Princes Gate (36 page)

“I’m not suggesting anything, sir. I’m just bringing you up to date with the progress of my investigations. Clearly this is a little awkward…”

“Awkward is putting it a little mildly, I think. And then this, this photograph…” The A.C. wiped his hands before picking up Freddie Douglas’ incriminating photograph and holding it in front of him as if it was a dead rat. “Halifax will have a fit when he sees this.” He dropped it distastefully on to an outer corner of his desk.

“I wasn’t proposing to show it to Lord Halifax just yet, sir.”

The A.C. raised an eyebrow, sniffed, sneezed and sat down. “Bloody weather’s given me a stinker of a cold.”

“Care for one of these, sir? They’re pretty good decongestants.”

The A.C. rejected the proferred packet of lozenges with a grimace. “Well, Chief Inspector, what is your line of approach?”

“With your permission, I’ll need to have a chat with the US Embassy. The First Secretary there seems a decent chap. Make some enquiries about Mr Kennedy Junior.”

“Do we know where the younger Kennedy is?” The room resounded as the A.C. noisily blew his nose.

“No, sir. I’ll be getting onto that now. I know next to nothing about him but, as you know, the old man has a somewhat chequered background. If the son is a chip off the old block, well…”

“What do you mean?” With painstaking care the A.C. folded his handkerchief once then twice and returned it to his pocket.

“I’m not sure, but I’d like to get all the facts. What we have at present suggests that the younger Kennedy took a shine to Miss Harris and showed her a good time. All this in the weeks leading up to Christmas. After Christmas Miss Harris had a pregnancy test, which proved to be negative. She appeared to be unhappy about this result.”

“You’re not suggesting that Kennedy arranged for something unpleasant to happen to Miss Harris, are you? Because she threatened him with her possible pregnancy?”

“It’s one line of enquiry.”

The A.C. cast a malevolent look at the offensive flowers. “Hmm. I hope to hell you’re barking up the wrong tree there, but if you insist, I won’t stop you speaking to the people at the Embassy about him. Be as discreet as you can, that’s all I ask. And what are you going to do about Douglas?”

“I propose to confront him with the photograph and see what he says.”

“Are you certain the other party is Morgan?”

“I am. The scientists blew up the photo and matched a small skin blemish on the subject’s back to that of Morgan.”

The A.C. stared up at the ceiling and twitched his lips. “I suppose this makes Mr Douglas a suspect for Morgan’s death.”

“If Owen’s blackmail plan had been set in motion, then yes.”

A look of disgust again descended on the photograph as the A.C. leaned forward. “No need to go easy on my account. Do what you must. Just keep me informed.”

A police car siren sounded from somewhere across the river as Merlin got to his feet.

“What’s happened with Norton? Is he out of the picture now?”

“Far from it, sir. I had been treating him with kid gloves, as you may recall…”

“Yes, yes. Well, you can take those off now. This is a messy business and the best thing to do is clear it up as quickly as possible.”

“Sir.”

The Wisemans were feeling happy with life. Things were on the up again. In the last couple of weeks their normal fare of street robbing had been supplemented by some choice paying jobs. Jimmy Burgess had passed on some protection work in Hackney, while his brother had given them a little enforcement job up West. Steady Eddie Duncan had tipped them off about a lucrative burglary in Wandsworth and, with these jobs and a good run of street hits, they were quids in. As long as there was no conflict between paymasters, they would take anything on. Jimmy B had tried again to get them fully on board with his crew but they had managed to remain free without acrimony. Independence suited them. Of course, they paid their dues to the main men. Not to do so would be madness.

They ducked under a shop awning to shelter from the sudden cloudburst. Stanley’s stomach rumbled loudly. “Shall we grab a sandwich first?”

“Nah. Let’s get on with it.”

“He’s an ugly tight git, Sid, but it’s good to get back on his list again, eh?”

“I s’pose. Nice little earner for an easy job like this.”

A double-decker raced past them, splashing through the puddles. They ran to the other side of the road where scaffolding outside a department store provided further shelter. “You’ve got the downpayment safe, have you?”

Sid patted his pocket and nodded. “Unlike him to hand over such a large wedge of cash like that. He was always a slow payer before.”

“I’m not complaining. Keen to get the job done. Something to do with a family tragedy his sidekick told me when we were leaving.”

“Whatever. If you’re ready let’s get on with it.” A gust of wind almost removed Sid’s hat. Holding on to it tightly, he lowered his head into the drizzle and followed his brother round the corner.

Merlin was deep in thought and failed for a moment to register the Sergeant’s excited arrival. He had been thinking about the A.C.’s question about the younger Kennedy. Even if Joseph Kennedy had led Miss Harris on to get his way with her and left her embittered or just a nuisance, could a potential pregnancy really have provoked him to arrange her death? He knew that the Kennedys had been closely involved with gangsters in the prohibition era, but he felt pretty sure that they had smoother ways of dealing with awkward women than having them end up as corpses in the river. “Sorry, Sam. Miles away. What did you say?”

“I’ve got the developed negatives.”

Bridges threw a pile of photographs onto the desk. “Look.” He picked out two and pushed them across. They were similar to the other examples of Myerson’s work they had seen. Sprawling limbs and naked young flesh. Two black and white photographs, two women, both beautiful in their different ways.

Merlin scrutinised each one carefully.

“Any more of these two girls?”

“A few, yes, similar poses.” Bridges slid the other photographs across to Merlin.

“And the rest of the batch?”

“Different girls, same sort of stuff. None that I recognise.”

Merlin kneaded his forehead for a moment before struggling to his feet. “Come on, then. I think it’s time we pulled Bernie in.”

Darkness had fallen on Tottenham Court Road. Merlin gazed at the reflection that stared back at him from the car side window. He thought of Sonia and essayed another sheepish smile.

“The background in those pictures seemed a little different from the others we saw, don’t you think, sir?”

Merlin rubbed his eyes and looked at one of the photographs. “I can’t see in this light. We’ll have a closer look at the pictures inside.”

“Or perhaps Bernie Myerson will tell us.” The car pulled up at the end of the grubby alley.

There was no answer from the shop. “Come on, Bernie, we know you’re in there.” Merlin shone a torch through the shop window. He could see someone sitting in a chair in front of the shop counter and rapped at the window, but the figure remained immobile. “I think he’s in the land of nod. We’re going to have to force the door.”

Bridges stood back, braced himself and ran at the door. There was a loud splintering noise but the lock held fast. He ran at the door again and this time it gave way. They were hit by an overpowering stench. Bridges reached the chair first. The seated man’s head lolled on to his chest as Bridges shook his shoulders. “Come on, Bernie. Rise and shine.”

Merlin found the light switch and as the dismal décor of the shop revealed itself, Myerson slipped from Bridges’ grip and slumped to the floor.

Merlin bent down and rolled the photographer’s body face up. He recoiled as vomit spilled onto him. Bridges produced a clean white handkerchief. “Thanks, Sergeant. I’ll buy you a new one.” Grimacing, Merlin hurriedly wiped his coat before feeling for Myerson’s pulse. After trying a few times he shook his head, took a deep breath and walked over to the counter, where he found four empty bottles of whisky and one of gin. “I made a mistake. We should have brought him in for his own protection.”

“Wasn’t this an accident waiting to happen?”

“Strange how he finally succeeds in drinking himself to death the very day I tell someone about the information he’s given us.” He knelt down again and ran his torch over the body. “Look, Sam. On his wrist. See that red mark. And there’s one on the other wrist. Not as professional a job as they thought. This was no accident – his hands were tied and the booze poured down his throat.”

“Owen, sir?”

“If not, who?”

“Someone else connected with these photographs?”

“We’ll see.” He stood up. “You’d better make the usual calls.”

Bridges looked unsuccessfully around the shop for a telephone before going outside to find a police box. Merlin sighed and shone his torch down on Myerson’s face. “No need now to worry about being interned, Bernie. No need to worry about anything at all.”

At last they got away, leaving three other officers, the police doctor and a couple of forensic people at the scene.

“The Yard, sir?”

“Not yet. It’s late but let’s see if we can find Douglas. I’ve got that other photograph in my pocket.”

They drove through Soho and Piccadilly towards Whitehall, where they drew to a halt outside the Foreign Office.

Bridges entered the building and returned with the information that Douglas had left a short while ago. “Porter suggested we try the Carlton Club. He usually goes there for a tipple when he knocks off.”

Five minutes later, standing outside the grand façade of Douglas’ club, Merlin pondered briefly why so many men liked to spend so much of their free time in these all-male mausoleums. Something to do with single-sex public school education, he supposed.

In the lobby an elderly man in a frock coat bedecked with medals approached them. “I’m afraid the club is open to members only, gentlemen.”

“We are from Scotland Yard, chum. We’d like to speak to one of your members. You can get him out quietly or we can go in noisily. It’s up to you.”

The man’s bushy grey eyebrows jumped. “Who is it you want to see?”

“Mr Freddie Douglas.”

“He’s at the bar, I think. Please wait here and I’ll inform him of your presence.” The porter muttered something to a younger colleague before disappearing down a corridor.

“Seeing some fancy places these days, aren’t we, sir?”

Merlin looked up at the rows of portraits of former Prime Ministers and other Tory worthies lining the walls. “We certainly are. Here’s our friend.”

A purple-faced Douglas was hurrying from the far side of the lobby. “What on earth do you mean by this, Merlin? How dare you call on me at my club. This is quite unacceptable. I am now going to withdraw. Kindly arrange an appointment with me at my office in the normal way!” Douglas turned on his heels.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, sir.”

Douglas looked back over his shoulder, eyes glaring. “Dammit, Merlin. Clear off.”

“Not before I’ve shown you something. Something involving you.”

Douglas turned round to face the policemen properly. A flicker of interest registered in his eyes. “What is it?”