War Damage (27 page)

He moved back, still holding her arm. ‘No, you're right. This isn't the time or the place.' He obviously found it amusing. ‘Although in the fog – the last man and woman in the world …'

‘How are we going to get out of here?'

‘I can get my bearings now, I can work out which way to go. We'll walk this way. The underground station is at the end of the street.'

She had no choice but to stick to his side.

In the trackless palls of swirling solid air they walked with slow uncertain steps, like, she thought, a bizarre, blind couple suddenly struck by age and infirmity, going God knows where.

‘The trains will be running.'

She wasn't sure of that, but at last they reached a turning and the dim glow of the Aldersgate station sign.

She could see his face now in the brackish light of the underground foyer. He smiled. ‘You see, I brought you safely through the fog. But I'm afraid we'll have to postpone our little luncheon to another day. I'll ring you. In the meantime –' and he looked her up and down as though she were as much a piece of meat as the carcasses in Smithfield, ‘you'll think about what we've talked about, won't you. And I'll be thinking about our next meeting. I'm sure we'll both enjoy it. But I wouldn't mention it to Neville if I were you – well, I'm sure you wouldn't dream of that. You wouldn't want Neville to discover he's a bigamist – or is Neville just an adulterer? Is it only you that's committed bigamy?' And before she could answer he bent towards her, his mouth bruising hers, the moustache scraping her lips, his body tight against her.

Throughout a journey punctuated by long delays, what most puzzled Regine was how Roxburgh had known she and Neville had been round to Freddie's house the day after the murder.

As soon as she reached home she telephoned Paul Murray.

twenty-eight

M
URRAY COULD TELL
Plumer hadn't enjoyed Yorkshire, although the guv'nor's pale, closed-in face was as flat and inexpressive as ever, and all he said to Murray was: ‘Bloody waste of time.' So it was risky to come clean about the interview with Pinelli, but Murray knew he had to, although it meant risking Plumer's displeasure or even, worse, some kind of permanent rift.

Plumer looked paler than ever. ‘Who told you to bring Mosley's lot into it?'

‘Pinelli was seen with a friend of Carnforth's and Carnforth and this third man attended a rally where Mosley spoke. And Pinelli admits to passing stolen goods to Carnforth, goods stolen from Buckingham's house in Chelsea. He also admits to going to the house with Barker, who had the keys.'

‘I told you to leave all that alone. And you argue from that, that Carnforth had something to do with the murder. Pure speculation, Murray. It's no concern of ours whether Carnforth is a blackshirt or not. It may explain how he could have known Ken Barker, but that's all.'

‘Several witnesses have told us Carnforth hated Buckingham, sir.'

‘He's hardly the sort of man who'd hire a killer.'

‘Not hire, sir, but given they knew each other …' Murray knew he'd gone much too far, he'd exceeded his authority. To have interviewed Pinelli like that was tantamount to mutiny. Suppose he was disciplined – demoted – even lost his job – his mother would be devastated …

Plumer coughed horribly, a long, bubbling, hacking cough that seemed to surge up from the bottom of his lungs and nearly sent his cigarette hurtling from his mouth. The paroxysm over, he stubbed the cigarette out and lit another. ‘Very well. We'll interview Carnforth,' he said, ‘but as a potential witness. And in my office, not the interviewing room.'

Carnforth looked round suspiciously as he entered Plumer's sanctum, like a bull being coaxed into a pen. His raincoat caught on a chair as he passed. He pulled at it clumsily, embarrassed.

‘Where would you like me to sit?' As if all the chairs were too small.

Cigarettes were lit. Carnforth didn't smoke. He sat with his large hands clasped in front of him, holding the rather unusual black tweed cap he'd pulled off in the entrance hall. That must have been how he'd looked at school, Murray thought: awkward, shy, unattractive.

‘As you know, we're investigating the murder of Mr Frederick Buckingham and there were just a few points we think you might help us clear up.'

Carnforth pulled at the peak of his cap. He smiled anxiously, revealing teeth too large for his mouth, just as his hands were too large for his arms.

‘You know of course that the deceased was a photographer, primarily of the ballet. But we have reason to suppose that he also took photographs of a more intimate nature, photographs of his friends. Were you aware of that?'

‘I hadn't been on friendly terms with him for many years. I know nothing about his activities.'

‘I think the existence of these photographs was well known.'

‘But why should I know about them?' Carnforth's expression bordered on the truculent, yet laced with pained innocence.

‘The thing is,' said Murray pleasantly, ‘we have a witness who claims to have illegally entered Mr Buckingham's Chelsea house after the murder. This witness has told us that he and his companion were under instructions to remove the photographs and that they later gave them to you.'

Carnforth stared at them, more bovine than ever. ‘I don't know what you mean.'

‘We have a reliable witness who tells us that is what happened.'

‘But – how can that be? That's impossible.'

Murray pounced: ‘Impossible? Why? Impossible because he's dead? Right? Kenneth Barker's dead. Murdered; like your friend Freddie Buckingham.'

‘He was no friend of mine.'

Murray watched his victim, who was huddled into his black coat, the picture of angry misery. ‘Kenneth Barker came round to your flat, didn't he, Mr Carnforth? The cat's out of the bag. The late Kenneth Barker delivered the photographs or negatives, or both, to you at your flat. That's what happened, isn't it. They were pornographic photos of Buckingham's friends. I can see it's embarrassing – you're not only the receiver of stolen goods, but the goods are dirty pictures. What did you want them for? Blackmail? Or did you find them titillating?'

Carnforth went very red. ‘How dare you suggest I wanted anything to do with such filth.' He kept his voice low, but he moved about in his seat.

‘Well, we'll see about that, won't we, when we search your flat.'

‘They're not there. I – you're making this up.'

‘But our witness isn't Kenneth Barker, Mr Carnforth. Of course that would be impossible. Like Mr Buckingham, he's been murdered. But unfortunately for you, he had a friend with him. This friend tells us he went with Barker to your flat and gave the photographs to someone who looked like you.'

Carnforth shook his head in apparent bewilderment.

‘After they'd been stolen from the dead man's house.'

Carnforth passed his hand across his face.

‘How did you know Barker? It was through the blackshirts, wasn't it.'

Carnforth stared at them. ‘Why are you tormenting me like this? What has this to do with Freddie Buckingham's death?'

As if it wasn't plain as a bloody pikestaff; Carnforth's mulishness irritated Murray.

‘Steady on, Murray.' Plumer had let the interrogation continue so far, but now he interrupted. ‘That's a little strong, isn't it, sir? Tormenting you? We're only trying to get things straight. We just want to hear from you what actually happened. We're not suggesting Barker stole the photographs for you.'

Carnforth shook his head to and fro like a cow trying to ward off bluebottles. There was a heavy silence before Carnforth spoke again: ‘It's bad enough what we went through in the war. All this talk about concentration camps. They put
us
in concentration camps.
We
were the ones who were persecuted. Persecuted for our beliefs. Interned without trial. And now you're persecuting me again.'

‘Mr Carnforth,' said Plumer, ‘if you don't answer these perfectly reasonable questions, we shall have to arrest you and question you under caution. You don't seem to realise how serious this is.'

Murray glanced sideways at his boss. He seemed to have changed tack.

‘We can obtain a warrant to search your flat and if the photographs are there, then you will be charged with receiving stolen goods,' continued Plumer, his grey face as expressionless as ever. ‘At the very least. This all happened within twenty-four hours of Mr Buckingham's murder. That suggests to me that you knew that the murder was planned before it took place. Otherwise, how would Barker and his mate have known to come straight round to you?'

‘No, no, that's not it at all!'

‘Who murdered Mr Buckingham?'

‘I don't know.' Carnforth was slumped in his chair now, as though his outburst had exhausted him.

‘Did you murder him?'

Carnforth shook his head.

‘What was your opinion of the dead man?'

‘He was evil, he was a wicked man. He preyed on others. He corrupted Charles Hallam, for example, and probably many others.'

‘How do you know that?' asked Plumer.

Murray chipped in. ‘You teach at St Christopher's – you know the boy's parents. Did you tell them of your suspicions? Mrs Hallam was a close friend of the dead man, I believe.'

Carnforth moved around in his chair. ‘She had nothing to do with this. She's a wonderful woman. I met her again after many years. When I got the job at the school – Neville Milner told me her son was a pupil there. We met to discuss Charles's work … and then … I met someone who knew Freddie – I realised what had been going on between him and the boy.'

Carnforth paused and smiled; a strange smile, which Murray couldn't read. ‘Freddie Buckingham caused untold harm to that boy. He's an insolent boy. Whenever he sees me he looks at me with that contemptuous smile on his face, that way he has, of making you feel you're an ant he's just about to step on – except that he can't be bothered, you're not important enough. His mother thinks the world of him, of course. I felt it was my duty to tell her and when I heard—' He stopped, then started again. ‘There were always rumours about Freddie's other photographs. Neville used to laugh about it. And then when there was – when they – I thought if Vivienne saw she'd have to believe me. She'd see what Freddie was really like.' Carnforth was sweating. There was something rank and raw about him, Murray felt, his emotions too exposed, so that he seemed defenceless, abject, and yet repulsive.

Even Plumer lost his deadpan expression. ‘You showed his mother an indecent photograph of her son? You thought she'd be grateful?' said Plumer. ‘So you're saying Mr Buckingham was murdered for his photographs? Did you arrange his murder?'

‘No. No!' Carnforth shook his head. ‘I was shocked he was dead – it was a shock,' he said. ‘But I can't say I was sorry. He was a revolting man, an evil influence, he did Vivienne untold harm.'

‘Do you know who killed him?'

‘One of the people he preyed on, I suppose.'

‘You haven't told us how it came about that Barker brought you the photographic negatives. What you've just told us doesn't tally with the fact that Barker came round to your flat so very soon afterwards – the following day, wasn't it – so you must have had the idea about the photographs days if not weeks earlier, mustn't you. You must have known that Buckingham's death had been planned. And you must therefore have known who murdered him.' Plumer spoke icily now.

Carnforth shook his head.

‘I suggest you do know who it was,' insisted Plumer.

Carnforth sighed deeply. The silence continued for what seemed a long time, but the hands on Murray's watch had only ticked round for a minute before Carnforth said: ‘I've told you all I know. I admit Kenneth Barker came round with the photographs. I'd told – he must have known I wanted them. But I only wanted the one – he took the rest away again. I haven't got them and I don't know where they are.'

Murray couldn't understand why Plumer hadn't gone on the offensive about the political angle. He said: ‘You met Barker in the blackshirts, a disreputable and violent organisation spreading treasonable views you presumably agree with. Your dedication to such an organisation, which wanted this country to be defeated by the Nazis, a view for which you were rightfully detained, must make us suspicious of your motives and your truthfulness.'

Plumer ground his cigarette out violently. Murray knew he'd said the wrong thing. But why not mention it? It was surely relevant.

Carnforth drew himself up. ‘The beliefs upheld by Oswald Mosley have been completely distorted and misrepresented. He is a man of peace, not violence. Ours is not a violent creed. Our members have been provoked time after time. Our enemies have been the violent ones. And just because our views have been defeated, for the time being, that doesn't mean – don't you understand that you can believe something ever more strongly the more you're persecuted and scorned. Like Jesus Christ on the cross – he was scorned, he was ridiculed, he was murdered—'

Plumer interrupted him. ‘Your political views do not concern us, sir. For the time being you are free to go, but we will need to see you again.'

Carnforth stood up. ‘Can I go now, then?'

‘Yes.'

Murray could not believe the interview had ended so abruptly. ‘Why didn't we arrest him, sir? He must be involved – the photographs are damning. We should search his flat. We can't just let him off the hook like that!'

Plumer looked at the floor for a while, always smoking, smoking. Finally he said: ‘This is strictly between us, but – there's someone higher up who wants him left alone.'

The thought of a Nazi in the force – in a powerful position – horrified Murray. But worse than that was that Plumer had given in to pressure. Murray knew some coppers were corrupt – and everyone bent the rules a little, but he'd always believed Plumer was fundamentally straight. And now –

‘You can't do that!' It didn't come out as he'd intended, but instead of tearing him off a strip, Plumer simply said:

‘We'll do what we have to do. Pinelli's statement isn't that strong and we haven't any evidence that Carnforth got Barker to shoot Buckingham. He doesn't seem the type to do a thing like that. Order someone's execution – that takes us back to the underworld, professional criminals. It's possible he shot them both himself. The first murder was certainly amateurish enough. But there isn't a shred of evidence. It's pure supposition. The man's insane, I grant you that, but just because he's got a screw loose doesn't mean he killed anyone.'