War Damage (28 page)

‘What about the photographs?' Murray was so angry that in standing up he almost knocked over the chair he'd been sitting on. He was flinging himself out of the door when Plumer said: ‘There is another angle. We might be able to get at it another way. If you just wait a moment instead of charging off in a temper—'

‘I'm sorry, sir, but—'

‘The vice squad's investigating an allegation of blackmail. Ramsgate's arrested a whole ring of queers and perverts. He's more interested in locking them up than in the blackmail itself. But I'm going over to have a look at the photographs – copies that several of the men were sent – and from what he told me, and who these men are, theatrical circles and all that, I'm willing to bet that they'll be the Buckingham photographs.'

Murray couldn't see what difference it made.

‘Look, Paul,' said Plumer patiently, ‘Ramsgate's not interested in the blackmailer, but the demands were sent in type-written envelopes apparently – not very smart – and he's agreed to share information. I told him it may link in with our case. It may even be connected with the fact that Appleton has been blackmailed. In the meantime you could pay the Hallams another visit. See if the boy's mother was shown a photograph. It seems implausible to me, but I grant you Carnforth's a very strange man.'

‘But you're saying we can't touch him. So what does evidence matter?'

‘It's not as cut and dried as all that. If there was a watertight case, then maybe … but at the moment, there ain't.'

‘I'll phone Mrs Hallam then,' said Murray. He went back to his desk, still too angry to think straight, and searched furiously among the litter of papers for the Hallams' number. But at the moment he was about to dial the number, there was an incoming call from Regine Milner.

twenty-nine

H
E WENT TO DOWNSHIRE HILL
the next day after lunch. They sat in the cosy room with the warm red walls. The fire glowed.

She was perhaps not exactly beautiful, but her skin was so luminous. Her eyes were so green. His drawn-in breath was like stepping into an icy sea. Was that what they meant when they said it took your breath away?

Murray was mesmerised by her proximity, her colour, the faint scent when she leant towards him, but he listened carefully to what she told him about her meeting with Roxburgh.

‘So Captain Roxburgh suggested your first husband, Eugene Smith, possibly murdered Mr Buckingham?'

‘Yes, but I told Eugene about the murder the first time I saw him. He seemed horrified, upset.'

‘But he's threatening you. And the suggestion is he wanted revenge because Buckingham had informed on him. In fact he had two motives for killing Buckingham: that, and this jade necklace.'

‘Ian wants the necklace too.'

‘Is Smith in touch with Mosley's lot over here? Has he ever mentioned anything about them? Does he know Arthur Carnforth?'

She shook her head.

‘Do you know when he arrived in this country?'

‘Ian didn't say. I remember the day Eugene rang me, because it was the day of Freddie's funeral. But actually – the last time I saw Freddie, he said something about wanting to talk to me about something … someone … we were going to meet the following day, but of course he was dead by then. Perhaps he'd just met Eugene. Perhaps he wanted to warn me …'

‘And now your husband – ex-husband – is threatening you. And you're frightened of him. And Roxburgh also believes you have this necklace.'

Regine nodded. ‘I think they may be working together – or against each other. Paul – I am frightened. I know it's cowardly of me. And there's no one I can talk to, who can help me, except you. I've talked to my friend, to Cynthia, but she's in trouble too … and …'

She leaned towards him. She didn't even mean to do it, but it was as if she were making an offering of herself, her glance seemed to promise something intimate and special, not a vulgar sexual proposition, never that, but something more akin to sympathy, rapport, even innocence.

‘You mustn't worry, Mrs Milner. I'll do everything I can to help.'

He felt certain there was, there must be, a link with Arthur Carnforth. Whoever paid Barker to shoot Freddie knew Carnforth as a fellow Nazi, knew Carnforth had his own particular interest in the photographs, or learned about them
from
Carnforth and then whatever the motive for the murder, blackmail became an opportunity …

Or perhaps Carnforth and the man from Shanghai had combined to murder Buckingham. They both hated him. Then again, Roxburgh wanted the necklace … could Roxburgh be the blackmailer?

‘This could mean we'll be able to solve Mr Buckingham's murder.'

It didn't please her as much as he'd expected. She looked even more upset. ‘But you know I said you weren't to tell
anyone
about Eugene. It mustn't come out! You promised!'

‘Of course I understand … I understand what an awkward situation you find yourself in. You did the right thing by telling me, and of course I wouldn't dream of doing anything to compromise you.'

‘Eugene's given me a sort of final ultimatum. He's in a hurry to get back to Ireland. He needs money badly. He really believes I have the necklace, he's become so insistent. He's given me one last chance to return it. Otherwise he'll come to the house, come here. And that would be – awful. He says if I don't give him the necklace he'll make me pay. He'll ruin me for life.'

‘Where are you supposed to meet him?'

‘At the Euston Hotel. He'll be getting the train to Ireland. That's his idea – that I'll give him the necklace and then he'll leave me alone, leave the country.'

‘I think you should meet him. I'll be there. I'll see you don't come to any harm.'

It was risky. Could he arrest the man? For demanding money with menaces? And how would Plumer react? Murray knew he was acting far too much on his own initiative. He must have gone mad to be risking his career for this woman.

But he accepted a second cup of coffee. And now she encouraged him to talk about himself, her face intense with interest as he poured out his hopes and ambitions. And – I think you're so brave, Sergeant Murray … Paul … it must be a frightfully difficult job … I don't know how you do it …

When she smiled she was irresistible. The dark red lips; what would it be like to kiss them?

* * * * *

‘Where have you been, Murray?' Plumer's flat, pale face was as expressionless as ever, but Murray knew trouble was brewing because the guv'nor had stopped smoking for a moment and was sucking an indigestion tablet instead. And Ramsgate was seated on the edge of Plumer's desk.

‘Mrs Milner phoned me. She had some new information. It puts things in a new light—'

‘Never mind Mrs Milner for the moment. My visit to Buckingham's family doesn't seem to have helped. They rang the superintendent this morning. They're convinced the will is a forgery. They claim to have found an earlier will. So they're still contesting. That's their privilege, of course. But it puts even more pressure on us to solve the case. The super's furious. He feels we should have taken more notice of the family to begin with instead of listening to the Milner woman saying they weren't interested.'

‘About Mrs Milner, sir—'

‘Listen to me, Murray. Ramsgate and I have been looking at the photograph that was sent to Mr Rodney Ellington-Smith, who confirms that it was taken by Buckingham. Pinelli admits he and Barker stole the photos, so we've got him where we want him. The two of them murdered Buckingham in order to get hold of these photographs and now Pinelli's started to make use of them.'

Murray remembered the way he himself had threatened Pinelli, but he'd never believed for a moment that Plumer would actually try to nail the boy. ‘D'you think he's bright enough for that, sir?'

Plumer ignored the question. ‘We'll have to question Ian Roxburgh about the will again. He told us there's no money, so I don't understand its importance, but we'll have to at least go through the motions.'

‘That's just it, sir. Mrs Milner told me—'

‘I said I didn't want to hear any more about the woman.'

Vic Ramsgate sat back on the edge of Plumer's desk, a cocky smile on his fat, red face. Murray knew Ramsgate and Plumer didn't get on. Having to work with him would have been enough in itself to put Plumer in a bad mood, quite apart from the bollocking he'd apparently had from the superintendent.

‘The dead man was probably blackmailing his mates himself.' Ramsgate seemed pleased with the idea. ‘That's the sort of thing men like that do. Spiteful, vicious, no sense of loyalty, just like women.'

‘He could hardly do that from the grave,' said Plumer drily.

‘With respect, sir, please hear me out. According to Mrs Milner Buckingham did have something to leave.'

Having heard Murray out, Plumer merely said: ‘Inspector Ramsgate has kindly shared valuable information with us and we've both wasted time here waiting for you. So Mrs Milner turns out to be a bigamist! I knew that woman was no better than she should be. And it sounds to me as though she's trying to use you to get her out of the hole she's dug for herself, by spinning some yarn about a necklace and trying to drag Roxburgh into it. Her marital difficulties have nothing to do with us. If she broke the law then she'll have to face the music. It has no bearing on this case.'

‘Yes, sir. She is being blackmailed though, sir.'

‘Tell her to report it then.'

‘Well, she did, she reported it to me—'

‘To the local force, Murray, you fathead. You've really let yourself get far too involved with that woman. She's strung you along with all sorts of information that's led nowhere. If she now thinks we're going to get her off the hook by – what – arresting this man she alleges is blackmailing her? – she's got another think coming.'

Murray stood red-faced, silent. It was humiliating enough to be reprimanded in front of Ramsgate, who was smiling broadly. Worse was the unfairness of it all; as if it hadn't been Plumer who'd
told
him to cultivate Regine. Worst of all, though, was that Murray realised only now, too late, that he'd done what he promised he wouldn't do; he'd told his superiors that Regine was a bigamist.

thirty

‘T
HERE YOU ARE
, Charles.'
Something must have happened. His father was never at home when Charles returned from school.

‘Let's sit down in here, old chap.' He pushed open the drawing-room door. The room was empty.

‘Where's mother?'

‘That's what I wanted to talk to you about.' John Hallam sat down and gestured to Charles to do the same. He cleared his throat. ‘The fact is – you know she hasn't been well lately. It's, well, it's what they call a nervous breakdown. I suppose it's partly my fault, I've been preoccupied …' He left the sentence unfinished, as he encountered the blank unresponsive gaze of his son. How difficult the boy was, an enigma. Perhaps Vivienne had been right, they shouldn't have sent him away … too late now … ‘She's gone for a rest cure, in a nursing home, it's not for long, just a few weeks, to build her up again – you know she wasn't eating properly.'

The lump in Charles's throat was as unexpected as it was unwelcome. His jaw trembled with the effort of holding back the sudden urge to sob. He looked down, blinking. He couldn't speak.

‘We'll give her a few days to settle in and we'll drive down at the weekend if I can get hold of some petrol. Otherwise there is a train.'

The lump subsided and Charles leant against the back of the sofa. As the dustsheet shifted it gave off a dank smell of plaster. It was a mental home, a lunatic asylum, that's what his father was talking about, he knew it was. ‘Mr Carnforth will be upset.' His voice came out strangely squeaky and high.

John Hallam looked at him. What an extraordinary thing to say. And yet – perhaps the boy knew more than one realised. ‘That's been part of the problem, you see. You're old enough to understand these things. She got in with all those long-haired friends of Freddie's. I'm glad you mentioned Mr Carnforth, the man's a crackpot. I shall speak to the school.'

‘You should, you should tell them. You should tell them Mr Carnforth supports Oswald Mosley.'

‘How do you know that?'

‘He spoke to me about Mendelssohn. He said he was a dirty Jew and I shouldn't have anything to do with him.'

John Hallam sat stiffly, staring ahead. Things were even worse than he'd realised. How
could
Vivienne have consorted with such a man. ‘I can't understand why your mother became so … it's beyond me. But I'm glad you told me this. I shall certainly talk to the headmaster. It's disgraceful.'

In the corridors, on his way to the detested gym, in the dingy basement dining room, whenever Charles was not in a classroom he was on the alert for a sighting of Carnforth. Not that Carnforth was often to be seen in main school. His duties as art master were light, for the subject was compulsory only for the first two years, and so he spent most of his time in the art annexe, developing his photographs or painting; not, as Charles had once imagined, weaving a web to ensnare little boys, but lying in wait and plotting, plotting to have Vivienne all to himself, to seize her, to take her away from them. And Freddie must somehow have got in the way of the plan and so he'd had to be eliminated.

That it must have been Arthur Carnforth who'd murdered Freddie had come to Charles in a blinding flash of inspiration. The idea had such economy; it explained everything. He began to devote to it all the single-minded energy that had previously been divided between school work and his pursuit of men in the secret meeting grounds he'd begun to discover in pockets of Camden Town, down towards the railway terminals and even as far south as Leicester Square and Piccadilly Circus.

Twice he'd followed Carnforth home to his flat in Handel Street, had waited and waited as it grew dark until he'd heard a taxi draw up in the street and watched his mother step airily into the cavernous flats where Carnforth had his lair. On both occasions his mother had re-emerged shortly afterwards, accompanied now by the art master, and they'd walked away westwards. Charles had followed them, keeping a careful distance. They had walked some way until eventually they came to a curious church set between two other buildings. He could not follow them in there. In his gnawing, torturing curiosity he imagined their discussion with the priest – about marriage? divorce? Perhaps Carnforth was trying to brainwash her into becoming a nun. Crazy thoughts buzzed like wasps through his brain.

At home no one spoke, but the air was thick with it – or rather, the opposite. The vast, empty, half-renovated rooms were as if abandoned before having even been lived in; airless; the three of them living in a vacuum. Life deprived of oxygen shrivelled up in the great, gaunt house.

Perhaps it was a good thing his father had had her locked up. At least she was beyond the reach of Carnforth now. But it was all Carnforth's fault – and if Carnforth was a murderer, who might he murder next?

At the end of afternoon school, Charles took the back way round the playing fields to Carnforth's isolated hideout. Although he knew he'd be alone with a murderer, he wasn't frightened of Carnforth. He knocked, then opened the door without waiting for a reply.

Carnforth was emerging from the darkroom.

‘Oh, Hallam … Charles.' Carnforth seemed stymied. ‘I didn't expect you,' he blurted, stating the obvious. ‘But – but as it happens, I'm glad you're here.' He hesitated, then stumbled on. ‘It's always good when boys feel they can drop in unannounced. Sit down – sit down.' Carnforth dropped heavily in the chair by his desk, but Charles remained standing, leaning against the door jamb.

‘I was hoping to speak to you, because I telephoned, but I was told your mother had gone away. Is she on holiday? She mentioned nothing to me. We were supposed to meet.'

Charles had expected to feel triumphant, had expected to gloat inwardly. But he was too frightened, now, not of Carnforth, but by the thought that his mother might never come home, might be locked away for ever, that he barely registered the art master's desperation. He spoke the words he'd prepared quite mechanically.

‘I'm afraid she's ill, sir. She's in a nursing home for a week or two.'

Carnforth stared blankly at Charles. ‘A nursing home?' He stared at the floor. Then he gathered himself together with a deep sigh. ‘Is she allowed visitors? You must tell me where she is. I must go and see her.'

‘That's why I came to see you, sir. As soon as she's able to have visitors, she asked me to arrange for you to go there. My father isn't keen – he doesn't want her over-excited, but I'm sure I can fix something up for you.'

‘That's very good of you, Charles.'

Charles walked away from the art annexe towards the goods entrance and the anonymity of the main road. It had been easier than he'd expected. Carnforth was a fool. But now there would have to be a plan. He'd thought of going to the police. But that would be no good. He hadn't any proof of anything. And the police were useless anyway. He would just have to take matters into his own hands.