The Chelsea Murders (5 page)

‘T
EDDY
, it’s a beautiful day. Why don’t you go out there for an hour or two, it will do you good, lift up your spirits,’ Mrs Warton said.

She said it without much conviction. From the sullen look on his face something like an exorcist would be needed to get
anything
going with him in the spirit-raising line. He had all the Sunday papers round him on the bed.

She’d known it wasn’t going to be easy when she’d opened the front door, first thing. The sun had glinted into the porch and on to the fat wad of papers lying there. It had glinted on a section of Ted’s nose which disappeared over the fold of the top one. The headline bore the word Chelsea. A quick flip revealed the same word in all the headlines.

‘Have they come yet?’ he had bawled from upstairs.

‘Yes, dear, bringing them right up.’

Oh, dear. Ted
would
be upset, she had thought. And Ted was.

‘Don’t bother having a shave,’ she coaxed him now. Shaving was dangerous. He thought while shaving. ‘Just jump into your togs and get me a few sprouts, and something for the vases. My word, the air is like wine, do you a world of good.’

Without a word, with something more in the nature of a hawk or belch, Warton swept the papers on the floor and thrust a foot out of bed.

He had quite a decent morning in the garden, however; got the old runner beans down and on the compost heap, poles stacked in the shed. There was a bit of slug about; all the damp weather. He’d do for them next week. Wallflowers getting a bit stalky in the boxes; should be planted out, really. No time
before
lunch.

He became aware something hadn’t happened. Rose hadn’t come out to ask him if he wanted to slip up the road for one before lunch. Well, he didn’t. Catch him showing his face in there today. She was thoughtful, Rose.

His heart lurched again, all the same.

Need a bloody miracle to save him now.

Oh yes, it was all happening, artists ‘studies of Germaine in the altogether. Reporters buzzing round that art school like blue-arsed flies. His own little outburst when he’d told them to stop hounding him and to go to the Information Room at the Yard. (‘Take the pressure off you, Ted,’ the C.C. had said. Warton had been going to ask to be relieved of Press conferences, but it had thrown him into a stupor. Why had it been suggested to him first?)

And the little hints and nudges in the papers; three apparently motiveless murders in a fortnight within a mile of each other. They’d used different words for the same menacing suggestion … ‘Inquiries being made at mental institutions for inmates who …’

Oh yes, oh yes.

‘Lunch, dear.’

Thoughtful, Rose.

The kids weren’t here this week-end.

Very thoughtful.

Why was she being so thoughtful? Why everybody so thoughtful? Take the pressure off. Nice relaxing week-end. Needed relaxing, did he?

Warton snouted through his roast beef and sprouts and
Yorkshire
pud.

Didn’t give any hint, though. Not his way. Ng. Ur.

He didn’t do much really, just waited for tomorrow’s papers. Put another hour in, in the garden, but no heart for it. He sat sullenly watching the box all evening, and went to bed early.

He slept badly and woke to catch only the tail end of the radio news. Earthquake, had the chap said?

He shot down to pick up the papers himself.

Earthquake. South America. Huge devastation.

Well, well.

He had a bath and a shave and watched himself carefully in the mirror.

Not a bad moment to feed them the pregnancy. Drop it in and let them figure it out; in and around earthquake specials. Showed a line being pursued. Useful. Right moment.

‘Shocking news, Teddy,’ Rose said, shovelling him his eggs.

‘Terrible. Quite a few thousand dead, I see.’

Yes, and a nice wave of typhus, if he knew anything about it. Hundreds of thousands homeless. Special appeals, Red Cross, Pope, blankets. Keep them all busy.

‘Those poor souls.’

‘Shocking.’ He went out to the car with something like spring in his heel. Weather holding up. Very promising day.

‘Right. Everybody here?’ he said in his office when the team had assembled.

‘All in, sir. Shut the door, last man,’ Summers said.

‘I just want to say that now we no longer have to worry about Press briefings, I intend instituting fuller conferences between ourselves. I see one or two new faces today,’ he said, looking round at the thirty-odd detectives. ‘Soon get the routine next door. Don’t want to go into it now.’ Next door was the Incident Room, where a most formidable routine had been established; by him.

‘Just one word, subject of the Press, before we leave it. Very useful organ, the Press. Operative word, useful. To us. Don’t want it vice versa. Our duty, pursue our investigations
thoroughly,
without deflection. However, deflection sometimes
unavoidable
.

‘What we have here, three unconnected murders. Press wants a connection. No lead turns up, they dream one. Doing it now – you’ll have seen. Round-up of nut-houses, likely nutters on parole. Very irresponsible. So – deflection needed.

‘This morning, Information Room at the Yard will be putting out a piece of evidence we’d sooner have kept. Germaine Roberts was in the tenth week of pregnancy. Forensically very important. However, give a dog a bone. Lesser of two evils.

‘Next point. Most important, investigation of this kind, keep an open mind. Press is working up to a maniac. All right, maybe there
is
one. Can’t rule it out. Am therefore instituting from today what I call the Crazy Ideas department. Note the word. Not unorthodox. Crazy. Don’t want anybody to think he’s a fool. Any man with an idea – bring it to Chief Inspector Summers, or to me. Won’t laugh. Assure you of that. Contrary. Those who know me know I’m not a big laugher.’

He heard quiet appreciation of that one round the room. No harm in dropping in a comical touch from time to time. Didn’t look up or acknowledge it in any way. Not a bloody comedian.

He listened expressionlessly as Summers read out the
Cumulative
. The landlord Logan had been ruled out; timing didn’t allow his involvement on a wharf. Dr Frank Colbert-Greer had been interrogated and his story checked. Investigations were
proceeding
with a gay club, Shaft, adjacent to Cremorne Wharf; Germaine Roberts had been a member.

‘Right,’ Summers said, winding up. ‘All those whose
assignments
aren’t ready, go to the waiting room or hop down to the canteen. There’s too much hullabaloo in that Incident Room. Caught me on the hop a bit, this briefing, sir,’ he apologized to Wart on.

‘Ng,’ Warton said in absolution. Not a big brain, Summers. Could organize, though. ‘How was it?’ he said, when they’d all shuffled out.

‘Put heart into them, sir.’ Summers filled his pipe, nodding sincerely. ‘
Esprit de corps
,’ he said over the flame of his match.

‘Ng,’ Warton said, pleased. ‘Which one Mason?’

Summers had mentioned the young detective he considered promising.

‘Tall lad, cleft chin, longish hair.’

‘Long hair, eh?’

‘Protective colouring. Ambitious lad,’ said Summers.

The ambitious lad had tabbed follow-ups in By water Street; known as ‘sit-downs’. He had no objection. He did his work, noted those needing still further inquiry, and was through
before
one.

He had a pint and a sandwich at the Markham Arms, and took a small trundle along nearby Jubilee Place, scene of Miss Manningham-Worsley’s exit.

Very weird, the murders so close together.

He thought he’d have a look at the area of the third, down by the river.

The King’s Road was busy at lunch-time, a coppery sun
glinting
. He bought a paper; front page full of the earthquake. Big scratchy wire photo of a woman in a bowler hat crying with a child in her arms. Relief supplies being sent, message from the Pope, blankets. A little teaser at the foot of the page said
Chelsea Model was Pregnant, page
5.

Page 5, eh? Not bad thinking, Ng, he thought.

He picked his way across tie road and went down Flood Street. Plumply prosperous houses, done up to the knocker. There was a copper outside Mrs Thatcher’s, but nothing special in that: important politician.

He cut through to Cheyne Walk.

Well, this was the life, Mason thought. He was a Battersea lad himself, brought up on the opposite bank of the river. He’d always admired the discreet splendour of the pads on this side. He strolled past the huge gated mansions of Cheyne Walk set back, behind trees, from the hazy flowing river.

Henry VIII’s old estate, as he knew from school. Elizabeth I brought up here. All private houses now, of course. Marvellous brick, clad in creepers, lightly pock-marked with plaques to other illustrious residents.

He paused at one and read the inscription. George Eliot, novelist.

He strolled on, reading the others. Dante Gabriel Rossetti, Algernon Charles Swinburne.

Well, well, all the lads.

In the pleasant sun, filtered through trees and falling leaves, Mason walked on, spelling out the plaques until Cheyne Walk ended and he was out on the roaring embankment, traffic thundering past.

He watched for an opportunity to cross the road, and found it, close by a testimonial to another famous resident. James McNeill Whistler, painter. Appropriate enough: the river began its sharp turn into Whistler’s Reach at that point.

Mason wove through the lines of huge container trucks and hit the opposite pavement, and found the position where
Colbert-Greer
had stood with the girl and stood there himself. He leaned on the stone coping and looked across the Thames.

From here the abandoned wharf where they’d been filming was plainly visible. To his right, along Whistler’s Reach, the industrial skyscape, Lots Road power station. All added up.

Weird guy, Greer. Mason hadn’t seen him but he’d heard from the Cumulative of the follow-ups. Cab-driver checked out, old woman in the toilet checked out. She’d apparently had her transistor in there with her; listening to the end of a radio play, which timed it. He was apparently in the clear. Apparently.

Mason mused, looking about him, hands on the sun-warmed coping. He tried to imagine it the other night; a chilly night. Greer shivering, unsteady on his feet. (Independent reports of that; tall thin geezer seen with girl on the embankment,
swaying
. The girl had left first; independent reports of that, too.)

Had he followed her? Could he have done?

Not in the time, he couldn’t; not all the way to Cremorne Wharf and back. Why would he have come back, anyway? He could have cut through to the King’s Road from there.

But the cabbie had picked him up here; just opposite, on the corner of Beaufort Street. Mason turned and looked there. The driver had seen Greer waving at him as he swayed across the road, pointing in the direction of Beaufort Street; had pulled
round the corner and waited for him there. In Greer had popped, and off they’d immediately gone, to the other end of the New King’s Road.

No, Greer had been safely home while Gabriel was still
walking
to her fate.

There was something wrong with that. It took a moment to see what it was. Not Gabriel.
Germaine
. Diane
Germaine
Roberts. The other name had put him off. It took a while longer to remember the other name and where he’d seen it. Rossetti. Dante Gabriel Rossetti. Same initials.

Something stirred in his mind, another formulation of initials. Close by Dante Gabriel Rossetti had been Algernon Charles Swinburne. Familiar that. Why?

The subject of his recent sit-downs surfaced.

Alvin C. Schuster.

A.C.S…. D.G.R. Funny.

He tried to think of the other one, the old lady.
Manningham-
Worsley. What was her first name …? Jane. J.M.W. Anything there?

He frowned along Whistler’s Reach, trying to think what might be there, until with slow dawning came the name of the patron of the Reach. It was James McNeill Whistler’s Reach.

Well, Jesus, Mason thought.

Well, hang on, he thought.

People had to have
some
initials. You could get almost
anything
out of initials. Look at old Algernon out of a simple A. Or old Alvin, come to that.

He wondered if he should double back and look at all the plaques again to see how many had similar initials. But Chelsea was full of plaques. There must be a list somewhere.

He saw a number 49 bowling over Battersea Bridge and ran for it. The lights were at red but they changed just as he made it.

‘Right for King’s Road?’ he called.

‘Hop on, mate,’ the conductor said.

He hopped on. ‘Where’s the library there?’ he said.

‘Manresa Road, five pence.’

Mason made inquiry at the central counter and was directed
upstairs to the reference library. He went up the two flights, pushed the swing doors and entered a rather oppressive silence.

People were scattered about the large room, sitting at mahogany desks. There was no one at the counter, so he looked around and presently espied a girl stacking books on shelves on a gallery at the far end. He gave her a cough and she turned and motioned that she’d be down. She came immediately.

Oh, yes. Very nice little bird, Mason thought. Victorian
looking
, yellow hair, parted in the middle; something a bit classical happened to it at the back.

‘I was wondering if you had a list of plaques,’ he said.

‘Plaques?’

‘A list of the famous people who have –’

‘Oh, yes. We have. Would you like to come upstairs with me?’

Not half, Mason thought. He followed her behind the counter, through a door, up a steep flight of stairs. Not bad legs; hips a bit plump. All the sweeter. Very refined little thing; quick, neat, clean. Oh yes; have a helping there, any time.