The Reckoning (30 page)

‘And nothing as yet on the woman?'

‘We've had a couple of alerts. Two ladies called Horton recently moved into boarding houses – one in Putney, the other in Stockwell – but they're kosher. Police stations have been told to
keep checking with hotels and boarding houses, and estate agents too. She could be on the move, shifting from place to place.'

Billy hesitated.

‘Look, sir, I don't know what you feel about it, but it strikes me that whoever she is, she's altogether too comfortable doing what she's doing . . . buying those cards off Mickey Corder, changing names and identities.'

He had rung earlier in the afternoon to tell Madden about the arrest of the dealer.

‘I'd assumed it was the man who had set her up. But if she's doing it herself, then I reckon she's bent. How else would she know about that world? So that raises a doubt again about Alma Ballard – about whether it could be her, I mean. Can you really see her behaving like a criminal? I can't. She wouldn't know how. If she is tied to this business, it must be in some other way.'

Billy waited, hoping for a comment. But all he got was a question.

‘I take it you haven't heard back from the Mounties?'

‘Not yet. But it's only been a day or two.'

‘Then nothing's changed. The main thing is still to locate Finch. Keep trying, Billy.'

On his return to the kitchen Madden found Dakin drinking a cup of tea supplied by the thoughtful Alice.

‘We'll be off in a moment, we're going up to Blenheim Terrace,' the contractor told him. ‘Provided we can find our way, that is. Have you seen what it's like outside? Mark my words, we'll be fogged in by morning.'

He waited impatiently while his associate carefully folded his designs one at a time and slipped them back into the attaché case he had brought with him.

‘I'll look in again on Wednesday to see how things are going. Will you be here, sir?'

‘I'm sorry . . .'

Madden woke from his trance. He had lost track of time for a moment – and place.

‘Yes . . . yes, most likely. I'll be staying until the work is finished.'

He accompanied their two visitors to the front door, bade them farewell and then watched as they strode off into the gloom.

‘I'll be damned . . .' The words issued in a murmur from his lips.

Returning to the kitchen, he caught Alice's eye.

‘Believe it or not, Alice, I've just had a moment of inspiration.'

‘Have you really, sir?' Her motherly features glowed with pride.

‘What I need now is your telephone book.'

Frustrating seconds were spent in a hunt for the object, but eventually it was unearthed beneath a pile of workmen's coats on a bench in the hallway. Having found the number he wanted, Madden dialled it and after only a brief delay was put through by the switchboard at the other end.

‘I wonder if you could help me,' he said. ‘I'm trying to get in touch with a Mr Colin Finch. I believe he's one of your members. Could you possibly check that and, if it's so, give me his telephone number and business address?'

He waited for more than a minute with the receiver pressed to his ear, tapping the pencil he had in his hand on a pad next to the phone.

‘Yes, I quite understand.' He scribbled on the pad. ‘That's very kind of you. Thank you.'

He replaced the receiver and dialled Billy's number at Scotland Yard.

‘I've found him.'

‘
Finch?
' Billy's yelp of surprise was reward enough. ‘How the heck did you do that?'

‘I remembered something Miss Dauncey told us. She said he was carrying a flat case when he called at the house, of the kind painters keep their sketches in. That's what made her think he was an artist. But she was wrong. He's an architect: they use the same sort of thing. I've just seen one.'

Billy whistled in appreciation.

‘He's a member of the Royal Institute of British Architects: RIBA. His name's on their list. They wouldn't give me his home phone number – it's against their rules – but they let me have his business address. He works for a firm in London called Coulter & Stanhope. They've got offices on Piccadilly. It's too late to call on him now – he'll have gone home – but we can pay him a visit tomorrow.'

Madden paused.

‘But we need to talk first, Billy, and I'd rather not do it on the phone. Can we meet first thing?'

‘Yes, of course. But why? What for?'

Again Madden hesitated.

‘Look, I've got an idea, but I'd rather not talk about it now. I want to think about it first. I've got a feeling Finch isn't what he seems to be . . . not from our point of view.'

‘Do you mean he's not an architect?' Billy was baffled.

‘No, he's that all right. It's his past I'm talking about – his and Alma's.'

‘So you do think there was something between them . . . a relationship of some kind?'

‘Yes, I suppose you could call it that.' Madden's voice was heavy with regret. ‘But to tell the truth, I wish it weren't so.'

25

‘M
R
F
INCH?
O
H
,
DEAR
, I'm really not sure if he's here yet.'

The well-permed lady at reception was in a dither. She had been in the midst of taking off her coat and hanging it on a peg on the wall behind her when Billy and Madden had entered the lobby and crossed the marble floor to her desk.

‘I'm late myself this morning. It's this dreadful fog. The train from Leatherhead took forever. I don't know if Mr Finch is in yet. He lives out of London, too; in Abingdon. I imagine everyone's running late today. If you give me a moment I'll check and find out.'

Billy, for one, was glad of the delay. There was every prospect that the interview they were about to conduct would prove a bruising one and he wanted to be ready for it. Madden himself had made no bones about the challenge they faced when they had met earlier.

‘My guess is he'll prove a tough nut to crack.'

His old chief had opened his mind to him when they'd conferred, and although Billy had guessed there was a surprise coming, he had not been prepared for the nature of it.

‘I may be obliged to say some things that will startle you – and him, I hope. But better they come from me.'

They had met in a tea room off Jermyn Street soon after its
doors had opened. Walking down from Green Park tube station, Billy had found himself in a fog so dense it was hard to see more than a foot or two in any direction. Cars passing by in the street with headlights on had materialized out of the clammy greyness like undersea creatures and disappeared in a moment, their red rear lights blinking. With no clue at that stage as to what the older man had in mind, he had listened in wonder while Madden revealed the extent of his suspicions.

‘As I said last night, I hope I'm wrong. But one way or another we have to find out.'

He had paused then, the tea room quiet around them. They had been the first customers of the day.

‘I've had a night to think about this, Billy,' he said. ‘I've realized I can do it alone.' He had peered at his companion. ‘The worst that can happen is that he'll show me the door. Your situation's different. This could rebound on you and cause trouble at the Yard, particularly with Cradock. I don't want that to happen. It might be better if you stayed out of this.'

‘No, sir.'

Billy's response had been immediate. As he told Chubb later, he wouldn't have been able to look himself in the eye if he'd allowed his old mentor to stick his neck out while he sat back.

‘One way or another you're going to need official backing when you tackle Finch. He has to know it's serious.'

‘So be it then.'

Nevertheless, experienced though he was, Billy had felt a flutter of nerves as they approached the headquarters of Coulter & Stanhope. A sleek structure dating from the thirties with a facade adorned with an Art Deco design of a woman dressed in flowing robes, it proved to be located some way down Piccadilly. Madden had led the way in through the glassed doors, and now they waited to see if the man they wanted to speak to had arrived yet.

‘He is? Oh, that's good.' The lady behind the desk brightened.
She looked up. ‘I'm speaking to his secretary. She says could you tell her who you are, and why you want to see Mr Finch. He has no appointment scheduled for this morning.'

It was Billy who replied.

‘My name is Styles. I'm a detective-inspector from Scotland Yard. This is Mr Madden. We need to speak urgently to Mr Finch.'

When her eyes widened in disbelief he took his warrant card out of his pocket and showed it to her.

She stared at it for a long moment. Then she spoke again into the phone, repeating what Billy had told her.

‘I see.' She lowered the receiver. ‘Miss Carter says she'll get back to me in a moment. Goodness . . .'

Breathless, she set about putting her desk in order.

When the phone rang again she snatched it up.

‘Thank you, my dear.' She replaced the receiver. ‘Mr Finch will see you now. Take the lift up to the third floor. Miss Carter will meet you there.'

‘A visit from Scotland Yard! Well, this is a surprise. And I was just thinking how dull the day seemed, with all this fog.'

At ease and smiling, Colin Finch turned from the draughtsman's table where he was standing to greet his visitors. Dressed casually in an open-necked shirt, sweater and corduroy trousers, his glance took them in.

‘And which of you is Inspector Styles?'

‘That's me, sir,' Billy said.

‘So you must be Mr Madden?'

He shook hands with them both.

‘Give your coats to Miss Carter. She'll take care of them. And let's sit over there, shall we, and be comfortable?'

He pointed to a low table surrounded by easy chairs on the far side of the room. The office was spacious; besides the long
draughtsman's table it also contained several cabinets and a desk that sat with its back to a large picture window, which in clear weather must have overlooked Piccadilly and the expanse of Green Park, but that day was darkened by the fog pressing close against the glass.

‘And bring us some coffee, would you?' Finch spoke again to his secretary as he switched on a standard lamp.

Observing him, Billy thought that if he was unsettled by the sudden appearance at his place of business of an officer of the law, he certainly didn't show it. Lean and athletic-looking, Finch was just as Miss Dauncey had described him, right down to the small scar on his temple and the wedding band on his finger. And it was true – his hands did look sensitive, Billy thought, as Finch settled back in his chair opposite his guests and laced his fingers behind his head. What was lacking, though, was the hardness she had seen in his brown eyes. His gaze was neutral, and only mildly curious as he waited politely for one or the other of his visitors to begin.

‘I'll get straight to the point, sir.' Billy was first to speak. They had decided that it would be best if he took the lead. ‘One of the people we're seeking information about is a Miss Alma Ballard. I believe you're acquainted with her.'

‘Yes, certainly.' Finch hesitated, but only momentarily, before replying. ‘We met during the war.'

‘Would that have been in the Middle East – in Cairo?'

‘I see you're well informed, Inspector.' He smiled.

‘Can you tell us when you saw her last?'

‘Let me think . . . in June, it was. She was staying with her mother in Richmond. Would you mind telling me why you're asking these questions?'

The transition had been so smooth that for a moment Billy was thrown off-balance. He had to stop and collect himself, and during the brief interval that followed, Finch's secretary
appeared carrying a tray with the coffee things on it, giving him further time to reflect.

‘I'll get to that presently, sir.' He waited until the young woman had left the room. ‘For now I'd be grateful if we could clear up a few points.'

Finch made a gesture with his hand: graceful, accepting.
Please continue,
it seemed to say. He leaned forward to pour their coffee.

‘We're seeking information about Miss Ballard's past, including the time she spent in uniform. Sadly, with her mother dead, we've been forced to turn to other sources. Would you be in a position to help us?'

‘Oh, I don't think so.' The architect shook his head. ‘I only knew her for a short while.'

‘Can you tell us why you went to see her?'

‘There was no special reason.' Finch shrugged. ‘It so happened my job took me to Richmond that day. I had some drawings to show to a client. I thought I'd look in on Alma. Someone had told me she was down there and I hadn't seen her for some time.'

‘It was a casual call then?' Billy looked up.

‘It was.'

‘That's curious. Miss Dauncey, the lady who met you when you arrived, described your encounter with Alma Ballard in quite different terms. She happened to overhear your conversation from a room upstairs overlooking the terrace.'

‘Did she indeed?' His eyes had narrowed, but only fractionally.

‘Would you care to tell me the real reason you went to see her?'

As he put the question Billy felt the atmosphere change. This time the architect's pause was deliberate. He brought his hands from behind his head and laid them on his knees. Now, for the
first time, Billy felt the effect of his gaze. The brown eyes had settled on his. They weren't smiling any longer.

‘No, I don't think I would.' He spoke in the same quiet voice.

‘I beg your pardon.'

‘I can't tell you that. Or, rather, I won't. The subject of our meeting was private.'

The gauntlet had been thrown down, just as Madden had predicted.