War Damage (6 page)

‘What about yesterday evening?'

‘Oh, nothing.'

‘He stayed on quite late, after everyone else had gone. And then at the end he seemed in a hurry to leave. He hadn't time to tell me what it was he wanted to talk about. Perhaps he was going to meet someone.'

Neville frowned. ‘I don't know. When I think back now, I think he seemed a bit – hysterical. He was over-excited, agitated. That red flush. I think the spring was wound up very tightly.'

Regine had drunk more than she'd eaten and as they left the restaurant she tottered slightly, feeling squiffy. Neville patted her bottom and took hold of her arm. ‘Steady the buffs, kitten. Chin up and all that.'

Regine lay on her back in the dark. In the other twin bed Neville snored gently. She opened her eyes and saw the ghosts of furniture with edges smudged in the soft shadows of the room, as a lesser darkness showed through the gap in the curtains.

She'd laughed so much with Freddie, he was such fun, so naughty. She lay on her back in her twin bed with her eyes wide open and stared at the impossible truth.

Neville hadn't said anything, not really, but … why
had
he been in such a hurry to rush over to the house? What was it about the photographs?

She'd wanted to go; to say goodbye to Freddie in that preposterous pastiche drawing room, that crazy museum of Victoriana – all that stuff he'd picked up in junk shops and made so fashionable. She remembered feeling tearful, yet comforted for a moment as she'd stood in his drawing room in the morning sunlight. But in retrospect she was uneasy. That room, like a theatrical set, hadn't it been
too much
like Freddie, a façade, just as his bonhomie, his jokes, his darlings, his adorations had been a screen or a mask for something different hidden behind it all?

That was a cruel, disloyal thought. It was unlucky to have bad thoughts about the dead. She crossed herself.

It was no good. She couldn't sleep. She eased her legs to the floor, pulled on her dressing gown and crept down to the kitchen. As she stood waiting for the kettle to boil, she was thinking about the photographs, about Freddie, but also about the Hallam boy. She made a cup of tea and took it up to her study, a little room above the back extension, more a partitioned bit of the half-landing than a proper room. But she liked it. It was her territory in what, after all, was Neville's house, the house he'd lived in with his dead wife, Lydia, killed in the Blitz, Lydia with her twin beds, with her fur coats, still in cold storage at Woollands in Knightsbridge, and most importantly, Lydia with all her money, conveniently bequeathed to Neville so he could buy oriental vases to his heart's delight and keep his second wife in the manner to which she was far from being accustomed.

Freddie had taken a portrait photograph of Lydia. It looked down, with approval Regine couldn't help feeling, on the scenes of sexual discipline her husband staged with Lydia's rival and usurper, wicked Regine. Had Neville spanked Lydia, taken his belt to her backside? She'd never liked to ask and the question itself might well have earned her a well-deserved session with the belt: Neville's words, the ones that excited him, and now they'd got inside her head too.

Freddie hadn't liked Lydia, Regine was sure of that, for he'd told her bitchy anecdotes about the dead wife. She was so utterly middle class, such a social climber, it was quite shaming – and all that money from some dismal patent medicine her grandfather invented. Neville's done
much
better with you, darling.

Freddie knew all about Regine's background. She'd told him about it quite early on in Shanghai. It hadn't seemed such a shameful secret, then. Only later, after she met Neville – or no, it had all begun in the Vale of Evesham where there were men and women, new, glamorous friends she really wanted to impress – had she started to lie …

The stair creaked. Phil stood in the doorway in his shabby plaid dressing gown with its orange cord piping, looking like an under-nourished
Just William
schoolboy. ‘Are you all right? I thought I heard something.'

‘I couldn't sleep.'

Phil had been semi-billeted on Neville after Lydia was killed. At the end of the war, Neville had talked about giving him notice. His room would have made a better study for her. But she'd grown used to Phil. Neville was out all day and it could be lonely working away at her translations. Phil's different shifts at the library meant he was quite often at home for lunch or morning coffee. She liked that. He was part of the family now.

‘Thinking about Freddie?' Phil propped himself against the edge of her desk. ‘I couldn't sleep either. It's most unsettling. Ghastly, actually.'

‘I made myself a cup of tea. Why don't you have one?'

He shook his head. ‘I was thinking: Freddie was in a strange mood on Sunday. D'you think he might have been going to meet someone, you know, a rendezvous?'

‘He didn't say anything,' said Regine doubtfully. But then, he wouldn't have.

‘Actually, I thought he seemed a bit tense and – I don't know – almost hysterical.'

‘You know, Neville said exactly the same thing. That he was very wound up, yes, hysterical.'

Perhaps his change of mood had been due to an encounter during the afternoon; which meant with another member of her little circle. She said: ‘Did you notice who he talked to at the party?'

Phil, going round with the drinks tray, was in a position to notice. ‘Well,' he said, ‘he sat with the dancer to begin with. That cheered him up for a start, I daresay, he was such a big fan, wasn't he. But perhaps I'm making too much of his mood … Yes, it was just that when he arrived – I answered the door – he seemed … Anyway, then Alan Wentworth came over and they were talking for quite a while. And then … oh, I can't really remember. I got caught up with her son for a while. He was asking me about cocktails. He seemed very knowledgeable.'

‘Oh! He wouldn't talk much to
me
!'

‘I'd better go back to bed. I'm on early shift at the library.' But Phil stayed where he was. ‘Reg—'

‘Yes?'

‘Well, you know I went out after the party – yesterday evening? Actually I think I may have seen Freddie. On Rosslyn Hill. He was with someone. They were quite a way off.'

‘Why didn't you say that to the police? You must tell them, Phil. It goes towards the idea he picked someone up, doesn't it. Perhaps then they'll stop being so interested in all our friends.'

‘That's worrying you, isn't it.'

‘Of course it is!'

‘At first I thought it was so obviously an encounter that went wrong. But I've been thinking about it all day. You know, there were some … there really were some tensions around on Sunday; something in the air.'

‘But you're saying he was with someone – he must have picked someone up.'

‘Not necessarily, it could have been prearranged.' Phil hesitated, went slightly pink. ‘The thing is, I can't be sure, but it did look rather like Neville.'

Regine stared at him. Then she laughed. ‘But that's impossible. He … we …' They'd been engaging in their version of marital relations in the bedroom.

Then she remembered. Neville
had
gone out, to get some cigarettes. ‘Have you said anything to him?'

Phil shook his head. ‘I thought you …'

‘Yes. Of course.'

She went back to bed and lay for a long time in the dark. And puzzled again, tantalised, over the last thing Freddie had said to her: there was something he had to tell her, and she thought he'd said it was something about someone they knew.

six

R
IGHT FROM THE START
Plumer was under pressure from Detective Chief Superintendent Blatchford, whose authority extended over the whole of north London, to make a quick arrest. Not only was the London crime wave continuing, the murder rate up, the squad getting nowhere near enough convictions, but a shooting in suburban Hampstead meant things were really out of control, alarm bells ringing all over the show. This was a damn sight worse than a gangland slaying in Soho or down the East End.

At first, Plumer had been full of confidence. It had been an amateurish job. The victim had been shot in the leg and the shoulder before taking the fatal wound in the stomach. Yet the use of a gun at all meant it was unlikely to have been an amateur pick-up, or street thief. So all he and Murray had to do was lean on a few of their contacts. It wouldn't be long before an informer crawled out from the woodwork. It was a typical sordid underworld crime. The difference was the villain had had the cheek to trespass outside the usual stamping grounds. A shooting in Hampstead was a bloody liberty. Plumer remained nonetheless confident that any minute information would be forthcoming and he would have the satisfaction of nailing some small-time Soho gangster, who, even if he hadn't actually murdered Buckingham, was sure to be guilty of other violent crimes and was better removed from circulation, if possible permanently.

Of course there were courtroom pitfalls in cases like this, where the victim was equally undesirable, as vicious as his assailant if not more so. The charge might be reduced to manslaughter if a clever brief got the killer to say he'd been propositioned by a pervert. Why, he might even be acquitted on grounds of self-defence. After all, men like Buckingham had it coming to them. Still, Plumer was optimistic. Judges took a dim view of guns. That sort of thing had to be nipped in the bud and with any luck the murderer would swing.

Yet although Plumer remained convinced the death had all the marks of the underworld he knew so well, he and Murray returned empty-handed from their visits to the usual suspects and their trawls through the drinking clubs and dives of King's Cross and Soho. Nothing. A lurid release from the Scotland Yard press room (
CHICAGO COMES TO HAMPSTEAD
) not only did not bring the new information hoped for, but, on the contrary, served only to increase public alarm.

Plumer therefore suppressed his intense distaste for everything about the kind of life Buckingham had lived, and accompanied Murray into the murky underworld of male prostitutes, gents' toilets and unnatural acts in which the dead man had, in Plumer's imagination at least, dwelt like some amphibian creature from the black lagoon. Murray put the frighteners on the boys that hung around Piccadilly Circus. There were queer clubs, too, the sort of place a man of Buckingham's type would frequent. Visits to them had been equally useless. The furtive, respectable clients had taken fright and run for the hills; useless, lily-livered pansies.

A few days later, however, Buckingham's wallet was handed in to Hampstead police station. It contained a large sum of money, five pounds, untouched other than by damp from having lain hidden on the Heath.

The detectives sat in Plumer's shabby office, drinking tea.

‘That casts some doubt on the robbery theory, doesn't it, sir.'

‘I'm not so sure. His keys haven't turned up. Perhaps the idea was to get into the house.' But Plumer knew that didn't hold water. The keys could have been flung away anywhere on the Heath – down a drain, into a pond – they'd never be found. Anyway, no killer with a gun would have baulked at the thought of breaking and entering. Men like that didn't bother with keys.

‘We've been to all the Hampstead pubs and nobody saw him. I don't think it was a pick-up.' Murray had a feeling this was going to be his big break. He desperately wanted it to be. ‘Could it have been a jealous lover, sir? Someone he knew? Something to do with the guests at the party? We ought at least to check alibis. And his friends could tell us more about the man. Don't you think, sir? And there is that witness in the square – the neighbour we spoke to.'

‘The chief isn't keen on harassing high-ups. Not that the Milners and their friends are toffs exactly, but they're the sort that complain. And some of our friends in the vice squad are itching to get involved, to crack down on the queers, but he doesn't want that either. He thinks the vice squad are getting too big for their boots. That's what he thinks. But you're right, this is a murder investigation. All I'm saying is, let's just go very carefully.'

This time the detectives came in the evening. The Milners were due for supper at the Wentworths', who were more or less neighbours since they'd recently bought a cottage at the back of Hampstead High Street. Regine was changing into the black dress she'd bought yesterday from Harrods for the funeral that hadn't yet taken place. It had the full New Look skirt, which, sadly, largely hid her slender ankles and long legs; on the other hand the great bell of material enhanced waist and curves. People didn't wear black to funerals much any more, a black armband was enough and there were still so many of those, but it had felt right. Only full black would do for Freddie and his well-developed sense of drama. It was also too dressed up for an informal supper with the Wentworths, but she couldn't resist, she had to get Dinah's reaction. It was so lovely; such soft wool and sweet little round buttons up the front like black peas or pearls. Neville had said he thought clothes would soon be derationed. Then, he suggested, things might at last begin to get back to normal, with people dressing properly again, changing for dinner and so forth. So he approved of the black dress.

Life had to go on. It was important to look your best – and the nuns, after all, had insisted on neatness and the importance of detail, only not, of course, as an expression of the vanity and worldliness they'd tried to crush out of her, with their gibes at her colouring; as if her glaring hair had been inherently sinful in being so bold and so violent.

Black was flattering. But it was also the colour of death and beneath the surface ran death's deep undertow. There was also the nagging worry of what Phil had told her about Neville, how he'd seen Neville and Freddie together on that Sunday night. Almost every evening she'd tried to find out if her husband really had met Freddie, but all she'd discovered was that Neville didn't want to talk about that evening. She hadn't taken note at the time of when he'd gone out and come back. Had the wireless been on? Had the clock in the hall rung the hour? It was before ten, but
how long before
? She couldn't remember. All she knew was that Neville not only wouldn't talk about it, but became irritable and peevish at the very mention of the murder.

He was going to be even more irritable when the telephone bill came at the end of the month. For she'd spent hours on the phone to Dinah, Cynthia and Dorothy, mulling over the meagre facts, trying to believe it was true.

And into the stream of anxiety and sadness that was there all the time, every so often the thought of Charles Hallam swam through her mind.

On his way home Neville had managed to buy a bottle of gin. He mixed pink gins in Lydia's pre-war cocktail glasses. Rather vulgar and very 1930s, he said, the first time they'd been brought out; but Regine liked them. Each was a different colour, spotted with motes of gold leaf. Neville handed her the blue one. As she took her first sip there was a knock at the front door. Cato barked and pounded through the house.

‘Who the hell is that?'

She sprang up. ‘I'll answer it.'

The chief inspector loomed up behind his sergeant, who was trying to ward off the dog. ‘It's the detectives, Neville,' she called brightly. She led them into the drawing room with a sense of suppressed panic, but she was not too agitated to have a close look at the younger man, who'd hardly registered on his previous visit. He was not so tall, after all, but he was well built, muscular, and he moved with energy. His eager face ran to a point with his keen nose and bright, dark eyes; yet to have described him as resembling a rodent would have given the wrong impression, although his face did have the alert curiosity of a rat or ferret on the qui vive. His curly hair, released from his trilby, seemed full of energy too, and, short as it was, sprang over his forehead.

‘I'm so sorry. I've forgotten your name.'

‘Murray, Detective Sergeant Paul Murray. And Detective Chief Inspector Plumer.'

Neville had risen to his feet. He was frowning in a failed attempt at hauteur. ‘To what do we owe the pleasure of this visit?' To Regine his words sounded ridiculous. ‘A drink? We were just having a cocktail before going out. I hope this won't take too long. We're due to meet some friends.'

Plumer didn't beat about the bush. ‘A wallet was handed in to Hampstead police station yesterday. It had been found on the Heath. It contained five pounds, an identity card and a cheque book belonging to Mr Buckingham. This somewhat alters the complexion of the case, as I'm sure you'll appreciate.'

‘It was found some way from the scene of the crime,' added Murray. ‘We had made a search of the immediate area. The wallet was found in undergrowth much further down the hill.'

‘Five pounds? And it wasn't stolen?' Neville stared at the policemen cluttering up his drawing room.

‘Surely …' Regine dreaded what they might say next. ‘I thought you said it was just some – some
lout
. That's what you said, wasn't it?'

Plumer looked bleakly across at them. ‘No, Mrs Milner, that's not quite what we said, although on the face of it, yes – an encounter, of whatever kind, that went wrong; an attempted robbery, that was a hypothesis. But five pounds is a tidy sum of money. What sort of thief would chuck that away?'

Neville cleared his throat. ‘I take it his keys weren't found?'

Plumer smiled thinly. ‘No, sir.'

Regine's sense of dread intensified. She picked up her blue and gold glass. It was empty. Wordlessly she handed it to Neville.

‘Are you sure you won't join us?'

Plumer shook his head. ‘We're interested in what Mr Buckingham may have done after he left your house on the Sunday afternoon or evening.'

‘I can't quite see what Sunday afternoon has to do with Freddie being attacked on the Heath.' Neville handed her glass, refilled, to Regine and sat down again, pulling the creases of his trousers.

Sergeant Murray looked at Regine. ‘I believe you said he left here on his own. What time would that have been? Can you give me a rough idea?'

Freddie waving from the path, more than several drinks to the good, the light from the door streaming into the darkness.

‘About eight? That sort of time. It stays light quite late even now, doesn't it, with double summer time, but it was getting dark – was dark. But I told you the time, didn't I, when you were here before?'

‘It was a cocktail party, was it?' put in Plumer.

‘Not a party, more informal, friends just drop in if they feel like it.'

‘I believe you said you could provide us with a list of the guests?'

She stared, appalled. Her horror must have been obvious, for Murray said gently: ‘We do need to know who was here.'

‘I can't see how that's relevant.' Neville spoke sharply.

‘Well … it's important to try to piece together his movements after he left your house. He left alone – but he could have met up with someone again later.'

Regine glanced at her husband. His face was expressionless.

‘What are you implying exactly?' he said with hauteur.

‘I'm not implying anything,' said Plumer patiently. ‘The body was discovered around 11 p.m. by a man who was walking his dog, and we think the post mortem will show that the deceased hadn't been dead long. So … let's say the attack probably took place around ten. That's not an exact time, of course … but if we assume that's when it happened, around ten o'clock, then that would be roughly two hours after he left here and we need to know what he was doing during those two hours. He didn't say where he was going?'

She frowned, couldn't remember what he'd said, if he'd said anything. She shook her head. ‘I thought he was going home. But I don't think he said he was, I just assumed that's where he was going.'

I need to talk to you … lunch tomorrow … someone we used to know …

‘But in just two hours, if he left your house at eight, it seems unlikely he went home to Chelsea and then came back up here again.'

‘He
could
have.' She said it more for the sake of argument than anything.

‘Theoretically, yes, but it seems rather unlikely. He'd have to go more or less straight there and back. What would be the point of going home for twenty minutes or less?' he insisted softly. ‘Was he in the habit of having a drink in any of the local public houses? Are there other friends in the area he might have looked in on?'