A Capital Crime (4 page)

At five o’clock, Ballard put his head round the door of the office. ‘Williams is on the line,’ he said, ‘from Wales. Says Davies has changed his story.’

Chapter Five

Stratton hung up the telephone receiver. ‘Well,’ he said to Ballard, ‘Miss Harris will take down the full statement, but now the gist is that Davies is claiming he lied to protect Backhouse. He says Backhouse volunteered to abort Muriel but it went wrong, and when he got back from work Backhouse told him she’d died. He says she was bleeding from the mouth when he saw her, which makes bugger-all sense. And he says Backhouse showed him some sort of medical book beforehand and said he’d had some training as a doctor so he knew how to get rid of the pregnancy …’ Stratton paused to consult his notes. ‘Says he helped Backhouse carry the body downstairs to the first-floor flat, which was empty, and Backhouse told him he was going to put the body in the drain, and that he’d take the baby to some people in Euston who’d look after her … Claims that Backhouse told him to sell all his furniture, get rid of Muriel’s clothes to a rag dealer, and bugger off back home to the valleys, so that’s what he did. Williams is going to have a word with the relatives he’s been staying with – it’s his aunt and her husband, a Mr and Mrs Howells – to see if they can shed any light on things. Williams is of the opinion – and I can’t say I blame him – that Davies is off his head.’

‘Sounds very much like it, sir.’

‘Either that or he’s buggering us about for some reason. Williams said when he first spoke to Davies and told him the body wasn’t in the drain, Davies couldn’t believe it. Kept insisting it must be

because he’d put it there. Then he said he’d lied about the lorry driver in the café giving him the stuff for Muriel and he wanted to make another statement. Not that this one sounds any more plausible … Oh, and Williams says he seems to be illiterate, apart from signing his name. Had to have his statement read back to him because he couldn’t manage it himself.’

‘His mother said that too, sir.’

‘She did, didn’t she? Perhaps Muriel’s run off with another chap and it’s sent Davies round the bend. Stranger things have happened, after all.’

‘Then why not leave the baby with his mother, sir?’

‘She’d have asked questions, wouldn’t she? “Where’s Muriel? Why isn’t she here?” And if he didn’t want to admit that she’d left him … Mind you, Williams also said that Davies wanted us to ask Backhouse the name of the people who’d taken Judy, so that doesn’t really add up.’ Stratton sighed. ‘So, we still don’t actually know if any crime’s been committed, but we’ve got to find that child.’

‘That seems about the size of it, sir. Back to Paradise Street, is it?’

There were only two lamps in Paradise Street, but faint yellow gaslight could be seen through the thin curtains hanging in the windows. All the children had gone indoors. Apart from the trains, any noise now was coming from the goods yard on the other side of the wall at the end. Revving and bawled instructions – ‘Go on, right hand down, straighten ‘er up … Whoa!’ – as the twelve-ton lorries were parked, and heavy thumps as goods – Stratton imagined rows of unidentifiable lumps shrouded in canvas – were loaded up for the night’s run.

Backhouse poked his head round the door of number ten in the manner of a tortoise expecting attack. Seeing Stratton and Ballard he gave a weak cough and said, in a voice barely above a whisper, ‘Inspector?’

‘If we might come in for a moment, sir? This is my sergeant, Ballard.’

‘Of course. Always glad to help.’

‘We’d like to have a look at the Davies’s flat, if you don’t mind, and then we’ve got a few questions.’

Backhouse frowned. ‘Well, I don’t know … I don’t mean to be obstructive, but there’s the matter of—’

‘It is rather urgent, Mr Backhouse,’ said Stratton. ‘I’m sure that, having served in the police force yourself, you’ll understand that Judy’s safety is paramount.’

As Stratton had hoped, this comradely appeal to Backhouse’s vanity did the trick, and he stood back to let them enter. ‘On this occasion, I don’t suppose … It’s the top floor. The flats aren’t separated – no front doors – so you’ll have no trouble.’

‘Who lives on the first floor?’ asked Stratton.

‘Mr Gardiner. An elderly gentleman. He’s in hospital at present – been there for the past two months.’

‘Has the flat been empty during that time?’

‘That’s right. I shan’t accompany you, Inspector.’ He rubbed his back. ‘I think I may have mentioned – I suffer with fibrositis.’

At least, thought Stratton, as they went up the stairs, what Davies had said about the first-floor flat being empty was true – the first thing, as far as he could see, that actually was. ‘It’s a bit bloody dark up here,’ he said, as they got to the top landing. Seeing the shape of a gas bracket protruding from the wall, he pulled his matches out of his pocket and felt for the tap. He turned it, but there was no hiss of escaping gas. ‘Looks like we’ll have to put a shilling in the meter.’

He opened the door to the room at the front of the house. The curtains were open, and, even by the faint glow that reached them from the street lamp, they could see that the room was entirely empty. The back room was the kitchen. Stratton located the meter and dropped a coin in the slot, and Ballard put a match to the gas mantle. They saw a sink, an Ascot water heater, a gas stove, and a few shelves, which were bare of everything except a couple of saucepans, a vase and a clock. On the other side of the room was
a fireplace. Whatever else had been in the room – table, chairs – had been removed. Dusty, battered wooden boards covered the floor and a thin patterned paper, greyish, torn in places or sagging, lined the walls. It was darkened in the cooking area by spots of grease, but Stratton could see its original cream colour from a lighter rectangle over the mantelpiece, where a mirror or picture had been removed. The bottom half of the single sash window at the back was covered by a grimy net curtain. Raising it, Stratton made out the backs of the terrace beyond, and was staring down into the garden below when Ballard said, ‘There’s a briefcase here, sir, and there’s some newspaper cuttings on the mantelpiece.’

‘Oh?’ Stratton lowered the curtain.

Ballard opened the briefcase and rummaged inside. ‘Just a few bits of paper in here. Looks as if it belongs to a Mr G. Parker … there’s an address. Nicked, would you say?’

‘Possibly. I can’t imagine why a van driver would need a briefcase. We’ll find out if it’s been reported as stolen. What about the cuttings?’

‘Four of them, all about Setty. You know, the torso murder last year.’

‘Let’s just hope we don’t find bits of Mrs Davies all over the Essex marshes, then.’

‘It’s a bit odd, though, sir, when Williams said Davies is illiterate. Why would he keep cuttings if he couldn’t read them?’

‘Perhaps his wife was interested – or she read them to him. Any dates?’

‘Can’t see any, sir, but it happened in October, didn’t it, and if Mrs Davies left here three weeks ago, that would be about the ninth of November—’

‘So it’s possible,’ concluded Stratton. ‘Mind you, if he was working as a van driver he must have been able to read labels and road signs and things, mustn’t he?’

‘Perhaps he can do individual words but not a whole lot together.’

‘Perhaps.’ Stratton sighed. ‘Well, wherever his missus has got to, she’s not here now.’

‘And if she’s not here …’ Ballard continued his train of thought, ‘then presumably she’s not lying dead somewhere in this house, sir.’

‘I should think the Backhouses would have noticed a body on the premises, wouldn’t you? And he said they’d had builders here, too, remember? No, I think she’s gone off somewhere. Let’s just hope she’s taken the baby with her.’

Mr and Mrs Backhouse were in the kitchen. Backhouse was sitting in the deckchair – Stratton saw Ballard’s eyes widen slightly when he saw the knotted-rope sling – and beside him, curled up on a rag mat, was a black-and-white mongrel.

‘Is it yours?’ asked Stratton.

‘Yes,’ said Backhouse, looking fondly at the animal, which thumped its tail on the floor. ‘Dora, her name is.’

‘Friendly, is she?’

‘Oh, yes.’

Stratton crouched down to pat the animal, which responded, delighted, by rolling over so that he could rub her belly.

‘We were just about to have a little cup of tea. Would you like one?’

‘No, thanks.’ Stratton stood up and smiled at Mrs Backhouse, who was standing in front of the sink, twisting a tea towel in her hands and looking agitated. ‘Just a couple of questions, and we’ll leave you in peace. We found some newspaper cuttings about the torso murder. Do you know why they would be there?’

‘He was interested in that sort of thing,’ said Backhouse. ‘He couldn’t read much himself, but his wife used to read them to him, didn’t she, Edna?’ Before Mrs Backhouse could respond, he continued, ‘You’ll excuse me not getting up, but my back’s been playing me up again. We’re both very worried, Inspector. This whole thing is very regrettable—’

‘The baby,’ Mrs Backhouse interrupted, with a force that surprised Stratton. ‘Have you found her?’

‘Not yet,’ said Stratton. ‘But we’re doing everything we can.’

‘Edna’s very upset,’ said Backhouse. ‘We both are.’

‘Of course. Were you aware, Mrs Backhouse, that Muriel was pregnant?’

Again, Backhouse got in first. ‘There was something – I wondered if I should have mentioned it this morning. Muriel did tell my wife that she was pregnant, and she wasn’t happy about it. With only the two rooms, she couldn’t see how they were going to manage, and she was worried about money. She told Edna she’d been using pills and syringes trying to give herself a miscarriage, didn’t she, dear?’

Mrs Backhouse, looking more distressed than ever, made a noise that sounded as if a sob was locked in her throat, and nodded.

‘We both told her to stop acting so silly,’ said Backhouse. ‘She was making herself a physical wreck.’

‘When did she tell you this?’ Stratton asked Mrs Backhouse.

‘I think … a couple of days before she left …’ She stopped and looked at her husband for confirmation.

‘It’s all right, dear … You can see how upset it’s made her,’ Backhouse reiterated. ‘Muriel was in a bad way. She promised she wouldn’t do anything silly, but I don’t know—’ He broke off, wincing, and bent forward to rub the small of his back.

‘Did you suggest to Davies that you could help his wife to get rid of the baby, Mr Backhouse?’

Backhouse blinked several times before saying, ‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand what you mean.’

‘Davies alleges that you showed him a medical book, and said you could help his wife abort her pregnancy.’

‘That’s nonsense,’ said Backhouse, firmly. ‘He’s making it up.’ He pursed his lips, then took off his glasses and began to polish them, slowly, with his handkerchief.

‘Have you ever trained as a doctor?’

‘No.’

‘Did you tell Davies you’d trained as a doctor?’

‘Certainly not. It’s a lie.’

‘Did you show him a medical book?’

‘No, Inspector, I did not.’

‘Do you have any medical books?’ asked Stratton.

Backhouse thought for a moment, then said, ‘I have a manual from the St John’s Ambulance. I had it when I did first aid, during the war. I also,’ he added, with a touch of pride, ‘have two certificates. But I don’t see …’ Turning to Mrs Backhouse, he said, ‘Would you have shown the book to Davies for some reason?’

Edna Backhouse shook her head in bewilderment. She was, thought Stratton, on the verge of tears.

‘This is all made up,’ said Backhouse. ‘I don’t know why he’s saying these things.’

‘I understand,’ said Stratton soothingly. ‘I’m sorry we had to disturb you, but that’s everything – at least for the time being.’

‘It’s no trouble, Inspector.’ Backhouse began to struggle out of the deckchair, but Stratton put up a restraining hand.

‘Don’t worry, we can see ourselves out.’

‘Thank you, Inspector. If there’s anything else, we’re always glad to oblige.’

‘Nice dog,’ said Stratton, as they made their way back to the station. ‘Didn’t see her before. You certainly couldn’t hide a body in there for three weeks without
her
knowing about it. Even if you buried it in the garden she’d have it up in no time.’

‘Unless she’s lost her sense of smell,’ said Ballard. ‘If that’s possible.’

‘Never heard of it,’ said Stratton. ‘What do you think of the Backhouses?’

‘She seems a bit cowed by him, doesn’t she?’

‘Well, he certainly did the talking for both of them, but that’s not unusual – not where we’re concerned, anyway – and she’s obviously pretty bothered about the whole thing, which is understandable. What a mess … I don’t know about you, but last time
I looked at a St John’s Ambulance handbook, it didn’t say anything about how to perform an abortion.’

‘Another fairy story, sir.’

‘Seems like it. Anyway, we need to know what the hell is going on, and I think it’s high time we brought Davies to London. We can have him for that briefcase, if nothing else – I’d be willing to bet a hefty sum that it’s been pinched. I’ll speak to DCI Lamb when we get back.’

Ballard grimaced. ‘Best of luck with that, sir.’

‘Thanks,’ said Stratton. ‘I’ve a feeling I’m going to need it.’

Chapter Six

DCI Lamb let out a gusty sigh. Stratton was familiar with the man’s repertoire of noises indicative of exasperation and forbearance, and recognised this one as meaning that the person in front of him – in this case, himself – was arsing about, wasting time, and generally testing his superior’s patience to the limit. Lamb, whose resemblance to George Formby seemed actually to be increasing as he grew older, took any deviation from by-the-book policing as a personal insult, and had long regarded him, Stratton, as the chief culprit. In his lighter moments, Stratton had often wondered if what his superior would really like would be for him to arrest himself, lock himself in a cell and beat himself up while he was at it.

‘Let me get this clear,’ said Lamb. ‘You’ve no idea where this woman’s body is – assuming that she is actually dead – and, more importantly, the baby’s disappeared and you have no clue as to where she is, and everyone you’ve spoken to, including his own mother, thinks that Davies is off his head. Besides which, the chances of Backhouse and his wife failing to notice that they are sharing a house with a corpse are – to say the least – slender.’