't possibly,' he persisted.

‘Regine, you're a woman of the world. A little dalliance never harmed anyone.'

‘You forget Dinah's my friend. That sort of thing just isn't done.'

‘Dinah's all taken up with the Courtauld. Got a huge crush on her tutor, Anthony Blunt. I might as well not exist, quite frankly.'

‘Don't be absurd, Alan.' How tiresome it all was. Sadly, she wasn't even surprised. She was quite familiar with husbands whose wives didn't understand them, weren't interested in sex, had a serious illness, or were recovering from childbirth. Appleton had probably bamboozled Cynthia with all the same clichés.

Alan took her hand across the table. ‘I won't take no for an answer.' He tried to look deep into her eyes, yet her intuition told her that this was his way of retreating. She kept the smile on her face, but withdrew her hand. ‘What a flatterer you are, Alan.'

And for this she'd passed up a lunch at Rules with the regal Edith Blake and the bashful William Drownes! Life was so unfair.

She walked along Oxford Street through the crowds of shoppers and office workers as they hurried back from their lunch hour through the grey November air. She had the strangest feeling she was being followed, turned back several times to see if he was behind her and again in the station she looked along the platform, but it wasn't crowded at this time of day and Eugene wasn't there.

It was the same again when she came out of the tube and walked down the hill. He wasn't there, but she kept looking over her shoulder and thinking she heard his soft, mocking laugh.

twenty-three

M
URRAY WAS ON HIS WAY
to join McGovern, who was shadowing a Mosley march at Ridley Road market.

He couldn't get Regine and the Corner House tea dance out of his mind. Perhaps she was a woman of easy virtue, no better than she should be, but if she was – why could he not somehow take advantage? No one need ever know. The memory of her body, lightly pressed to his – there should have been a decorous narrow space between them, but she'd moved closer … But he reined himself in. There was nothing loose or light about her. That afternoon in the Lyons brasserie they'd lingered on. He'd talked about himself and she'd encouraged him, her face intense with interest as he'd poured out his hopes and ambitions. I think you're so brave, Sergeant Murray … Paul … it must be a frightfully difficult job … I don't know how you do it. It was just her beauty and her friendliness that drove men mad and made them jealous because they couldn't reach her. And that tale of her marriage – by rights she'd broken the law, but … she needed his help. He felt so protective towards her. He could not possibly betray her. Neither, though, could he think of how to help her. She could be in real trouble.

As he approached the market he heard shouts. Half a dozen youths exploded out of a side road and hurled themselves onto a passing bus as it slowed on the bend of the road. Blood ran down the face of the one in front.

Three uniformed policemen pelted out into the main road after them, stopped short, looked around, then waited for a moment before disappearing back in the direction of the noise. Murray followed.

A crowd was dispersing, a defiant band of fascists marching away as stallholders disconsolately kicked squashed fruit and broken packing cases into the gutter. As Murray stood on the corner, standing back in a doorway so as not to be seen, but looking out for McGovern, he caught sight of a familiar figure: Stanley Pinelli was loping along talking to another man. Murray recognised the face he'd been told to remember. It was the man who'd been with Carnforth at the Mosley meeting.

Murray and McGovern had agreed that if they missed each other in Ridley Road they'd meet up at their usual café in Whitechapel, so Murray followed the two men. Pinelli looked gangling and awkward beside his companion, who wore a hat and a raincoat and moved lightly with a springy walk. The two men were going in the direction of Dalston Junction.

They turned left into Kingsland Road. On this grey day there was a sullen atmosphere along the battered street, its surviving buildings cracked and grimy, the squalid shops with their listless display of a few miserable wares, seemingly indifferent to customers. The men and women who trudged along the pavement looked dwarfish and shrunken in their shabby clothes. And yet there was something about the dull London streets that went to Murray's heart. They'd stuck together all through the war, he and they, and now they were glued together in something like a long enduring marriage, which might not have been a love match in the first place, but which over the years had become so familiar that it was impossible to imagine life without it.

It was a long walk. There were enough pedestrians for Murray not to have to worry too much about being noticed by the two he was tracking, and although by the time they reached Shoreditch he was footsore, he was glad they hadn't taken a bus, for then he'd have had difficulty in remaining unseen by Pinelli.

He followed them down Commercial Street past Spitalfields market. They turned left again along the Whitechapel Road, trudging on and on until finally Pinelli split off to the right and his companion disappeared into the great forbidding Rowton House near the hospital. And as Murray walked back towards the café to meet McGovern he noticed how new buildings were going up on some of the bomb sites. In the end, he thought, Hitler had done the East End a favour, by destroying the old slums so that new, modern housing estates could take their place. A new, better London would rise in the end from the devastation.

‘Good lad,' said McGovern. ‘You took your time. I'd almost given up waiting, but I'm glad you got here.'

‘I saw a mate of Kenneth Barker's: Stanley Pinelli. We think he might be involved indirectly with the Buckingham murder. We had him in for questioning, but we didn't get anywhere. He denied he was one of Mosley's lot – but then there he was this afternoon.'

‘Och –' McGovern's grunt was as dismissive as it was contemptuous. ‘These wee lads can't resist a bit of a fight. They're too daft, some of them, to understand what it's all about.'

‘He was with another man, who went into that big men's hostel – but he didn't look like a tramp or a down-and-out. But you know what – it was the bloke Carnforth was with at that meeting.' Murray paused. ‘Pinelli could be the key to it all in a way. But Plumer doesn't like the blackshirt angle. He doesn't like it at all.'

McGovern stared at his friend. ‘Have you wondered why that might be?' He looked round the café, quiet in mid-afternoon. The proprietor, a grim-looking man in an apron, was reading the
Daily Sketch
behind the counter. Two solitary customers, who looked as if they might have come from Rowton House, sat at their separate tables and stared into space.

‘What d'you mean?'

McGovern believed he was always better informed than others; his job had nurtured a belief that conspiracies were everywhere and that a complicated explanation was always to be chosen over a simple one. ‘Mosley still has plenty of fans in high places,' McGovern said.

‘You think Plumer's being leant on?'

‘Think about it, laddie. Why's he dragging his feet? He's not exactly pulling all the stops out in this investigation, is he. I'd say he has a dilemma. Here's the press clamouring for a crack-down on gun violence, but he isn't following up the most obvious lead. And, you know, those fights up the Ridley Road – it's nae the blackshirts get done, it's the Jews are ending up in the courts.'

‘At first Plumer did think that Buckingham's murder and Barker's were connected. It seemed so obvious because of the gun. But now he's insisting they're just two messy random episodes in the ongoing war of London's underworld. He won't have it there's a connection.'

McGovern laughed contemptuously. ‘Of course there's a connection; the gun, apart from anything else.'

‘It could have been anyone, he says, any of his underworld mates, that is, who shot Buckingham, then later got in an argument with Barker and shot him too. He won't budge,' said Murray.

McGovern leaned forward. ‘We're well aware of the links between Mosley's lot and the Soho gangs. Last June the blackshirts tried to march through Brighton but there was a big antifascist counterattack and they were routed. So Mosley's lot hired some underworld thugs to get their own back. There was another fight in Romford when the 43 Group tried to disrupt a meeting. Mosley's lot pelted them with potatoes stuck with razor blades. There's Jews and gentiles in the underworld too, you know. Bud Flanagan from the
Crazy Gang
and Jack Spot – they give money to the 43 Group and then their rivals side with the other lot. Ken Barker was very small fry, but – well, just let's say the links are there. If you could sell it to Plumer on the grounds that Barker was involved in these gangs – you don't have to mention the blackshirts.'

Murray shook his head. ‘I don't know. I honestly don't think Plumer is in with Mosley's lot. I just don't think so.'

McGovern looked more knowing than ever. ‘But if he's being
influenced
by someone from higher up—'

‘Are you saying there are senior coppers who support Mosley?'

‘Come on now, Paul, you know there are bent coppers.'

‘Well, bent's one thing, this is different. Politics – you could even say it's treason.'

‘The war's over now, laddie.'

‘If you're right, then how am I going to get him to do anything more about Carnforth?'

‘You could use Pinelli – on the grounds he's just a crook. Think up some yarn – say you've got more on him. Or use that woman you're sweet on – the one who was friends with the pansy – tell Plumer she's given you more information about Carnforth. Say they're threatening to complain because nothing's being done to solve their friend's murder.'

‘I'm not sweet on her …' Murray swallowed. ‘I need some more tea,' he said. ‘How about you?'

He brought the white mugs back to the table and said: ‘That's something else I need your help with. She told me something …'

McGovern heard the story of bigamy in silence. The corner of his mouth twitched. ‘I hope you know what you're getting into,' he commented finally.

‘I'm not getting into anything,' protested Murray.

‘You know best, laddie. But if you're going to help her, maybe she should help you.' He drank off the rest of his tea and stood up. ‘And I'll see if I can dig anything up on this Shanghai husband of hers. Not that it's likely.'

twenty-four

W
HEN MURRAY GOT BACK TO HQ
, Plumer was waiting for him. ‘You're bloody late. What happened to you? There's been a development. The chief's heard from Buckingham's family. There's a will, but they're challenging it. We're going round to see the executor. He's one of the Milner woman's pals. And you know who the other executor is? It's Tommy Warwick. Warwick's the lawyer who acted for Ken Barker last time he was up in court.'

Which was interesting, Murray thought, because Tommy Warwick was bent as hell. That, at least, was the general police view.

Ian Roxburgh's office was hidden away in a turning off Cheapside. Like many Victorian buildings, this had a gothic façade like a church, as if to give a veneer of high-mindedness to the sordid workings of commerce. The frontage was now grimed with dirt, its ornamental brickwork broken in places.

The two policemen trudged up the lino-covered stairs to the third floor. An inconspicuous card, pinned beside a glasspanelled door, stated: Captain Ian Roxburgh – Import Export. They knocked and Roxburgh himself opened the door.

‘We're detectives, Captain Roxburgh, looking into the death of Mr Frederick Buckingham.'

Roxburgh's smile was as clipped as his moustache. ‘Come in.' He stood aside for them, but although his manner was pleasant enough, Murray could tell he wasn't pleased to see them. Then again, who, after all, ever welcomed a visit from the police?

In Murray's view this visit should have been made weeks ago. Now that McGovern had planted the seed of suspicion, Plumer's lethargy appeared to Murray no longer inexplicable, but downright sinister.

He looked round Roxburgh's office. The room was furnished with battered metal filing cabinets and a large desk with splintered corners, its top marked with ink stains. The only wall decoration was a pre-war railway poster, torn at the edges, advertising holidays in Skegness with an image of an impossibly rotund and cherubic man skipping across the sands. The place seemed surprisingly shabby and impermanent for an allegedly successful businessman.

Plumer wasted no time. ‘We understand you're one of the late Mr Buckingham's executors.'

Roxburgh nodded. ‘Yes, that is the case.'

‘And the other is Thomas Warwick of Warwick and Partners.'

‘Yes.'

‘And it seems the Buckingham family is challenging the will.'

‘I believe so, Chief Inspector.' The way he enunciated Plumer's title made him sound insolent rather than deferential.

‘It would be helpful to know the provisions of the will.'

‘What's the form, Chief Inspector? Am I obliged to? Aren't these matters confidential? As his executor, I'm not sure—'

‘This is a murder investigation. I'm sure you'll understand that the provisions of the will may have a bearing on a possible motive.'

‘Freddie was up to his eyes in debt. He'd been living on capital for years and it had pretty much all gone. There'll be nothing. The sale of the house will cover some of what he owes. His photographic archive may be worth a bit – he bequeathed that to the ballet company, but I think it may have to be sold as well – the lawyer's dealing with that side of things.'

‘Mr Milner told us part of the photographic archive you mention is missing,' said Murray.

‘I don't think so. His ballet photographs are all at the house.'

‘These were pornographic photographs.'

Roxburgh raised his eyebrows. ‘Really? I know nothing about this. Some portraits of friends, perhaps. And Neville Milner showed me a glamour photo Freddie had done of his wife, but that's hardly pornography. Of course one gathers Mrs Milner had a bit of a reputation out in Shanghai – in the nicest possible way. And that was a long time ago, before the war. Mind you, she's wasted on that dry stick Neville – well, not dry, since he drinks such a lot. Please don't misunderstand me. I like Regine. I suppose her husband might have been worried in case a slightly saucy picture of his wife got into the papers. But anyway, they had nothing to do with poor Freddie's untimely end. On the contrary, Regine was tremendous friends with Freddie. They had one of those friendships, you know, that men like Buckingham go in for.'

Murray was tense with hostility and suspicion. Probably all the talk about Regine Milner was some kind of smokescreen, intended to put them off the scent – but of what? ‘Mr Milner told us he'd been under the impression he was the executor. It seems odd that Mr Buckingham hadn't informed him of the change. Anything you can tell us about that?'

Roxburgh's disdainful smile and dismissive shrug seemed calculated to annoy Murray. ‘All I know is, he asked me to be his executor. I only know the Milners through him.'

‘How long had you known Mr Buckingham?'

‘Oh … a few months, I suppose.'

‘So you hadn't known him for any length of time? And yet he made you his executor. That was a bit odd, wasn't it, to make a virtual stranger his executor?'

Again the slightly patronising smile to rile Murray; everything about Roxburgh was controlled – his movements, his facial expressions, his tailoring, his starched white shirt and regimental tie – and all equally got up Murray's nose. ‘I wouldn't say we were virtual strangers. We met through mutual friends and found we had quite a lot in common, struck up a rapport, you know.'

Murray wondered if that meant Roxburgh was one of
them
– a pansy. He didn't look it, but then nor had the dead man.

‘What sort of interests?' enquired Plumer stonily.

‘The fact we'd both been in the Far East created a bond,' said Roxburgh smoothly. He hesitated, then: ‘I understand your surprise. I was surprised myself when he asked me to be his executor.' Roxburgh paused. ‘The truth is, I don't think he wanted Neville Milner to know what a frightful mess he was in, financially that is. He was ashamed of the whole thing. Of course now this has happened the Milners will find out everything in any case.'

They waited for Roxburgh to say more, but he smoked silently, looking at them with that irritatingly know-all expression.

‘Were there changes to the provisions of the will as well?' Plumer's pale, flat face was expressionless.

‘I have no idea. He said something about having wanted to leave something to his friend Mrs Hallam, the dancer, or to her son, but there was some difficulty about that. I don't know what it was. I got the feeling her husband disliked him.'

‘Oh? Did you have any occasion to observe them together?'

‘I met them altogether just the once.'

‘What sort of occasion was that?'

‘We met at a restaurant. Buckingham took me to meet them. It wasn't a great success. Hallam didn't seem to be a very sociable sort of chap – or else he wasn't in a sociable mood.'

‘Why did he dislike the dead man? Have you any idea?'

‘Prejudice? Jealousy?' Roxburgh shrugged, Captain Roxburgh, the worldly man about town, looking down on the two plods with their common assumptions and painful absence of sophistication. Murray didn't even try to quell his dislike.

‘Was he at the Milners' afternoon event on the day of the murder?'

Roxburgh frowned. ‘Oh, I don't think so. I'd never seen
her
there before either, his wife, the ballerina. And I tell you who else was there, very unexpected, a government minister. The Board of Trade chappie. But surely the Milners will have talked to you about all this.' He moved some papers around on his desk. He looked at his watch. ‘I have an engagement this evening, so …'

‘You say Mr Buckingham was up to his eyes in debt. Was there any suggestion of blackmail at all?'

‘Not that I know of.'

‘Where were you on the evening Mr Buckingham died?'

Roxburgh took it in his stride. ‘When was it? Remind me of the date.' He leafed through a diary on the desk. ‘I had dinner at my club with a friend. He could vouch for me, I suppose, if necessary. Would you like his name and address?'

‘That would be helpful, sir. It's only a formality, you understand.' Plumer paused. ‘You still haven't told us who stands to benefit from Mr Buckingham's will. Accepting what you say about his financial position, but if there was any money, who would it go to?' Plumer's strong suit in interrogations was his blank neutrality. He seldom displayed emotion. But Roxburgh's calm was a match for him. He rose to his feet. ‘It would go to me – but I assure you that's entirely hypothetical. There won't be a bean.'

‘Thank you for your help, sir,' said Plumer with deadly politeness. Then as he reached the door he turned and looked back at Roxburgh. ‘And what exactly do you import and export, sir?'

‘Tea.'

The detectives found a quiet pub in a side street off High Holborn.

‘He wasn't being straight with us,' said Plumer.

To Murray's way of thinking, the interview had been a kind of slippery mirror in which they'd seen only themselves. Roxburgh
had
given them some information, but Murray had the feeling he'd been tantalising them. There was something concealed, glimpsed round the edge of a curtain as it were; something there in the room that they couldn't see. ‘I thought he was a pretty shifty sort of bloke,' he said, ‘and he didn't bother to conceal how much he looked down on us.'

Plumer looked sideways at the younger man. ‘I imagine his manner is much the same with everyone,' he said mildly, ‘and, you know, Murray, I've said this before, you don't want to take everything so personal. They're not out to get us; we're out to get them, so no wonder they come across a bit dodgy at times. They often are dodgy, of course, but that's another question. You're a smart young man, Paul, don't let that chip on your shoulder get in the way. And don't let winning ways and red hair cloud your judgement. Acting friendly is one thing, but don't overdo it.'

Murray knew that on the rare occasions Plumer addressed him by his first name, kindness was motivating him. And he had no defence where Regine Milner was concerned. But he couldn't resist a dig at Roxburgh. ‘He seemed to be half suggesting that the Milners might have pinched the photos themselves. And isn't it possible the motive for Buckingham's death might have been to get hold of his photographs? In order to blackmail the men who appeared in them? After all, we know now that Appleton's been targeted.'

‘Appleton spent a weekend away with his bit on the side, Mrs Milner's friend. That was back in the spring. Anyone from the hotel could have recognised him. It's odd to have waited till now, but perhaps with the current scandal it seemed the right moment to strike. Anyway,' he added, ‘as I said, we don't even know these photographs exist.'

‘Milner thought they did. And the fact he told us they were missing means it's very unlikely he took them himself.'

Plumer shrugged. ‘Not necessarily. Anyway Milner could have made the whole thing up. It could be some sort of red herring. Of course Buckingham's address book was missing too … but an address book would only be of use to someone who knew the individuals and could marry up the photos.'

Plumer ground out his spent fag and with a fresh one between his lips, said: ‘We'll look a little further into Captain Roxburgh. A tea importer – I think that's just a front. What bona fide tea importer works out of a cupboard like that? With not even a secretary? And I don't like those men who go on using their wartime titles – Colonel this, Major that. He wasn't in the regular army.
And
he was only a captain.'

That evening Murray took Irene to the flicks. She chose
Another Shore
, because it starred Robert Beatty. Murray had to admit the actor was good-looking, but the plot was a facetious frolic, full of Irish whimsy and stereotype. He was bored stiff. It was as much as he could do to sit through it, but Irene was enraptured and shed tears of laughter. Murray thought about Regine Milner, although he tried and tried to get her out of his mind and concentrate on the feeble little film.

On the walk home Irene irritated him with her chatter about the film, interrupting his daydreams. He snapped at her. She usually respected his moods. She was a good girl, of course, and pretty, but – she was so practical and sensible.
She
didn't need protecting, she didn't gaze at him in admiration, although she deferred to him, and all she talked about was saving up and getting married.

‘What's the matter, Paul? You're so moody lately. Don't you love me any more?'

‘Don't be ridiculous.' But on her doorstep he turned on his heel. Usually they had a kiss and a cuddle on the sofa in her parents' sitting room. Now he left her in tears and marched along the road with rage in his heart because she wasn't Regine Milner.