Princes Gate (28 page)

“I’m sorry, my husband had to go up to town to deal with some urgent business.”

“I had hoped to see him as well.”

“He’s a very busy man and I’m sure I shall be able to provide you with whatever you need.”

“Very well. If you’ll just bear with me.” Johnson rummaged in his jacket for his notebook and pencil.

“Goodness, Inspector, this is all very formal, isn’t it? Whatever can we have done?”

“As I mentioned briefly on the telephone, your ladyship, we are investigating a hit and run case that took place in London just over two weeks ago.”

“Indeed, so you said. I cannot for the life of me imagine how you think I can help you.”

“Do you know a Mr Edward Fraser?”

“Indeed I do. I have known Edward since he was a child. His parents were good friends of my uncle.”

“We have some grounds to think that Mr Fraser’s motor car may have been involved in the hit and run.”

Lady Pelham’s back straightened. “You do surprise me. You are aware no doubt that Edward is a high-ranking diplomat at the Foreign Office.”

“Of course.”

“And you are suggesting that Edward was involved in this unsavoury incident?”

“There is some evidence, your ladyship.”

“This is quite preposterous.” The silk of her dress rustled as she leaned back in her chair. Absent-mindedly she toyed with the pearls of her necklace and looked away. “What is it you want to know about Edward?”

“The accident we are investigating took place on the evening of Thursday January 18
^th
. Mr Fraser has told us that he came here to join a house party on the following day, Friday 19
^th
. Can you confirm that?”

A gust of wind rattled the French windows. “You are talking about three weekends ago, I think. Yes, Edward was here then. We had a group of friends to stay. Lord Pelham took some of them out shooting on the Saturday. It was a very agreeable weekend.”

“And may I know who was in the rest of the party?”

“Really, Inspector, I don’t think that’s on. My guests are entitled to their privacy.”

“The information will be helpful in corroborating Mr Fraser’s story, your ladyship. It could assist in exonerating him. I would be most grateful if you could.”

She compressed her lips, shook her head, then sighed. “Very well. I will get Williams to prepare a list of the guests for you.”

“Thank you. Could I ask you a little more about Mr Fraser? When he arrived for his weekend visit, can you remember if he said anything about his car?”

“Do you think I am in the habit of discussing motor vehicles with my friends?”

“I don’t mean did you have a discussion regarding mechanics. I mean, did his car feature, in any way, in his conversation? Did he say anything about his journey from London?”

A brief flash of recognition crossed her face. “Ah, I see what you’re getting at. Edward did mention that he had had an unfortunate accident on his way from town. He said he’d hit an animal of some sort on the road. A deer or a stag or something. Said he’d damaged the car a little.”

“Did you see his vehicle, your ladyship?”

“Why on earth would I look at his vehicle?”

“I just wondered.”

“Inspector, if Edward says he had an accident and hit an animal, then I’m sure that was the case. And if, somehow or other, in ways I cannot imagine, this accident has somehow got confused with your unfortunate hit and run, please believe me when I tell you that Edward Fraser is not your man. He’s a man of utter integrity. Lord Halifax himself has spoken to me in the warmest tones about his talents and personality. You are barking up the wrong tree.” She rose from her chair and rang a small bell on a side-table. Williams appeared instantly at the door. “The Inspector will be leaving now. Before he goes, please be so good as to give him a list of the guests invited to our weekend party three weeks ago.”

As his car carefully crawled down the unlit drive, Johnson tried hard to look on the bright side. He had a guest list in his pocket that might well shed further light on the case. The trouble was that the people on the list were powerful and looked after their own. Even if he could prove that Fraser was the guilty man, would the establishment really allow him to be pursued? The more he thought about it, the more pessimistic he became.

Bridges, having just sent Cole off on his first piece of detective work tailing Morrie Owen, had been summoned by Special Branch at the Houses of Parliament to help deal with some sort of security panic. After numerous interruptions, Merlin had finally settled to read the Morgan forensic report in his office. As he turned the second page, his door opened yet again.

“Ah, Merlin, you’re here. Someone I’d like you to meet.” A young lady in police uniform followed the A.C. through the door. “This is Chief Inspector Merlin, my dear. Frank, this is my niece Claire, or rather I should say, W.P.C. Robinson.”

He recognised the girl from the picture on the A.C.’s desk. She was prettier in the flesh. Her blonde hair had been cut short and it suited her. She had full lips, a beauty spot just below her neat little nose and deep brown eyes. He held out his hand.

“Pleased to meet you, Chief Inspector.” Claire Robinson enunciated her words with crystal clarity. She could have been a BBC newsreader had they allowed women to do the job.

“Claire has just finished at Hendon Police College. I wasn’t expecting her to arrive so soon but she’s here now, and as you are so pressed I thought you might appreciate another pair of hands. And it would be good experience for Claire of course.”

“You’ve already sent me another pair of hands – Constable Cole.”

“Yes, yes. I know that but then I had this idea about Claire. Surely you’re not going to complain if I give you two additional officers for your team?”

Clearly he had no option. “Of course not. Glad to have you, Constable. Let me fill you in.”

Tommy Cole shivered in a doorway over the road from The Blue Angel. He was wearing his one and only suit and a thin overcoat. He wished he had his uniform. Although of rough material, it was thick and warm, unlike his suit. He did have warmer casual clothes but Bridges had told him to dress as well as possible in case his surveillance duties required him to go anywhere smart. He wore his black tie, normally reserved for funeral use, as Bridges had rejected his only other neckwear, a salmon pink number which had been much appreciated by a girl he’d met at the Hammersmith Palais the weekend before.

He had been outside the club since four o’clock and had just heard Big Ben chiming seven in the distance. He was bored stiff. When Sergeant Miller had picked him out to help Merlin and Bridges he had been excited. He had always wanted to be in the CID. However, three hours of tedium in a freezing, dark, Soho street, following a couple of hours outside Morrie Owen’s Earl’s Court flat, had dampened his enthusiasm. As he understood it, the club wasn’t likely to open for another three hours, so it would be ages before he would have anyone or anything to observe. He shuffled his feet to keep warm and began to feel pangs of hunger. Then someone came out of the club. Cole dithered for a moment before setting off in pursuit. He couldn’t see much but he knew that the figure was not Owen. Having seen the clubowner in the light of day, it was clear to him that Owen didn’t walk anywhere. When Owen had been picked up at his flat, the driver was a tall, thin man with hunched shoulders and big ears, a description which fitted the person he was following. If he was right, Owen clearly wasn’t going anywhere and there could be little harm in following the driver on the off-chance that he went somewhere interesting. Apart from anything else, following this bloke would help his blood to circulate again.

A blaze of light briefly flashed out from one of the shops in Dean Street and provided solid confirmation of the identity of the man he was shadowing. Cole felt his heart pounding as he crossed Soho Square, a discreet distance behind Owen’s sidekick.

Reardon turned off the Tottenham Court Road and walked to the end of the alley. There was no sign of life in ‘Myerson’s Artistic Supplies’ but, as he knew, there was nothing unusual about that.

“You better come in.” The stubble on Myerson’s chin was a day thicker. He wore the same shabby clothes as before and held a full whisky bottle.

“Celebrating again, Bernie?”

“Just having my dinner, aren’t I?” A large slab of cheese, this time looking reasonably fresh, lay on the counter.

“Do you ever have any grub other than cheese and whisky?”

Myerson picked his nose and chuckled, revealing stained teeth and rancid gums. “I vary my diet a lot, thank you, my friend. Some days I have cheese and gin, and on special occasions, like Hanukkah, I have cheese and brandy. It’s very good for you, you know.”

“I’ll take your word for it. Have you got the other stuff?”

“Yeh. Gimme a sec.” Myerson disappeared downstairs as before and returned with a large brown envelope. Reardon looked at the contents, grimaced, and handed over a wedge of notes.

“Quite artistic really, don’t you think?”

“Very. They’ll soon be comparing you with Michelangelo, no doubt.”

Myerson snorted, spraying the counter with small specks of cheddar. “You’re quite an educated man really, aren’t you, Jimmy? Beats me why an educated man like you works for a pig like Morrie.”

With a speed belying his years, Reardon reached over and grasped Myerson’s shirt collar tightly. He pulled him spluttering and choking back across the counter. “It don’t do to go calling my boss names. I may not like him much myself but whatever he is, he’s my boss, and if you treat him without respect it’s the same as treating me without respect.” He relaxed his grip.

Myerson regained his footing, spat something green on to the floor and grasped his whisky bottle. “No need to resort to violence, you know. I was only wondering why an intelligent chap like you worked for Morrie, that’s all. No offence intended.”

“Let’s just say I make a living out of it, and leave it at that.”

“Fine, fine. No hard feelings.” Myerson deposited the money in a drawer behind him.

Reardon straightened his tie, adjusted the buttons of his coat and, with a short wave, left Myerson to his meal.

“What you looking at, mate?” The drunk lay sprawled on his back, staring up at Reardon in the light of the open pub door where a brawny barman stood surveying his handiwork.

Reardon ignored him and hurried by. He crossed Soho Square and entered Dean Street. At the end he stopped at a shop door and rang the bell. A chubby little man wearing a white coat and an oversized bowler appeared, smiling weakly. “Come on in. You could’ve come a little earlier. The wife and I are just about to have something to eat.”

“Have you got it?”

“Yes, come with me. Almost came a cropper on the ice, didn’t you, yesterday? Better take more care – we’re none of us getting any younger.” He led Reardon through the shop to a door at the back.

Reardon waited at the door and enjoyed the appetising smells of a roast dinner as the little man disappeared down a corridor. Reardon heard a woman’s voice. He couldn’t hear what she was saying but caught the peevish tone. The man returned with a white cloth bag tied with string. “Here you are.”