04 - Carnival of Criminals (10 page)

Clara had bought herself an ice cream. It wasn’t exactly
ice cream weather, as a thick bank of grey cloud was gathering over Brighton
and threatening heavy rain. But she had felt like something sweet and the ice
cream man had been standing just at the gates of the fairground as she left.
She had lied to herself and declared that ice cream was much healthier for her
than any of the alternatives on offer, such as hot American doughnuts.

She had walked into Brighton high street pondering over
her latest findings and her footsteps had led her to Oliver’s photography shop.
In her mind was the idea that she should pop in and console Oliver over the
morning’s events, after all he need not be embarrassed as he had personally
done nothing wrong. Unfortunately, when she pushed on the door she found it
locked. This was unusual. Oliver had many flaws, including being completely
disorganised and untidy, but he was very good at running his shop and he never
closed during working hours unless he had been called out by the police. And
when that happened, he always put a sign in the door explaining he was on
police business. Today the only sign present was one that read ‘closed’.

Clara licked her ice cream thoughtfully. Oliver lived in
a flat above his shop, but there was no bell for his private residence. Oliver
rarely entertained and did not expect callers outside office hours. Since his
shop was often open until late in the evening to accommodate customers who worked
during the day, Clara understood why Oliver would feel it necessary to be able
to retire to his flat and ignore the world. If he was in his flat there was no
easy way to contact him.

Clara pulled a notebook from her handbag and quickly
wrote out a note explaining that he need not be concerned on her behalf about
the events of that morning and that she had some interesting new information on
the case if he was interested. She popped the note through the letterbox as
another idea dawned on her. There was one other place he might be.

Clara found her way easily enough to the residence of Mr
Bankes. There was no evidence of trouble at the property, so she knocked on the
door. Oliver answered with a scowl on his face.

“Clara?” His expression changed to wide-eyed surprise.

“Your shop is shut.” Clara said simply.

“Well… yes. It’s been a rather challenging day.”

“Is your father well?”

“Don’t talk about
him
!” Oliver’s scowl returned
and he abruptly stepped out of the house and shut the door behind him, “I was
about to head home anyway.”

Oliver started to storm up the path and Clara followed
him after momentarily casting her gaze back at the house.

“He doesn’t see he did anything wrong.” Oliver said, his
anger palpable, “They could have charged him with making indecent images!”

“But they didn’t.” Clara said gently, taking Oliver’s
arm.

“I just don’t trust him to behave himself.”

“He’s an old man, I doubt he can get into too much
trouble as long as we keep him away from fairgrounds.”

“In any case, I’m sorry you witnessed this morning.”

“Oh tosh! I’ve witnessed a lot worse.” Clara laughed,
“Now let’s go open your shop, I want to take another look at those photos you
have of Mervin Grimes. Oh, but first I want to invite someone to join us, if
you don’t mind.”

“As long as it isn’t my father.” Oliver mumbled.

An hour later Bob Waters was sitting at Oliver’s shop
counter going over the last photographs ever taken of Mervin Grimes.

“Don’t he look dapper?” Bob said sadly, “I always wanted
a bowler hat like that.”

“Tell me Bob, do you remember anything special Mervin
might have said about that ring he is wearing.”

Bob drew an imaginary circle around Mervin’s black and
white hand with a large finger.

“It had an initial in it that didn’t mean anything as far
as I could make out. But I suppose it could have been for something he hadn’t
told me about. He was like that in the end. Secretive.”

“He had had the ring a long time?”

“Since he was sixteen. Came home wearing it one day, was
dead proud of it, but wouldn’t say why or how he had got it. Do you think it
was valuable?”

“I’m not sure. Bob, have you any idea what Mervin did
with his last big winnings?”

“Aside from spending it?”

“Yes, aside from that.”

Bob studied the photo of his old friend.

“I don’t know, wish I did because his old mum could use
it. She needs the pipes doing and the chimney repairing, not to mention the
upstairs windows. Oh, I do some of it, but there is only so much I can do for
free.”

“I understand that.” Clara said, “Does Mrs Grimes have no
other family?”

“Just Mervin. He was her all. Broke her heart when he
vanished. She sat in her window for over a year waiting for him to come back,
convinced he had just gone up to London all of a sudden.”

Oliver came over with a cup of tea for Mervin and Clara.
He pulled a picture of Mervin towards himself and looked at it for a long
while.

“I have some names of people Mervin might have known,”
Clara continued, “I wondered if you could tell me anything about them?”

“I’ll try.” Bob promised.

“Right, what about Richard ‘Dixie’ Doncaster?”

Bob scrunched his face into a squashed ball of
concentration then shook his head.

“Patrick MacKillip?”

Another shake.

“Felix ‘Beggar’ Mundell?”

Bob closed his eyes, thought for a moment, then gave
another negative.

“Penny Palmer?”

“Oh wait, I know that one. She was a girl he brought home
once. Mrs Grimes hated her, said she thought herself too good for what she was.
Penny went out with Mervin for about a year.”

“Was she part of the Black Hand?”

Bob shrugged.

“Maybe, if she was with Mervin he might have introduced
her to the gang.” Bob scratched at his thick, curling head of hair, “She was a
pretty one, if you like ‘em skinny. But she had this touch of nastiness to her.
She was quiet, sullen even, until you wronged her and then this spiteful hussy
emerged. And it didn’t take much to get on her bad side. Say the wrong word, or
forget sugar for her tea and she would lose it. I never knew what to say to
her. She scared the living daylights out of me.”

“Where did she live?”

“Margate, at least that’s where her folks where. I think
she stayed with friends a lot.”

“Was she with Mervin when he disappeared?”

“Let me think.” Bob concentrated hard again, running
through some mental calendar unique to himself, “Yes, I reckon so. Because Mrs
Grimes kept saying if he had run off with that hussy she would never speak to
him again.”

Clara drew a star next to Penny Palmer’s name in her
notebook, definitely a line of inquiry to follow up.

“Can you think of any other friends of Mervin’s that I
should speak too?”

Bob was clearly finding all this concentrated thinking a
tough business. He gulped down his tea and then scratched at his head again,
his brow creasing into furrows as he dug around in his brain for memories.

“You could talk to Mickey Walker. I think he sometimes
helped the Black Hand. He’s a plumber by trade, but working for a living never
suited him.” Bob grinned, “I can’t think of no one else, sorry.”

“You have been more than useful Bob, I appreciate you
coming here.” Clara smiled, “Out of all of his friends you were clearly the
most loyal.”

Bob shifted in his seat uncomfortably.

“I don’t know about that, I just tried to help Mervin and
for his sake his mum. Not that she lets me help much. I was going to give
Mervin’s room a lick of paint, make it all fresh for if he ever returned. She
would have none of it. ‘You leave my Mervin’s things alone.’ She yelled at me.”

“Perhaps she felt if you decorated, it would be removing
her last connection to Mervin?” Clara suggested.

“I guess.” Bob looked suddenly very sad, “I thought I was
helping. I know I ain’t the brightest of things, and the boxing didn’t exactly
make me brighter, but I do try for folk. Mrs Grimes does seem to shout at me a
lot.”

“Never mind Bob.” Clara patted his hand comfortingly,
“Sometimes when we are grieving it is easiest to take it out on the people we
care about the most.”

“Really?”

“Sometimes.”

Bob mused on this.

“I don’t think Mrs Grimes cares for me, I know you are
trying to be kind, but I really don’t think she gives a damn about me.” Bob
grinned, “It was jolly nice of you giving me a cup of tea, but might I go now?
I have a window to fix and a Welsh dresser to varnish.”

“Of course Bob. Thank you for coming.”

Bob gave another grin, rose from his chair (which groaned
in relief at the removal of his weight) and wandered out into the August
drizzle.

“Nice fellow, can’t see what he wanted to be doing with
Mervin Grimes.” Oliver said, giving the photo of the gangster a scowl.

“No, I suppose it is one of those things.” Clara
answered, “My word, is that the time? Where has the day gone?”

Clara stood and started collecting up her handbag when
she paused. A thought had struck her.

“Come to dinner Oliver.” She said spontaneously.

Oliver gave a wry smile.

“Off that table Mervin Grimes lay on?”

“It’s perfectly clean.” Clara pretended to be offended,
“In any case, I don’t want you moping about in your flat, so come to dinner.”

“I don’t mope.”

“You do. You are very maudlin at the moment.”

Oliver pulled a face.

“It’s the weather.” He nodded out the window at the rain.

“Come to dinner and take your mind off things.” Clara
insisted.

Oliver made one last pretence at reluctance than gave in.
He grabbed his own hat and an umbrella from a stand by the door before they
left the shop.

“Mervin’s ring is playing on my mind.” Clara said as he
locked the door.

“Why?”

“There’s more to it than meets the eye. It has the wrong
initial for a start.”

“Maybe he stole it and that’s the initial of the original
owner.”

“That is always possible.” Admitted Clara.

“Well, if nothing else it was vital for helping us
identify Mervin.”

“Yes, and that leads me to another thought. These thieves
who tried to steal Hepkaptut, what if they also know that the ring identifies
Mervin and they want to remove the evidence?”

“Because they killed him?”

“Perhaps so.”

Oliver unfurled the umbrella, which was big and black,
and held it over Clara.

“You will be careful, won’t you Clara.” He said, his face
a picture of worry.

Clara gave an annoyed sigh.

“Why does everyone keep saying that?”

Dr Deáth liked his job. This came as a surprise to many
people, not least those who his wife asked around for dinner. Sharing a table
with a man who could quite happily talk about the various corpses currently in
his morgue all night was not everyone’s cup of tea. Deáth was aware he was, to
put it politely, a little odd, but he saw no harm in this. In fact the number
of bodies who came through his doors as victims of apparently normal people
suggested to him that being run-of-the-mill was not all it was cracked up to
be.

Deáth was forty-two, married to a delightful Quaker
called Mary who appreciated his work, if not perhaps his conversation. They had
no children, but Deáth consoled Mary this was just as well considering the
amount of small children who perished through accident, injury and illness and
ended up in his morgue. Perhaps, in the scheme of things, it was best to be
spared such possible sadness.

He spent a lot of time in the morgue because there was
always a lot to do. Not necessarily murders, in fact they were the tail-end of
his trade. By and large he dealt with accidental or sudden deaths that needed
explaining for the authorities. Many were the result of the burgeoning car
market, but he also dealt with a fair number of poisoning mishaps, industrial
tragedies and drownings. Being right next to the sea the latter was fairly
common. However, the one thing Deáth could claim to have never seen before that
week was a modern mummified corpse. Oh he had seen the ancient ones in the
British Museum and like every other visitor he had gawked at men and women who
had lived thousands of years before. But to see a man who had been alive only
fifteen years ago perfectly preserved by natural means was a true novelty.
Mervin Grimes had kept him occupied every waking hour since he had first met
him at Clara’s house. Mary was quite fed up of finding him in a daydream over
his meals, mumbling about preservation and humidity.

Deáth was therefore rather glad to see Clara at his door,
knowing that she at least would appreciate his ramblings about natural
mummification.

“Miss Fitzgerald.”

“I’ve been impatient and couldn’t wait any longer to hear
what you have found. I apologise for arriving so early.”

It was nine in the morning and Deáth had been in the
morgue since seven, using every available hour of daylight to get on with his
work.

“Come in, would you like tea?”

As the kettle whistled in Deáth’s office and he laid out
a tea tray of mismatched cups, Clara made a pointed effort to not think about
what was contained behind the many doors on the wall that looked like
cupboards. In fact, she made a pointed effort not to think about any of the
bodies lying around her.

“How goes the investigation?” Deáth asked as he absently
removed a bleached arm bone from the tea tray, “I never know how these things
end up there.”

“It’s slow at the moment. Too many suspects, not enough
evidence. Mervin ran with some bad people, he might have gotten into a fight
with one of them, or he could have been bumped off by a rival.”

“Perhaps my report will help. Let me show you what Mervin
Grimes has told me.”

They returned to the large hall of the morgue where six
metal tables gleamed under the bright bulbs of artificial lights and the
sunshine streaming in through high windows. Three of the tables were occupied,
the unfortunates discreetly covered by white sheets. Deáth went to the nearest
table and pulled back the cloth. Mervin Grimes grimaced at them in the only
manner he was able to.

“Shall I start with the vital statistics of the victim?”
Deáth asked.

“If you wish.”

“Mervin Grimes, supposed age at death 23. Five foot, five
inches tall, with slight bow legs that suggest rickets as a child. Well-nourished
at the time of death, in fact there was the remains of a meal in his stomach,
preserved like the rest of him. It was hardly digested, I would suggest it was
something like chicken and potatoes. But that is only a guess.”

“So he had a good meal just before he died?”

“Absolutely.”

Clara made a note in her book and motioned for Dr Deáth
to continue.

“Victim was in general good health, there were some
indicators in his lungs that suggest he might have been in the early stages of
Tuberculosis, but otherwise his organs seem healthy. They were all there, by
the way, so no effort had been made towards his preservation like the Egyptian
mummies. He had three silver fillings in his jaw and was missing another two,
which were definitely lost before death. If you need extra proof of his
identity then his dentist should be able to confirm what dental work Mervin Grimes
had done.” Deáth paused to take a breath, “There were no signs of a fight, so I
would suggest he was not killed in a brawl or some similar skirmish. Nothing
was broken and a minute examination of his skin showed no signs of cuts or
other marks, except for this.”

Deáth motioned to the ring finger on Grimes’ right hand.

“Take a close look at this finger.”

Clara came close and peered at the blackened appendage.
Deáth offered her a magnifying glass and she examined the skin carefully.

“There is a line near the knuckle?” She suggested.

“Yes, an incision. It looks as though someone tried to
remove the finger, presumably to get the ring off.”

“Colonel Brandt noticed that too. I imagine they were
trying to remove the evidence of his identity.” Clara said, “I wondered as
much.”

“Ah, but the wound has healed. The cut is not fresh but
has had time to at least begin to repair.”

Clara felt a little sick.

“That means someone tried to cut off his finger before he
was dead.”

“Yes it does.”

Clara stared at the body, another part of Mervin Grimes’
life had come into focus and it wasn’t pleasant.

“Would you mind removing that ring from his hand Dr Deáth?”

“Of course,” The coroner showed no concern about the
request, but picked up a large pair of cutters, the sort Clara had seen used to
remove thick chain, and set the blades over the finger, “You might want to
shield your eyes. There is no knowing if he might splinter.”

Clara put her hands protectively over her eyes, trying to
block out the nasty clunk and breaking sound that accompanied Deáth’s work. She
would rather not think about fingers, even dead fingers, being removed. There
was the sound of the heavy cutter being put down and a slight grunt from Deáth
before he spoke again.

“There you go!”

Clara cautiously held out a hand, not sure if she was
going to receive a mummified finger in it. Fortunately Deáth had had the
sensibility to remove the ring from its dead digit. He dropped the large piece
of jewellery in Clara’s palm.

Clara could now take her first really close look at the
ring. The first thing she noted was the S in the centre tended to warp with the
light, at times not looking like an S at all. The second was that inscribed on
the inside of the ring, where it was pressed firmly against Mervin Grimes’ skin
was minute writing that she found impossible to read, even with the aid of Deáth’s
magnifying glass. She placed the ring in her pocket.

“What about that bullet wound?”

“Ah, that is interesting too.” Deáth went over to a side
table and brought back a tray containing a shrivelled object much resembling
dried tripe, which turned out to be Mervin’s heart, and next to it a small
bullet, “As you may imagine it wasn’t easy extracting the bullet, I had to cut
through the ribcage and very carefully disengage the heart from where it had
stuck to the spine, but after all that I was able to get to the bullet. From an
ordinary pistol I should say. It had pierced the left ventricle, there were
several large blood clots and also dried blood in the chest cavity. I would say
he died quite quickly.”

“So he was definitely shot to death?”

“Absolutely. Oh, and from the way the blood has pooled
and dried I would say that he was then positioned in an upright manner. My
surmise is that he was concealed in a wall, propped up.”

“How grim.” Clara shook her head at the strange ways of
humanity, “As awful as it sounds, were there any signs of torture?”

“No, why?”

“Just a theory, you see other members of the Black Hand
were bumped off by a rival gang from London, but usually in a rather gruesome
manner. The poor soul tortured and the body then left in a prominent position
to be found.”

“Well Mervin wasn’t tortured. In my professional opinion
he never saw the shot coming. He didn’t struggle or fight, there were no signs
of restraints and the pistol was probably fired pretty close to him.”

“Very curious.” Clara agreed, “At least I don’t appear to
have to go to London tracking gangsters.”

“Oh I hope not!”

Clara took another long look at Mervin Grimes. His last
hours on this earth had been a very mixed bag. One moment he was eating a
pleasant meal, the next someone shot him. Her mind flashed to Penny Palmer, the
girlfriend with a volatile temper. Supposing she had met Mervin that evening
and they had fought, perhaps over the money he had won or the mysterious deaths
of his comrades. Then she had taken leave of her senses and shot him. Finding
Penny Palmer would certainly be an interesting part of the puzzle.

“Thank you Dr Deáth, as ever you have been most
enlightening.”

“I can only thank you for providing me with such an
interesting corpse.” Deáth grinned, apparently not aware of the strangeness of
what he had just said.

Clara took her leave of him and headed out of the realm
of the dead back into the August sunshine. She let the warm light fall on her
face for a moment and then considered her next move. Tracing Penny Palmer might
prove tricky. She may have returned to Margate, or she may have married and
changed her name. But finding Mickey Walker should be relatively
straightforward, as long as he hadn’t moved away.

Clara found her way to the nearest post office and asked
to see the directory for Brighton. She turned to the Ws and scanned down the
names. There were several Walkers, but only one listed as Mickey. She noted
down the address, then decided to test her luck and look up Palmer. It wasn’t a
great surprise when her search turned up no Penny Palmer; she had probably
married at some point and taken on a different name. She handed back the
directory and set off to find Mickey Walker.

Mickey Walker occasionally worked as a plumber, he also
occasionally moonlighted at his brother-in-law’s removals business, but more
often than not he was to be found stretched out on the sofa in his front room
doing nothing in particular. Mrs Walker regularly complained they had no money
and Mickey would wander out and do a few odd-jobs for people to satisfy her.
Then he would dump the money into her hand and return to his spot on the sofa.
There he would lie for hours on end staring at a spot of damp on the ceiling.
He knew every inch of that spot, but still it never bored him to stare at it.
Mickey Walker, had he been educated enough to contemplate it, might have said
it was his lack of imagination that was his greatest survival skill.

Clara knocked at a peeling door, down a rather smelly
alley. There was a fat rat sitting boldly in the gutter, eyeing her like a
watchdog. 

“Who’s there?” Someone called through the door.

“My name is Clara Fitzgerald, I wish to speak to Mr
Walker about a missing person.”

“What missing person?”

“Someone he used to know. Could I come in and talk, I
won’t be any bother?” Clara wondered if she really wanted to enter the house,
which did not look promising from the outside, “Is he in?”

The person behind the door – a woman by the sound of the
voice – shuffled about and seemed to be talking to someone in a low voice.

“Are you after money?” She finally asked.

“No,” Clara thought fast, “But there is always a
possibility that if Mr Walker was of great assistance in this matter the family
might consider a reward.”

The hint of money achieved exactly what Clara had hoped
and the door opened instantly.

“You best come in then.” Said a small woman who appeared
to be dressed in clothes that were just one stage away from becoming rags.

Clara entered a dim hallway and took a better look at her
hostess. She was a hard-faced woman with the sort of eyes Victorian novelists
liked to call gimlet. She looked exhausted by life, the sort of exhaustion that
takes years and years to build, but can never really be left behind. In her
well-washed blouse and skirt, and grey apron, she gave the appearance of one of
the street people in a Hogarth print. Mrs Walker wiped her forehead with the
back of her hand.

“He’s in there.” She pointed to a closed door, “If you
don’t mind I’ll leave you to it, I’ve got four more piles of washing to do
before the day is out.”

She gave a nod and then vanished down the dim passage
into what was presumably the kitchen. Clara let herself into the room Mrs
Walker had pointed out. It was a small front parlour, which might be politely
described as snug. Everything looked tired and overused, from the faded rug to
the green sofa, even the man who lay on the sofa looked like he had seen better
days. Clara stepped into the room and almost trod on a small child who was
playing with three wooden clothes pegs that had been crudely dressed and
painted to resemble people.

“Mind yourself, thar.” Mickey Walker called out, though
he neither raised himself to move the child or help Clara into the cramped
room.

Clara gave the child a smile and carefully lifted her
feet over the sorry-looking dolls, managing to squeeze herself between an old
round table and a black metal fireplace. There was no seat apart from the sofa
Mickey Walker occupied so Clara assumed she would have to stand.

“I won’t get up, me gout’s bad today.” Mickey said.