No Human Enemy (Suzie Mountford Mysteries) (3 page)

She followed Tommy, going towards Easter Park, walking the length of the boundary wall.

Another plain-clothes man came moving quickly from the direction of the park with a message for Magnus who excused himself and strode swiftly ahead.

Tommy dropped back. ‘Magnus?’ he asked.

‘One of “Big Toe” Harvey’s chums,’ Suzie supplied.

Tommy Livermore nodded. A thin grim smile. ‘Knew I’d seen him before. Right little darling as I recall.’

‘You had an idea he was the one tipped off Lavender. Made sure she got away in time.’

He nodded again.

This was all about Suzie’s first big case, the murder of a BBC female announcer in 1940 and the subsequent trail that led them to the psychotic, terrifying killer, Golly Goldfinch. Tommy Livermore had guided her through this frightening period of her life. Lavender was Goldfinch’s cousin, a West End tart who had motivated Golly, pushing him into his killing sprees.

*   *   *

In a way, Suzie thought, it was gratitude that had led her to becoming Tommy Livermore’s lover, though a deeper feeling had come with time.

Two open lorries with white ARP insignia on the doors and the hopeful word R
ESCUE
stencilled white along the sides came jolting along the road, overtaking them, the dark blue overalled men in the rear whistling and
chaiaik
ing at Suzie and Shirley Cox.

‘Nice to be fancied,’ Shirley said, echoing many women before and after her.

Magnus returned, hot and bothered. ‘We’ve had the first reports back from the hospital. Confirms what we’d found.’ Suzie thought he looked liverish. ‘You’ll have to go and take a look. It’s very odd. Just as we thought.’ And Tommy grunted, not committing himself.

They could now see the road ahead was cordoned off, allowing people to turn right into Easter Road, but denying access to the park. There was the constant sound and clatter of heavy manual work, the noise of bombed property being cleared and made safe.

Magnus gestured, suggesting they move to the other side of the road, were they passed two old and discoloured office blocks, a handful of shops, greengrocer, butcher and a haberdasher with practically nothing in its windows except a plethora of pink petticoats and armoured corsets. There should be a medal for any man who could get through that lot, Suzie thought, catching a glimpse of herself in the plate glass, amazingly not shattered by the blast of the explosion. Hardly recognised herself. Bloody hell, she thought, seeing her floral-patterned skirt whipped around her knees and thighs and her short hair looking a tangled mess. She felt hot, sweaty, fat and much older than her twenty-six years, but there she was, the same slender figure, the slim waist, straight back, no sloppiness here. But where was it all going, her youth, her life? Whizzing fast as any doodlebug. When she first moved into CID (the Criminal Investigation Department) in 1940 she had been just twenty-two. Now…?… didn’t bear thinking about.

Near Easter Park they passed a Church of England school, stamped in the same way as all those Victorian schools, carbon copies of each other, red-brick buildings, big arched windows, the little bell tower for the single bell to summon the weary children to their lessons.

Across the road, the convent wall turned abruptly at right angles, running a good hundred and fifty yards to form the rear boundary of the property. There was the hint of another wall within and in the far corner a short spire ran up from what could only be the chapel.

The flying bomb, the Fiesler 103, had landed some fifty yards inside Easter Park, gouging out a crater in which you could have hidden a couple of London double-decker buses, tearing up trees and the tarmacadam from a path running alongside the grubby grey convent wall.

On the corner the explosion had ripped away the stone blocks of the wall, laying bare three and a half rooms, hurling the stone inwards, bringing down the heavy ceilings. Three cells really. Cells for nuns, each with a simple iron bedstead, a stand chair and a prie-dieu, a crucifix on the wall: spartan little living spaces around ten feet by six, each uniformly whitewashed, grey now and dirty where they’d removed the debris. No sign of life except for the rescue men still busy clearing rock and starting to shore up what was left of the sagging ceilings.

The air smelt as though it was on fire and a curtain of dust appeared to hang permanently over the scene.

The Rescue team they had seen arriving had taken over from a section of ten men now relaxing on the grass, just outside the cordoned area, sipping large mugs of tea and munching on sandwiches provided by a WVS mobile canteen. A fire engine was also in attendance, its crew making the most of the canteen, and there was an ambulance parked nearby.

‘We’ve had to cordon this far back,’ Magnus explained. ‘Two of the cell doors’re damaged and can’t be locked,’ nodding towards the exposed rooms. ‘When the fire service boys and the rescue teams arrived there were nuns coming from the far side, trying to get to the bodies. Had to be told to go back. Bloody dangerous. Have to leave a guard down here all night of course. Some idiot on the piss, bet your pocketbook, will be in there and through into the convent. Raising all kinds of hell.’

‘Can’t raise hell in a convent. Three nuns, then? In there, three nuns?’ Tommy asked.

‘Novices, sir. Yes. Four actually, one’s in hospital, still alive. We went like the clappers to get them out so the crime scene’s ruined.’ Magnus hopped nervously from foot to foot, like a child in need of a urinal. ‘Three novices, Mr Livermore. Two of them killed by being knocked across their cells by blast and stone. Crushed. The other one was dead already they tell me. Had her throat cut. It wasn’t till they got her down the hospital that we were told for sure she wasn’t…’

‘Wasn’t a nun…?’ Tommy started.

‘… novice?’ Suzie asked.

‘No.’ Magnus shook his head. ‘Wasn’t a female. The third one, with her throat cut, wasn’t a her. He was a him, and his throat was cut, not by flying detritus but by a good, old-fashioned knife that we’ve yet to find.’

‘Oh, good,’ said DCS Tommy Livermore, always heavy on the irony.

CHAPTER THREE

They went down to the hospital to take a shufti at the bodies, not the most pleasant part of the day, getting on for five o’clock and four more V-1s falling not very far off, the sound of their popping, purring engines stopping making everyone clam up until the beast had exploded elsewhere.

Magnus was correct; one of the novices was a bloke, meat and two veg, the lot, and with his throat cut, ear to ear like a big extra pink mouth. The two women, both quite young, had been crushed horribly by great hunks of flying stone. Not a pretty sight, one with her neck obviously broken, the other with her chest stove in. Suzie thought of it like that, ‘chest stove in’ sounded like something from one of her brother’s books when he was fifteen or so, full of pirates, swashbuckling, full-blooded adventure and battles galore; people getting their chests and heads stove in.

When they’d marvelled at it all, Tommy talked to Magnus then sent Ron off to take a hard look at the three cells where the deaths had taken place.

‘No need to get your magnifying glass out, Ron. Those hairy great ARP Rescue people’ve been clumping all over the place. Even Sherlock Holmes wouldn’t find anything now. Have a good look round just the same. Bring your talents to bear and remember we’re still looking for a knife, something sharp that did the damage to the wolf in nun’s clothing, if that’s what he was. I’ll be down later for you to give me the sixpenny guided tour.’

Off he went, happy as Larry, maybe happier. Emma Penticost just stayed in the background, silent, and Tommy turned to Magnus, ‘What about the injured one? Sister…?’

‘Monica.’

Tommy nodded and sent Shirley off to find the missing nun. ‘Just get a general picture at this stage.’ Then, turning to Magnus, ‘You say they’ve been identified, the bodies?’

‘Two of them. Reverend Mother – Mother Ursula – took a gander at them on the grass. She got first look, didn’t recognise the bloke, only we didn’t know it was a bloke then. Made a good nun, he did, that bloke.’

‘You didn’t think it was a bit odd?’

‘What?’

‘Reverend Mother not being able to finger her … him?’

‘She said something about getting the Hovis Mistress – no, that’s not right…’

‘Novice Mistress,’ Suzie supplied.

Magnus gave a leery smirk. ‘That’s the one. She’s pretty old. Old and decrepit, that Mother Ursula.’

‘No need to be disrespectful, lad. With any luck we’ll all be old and decrepit one of these days.’ Tommy drawled, turning his head in Suzie’s direction. ‘Won’t we, heart?’

‘Yea, we should live so long,’ chuckled Magnus, and Tommy treated him to a withering look. ‘She was a bit confused as well, sir. Admitted to it. Said, “I’m a bit confused these days,” and there was a younger nun with her who nodded, agreed with her. I don’t think her eyesight’s up to much either, guv.’

‘Yes. Well.’ Tommy frowned. ‘So really, the three bodies haven’t been officially identified?’

‘No, guv.’

‘You think we ought to go and talk to her, Chief? The Reverend Mother?’ Suzie asked.

‘Yes. Definitely. We need to talk to her and we need to get the corpses identified. Someone official will have to do it in case the man was a regular visitor to the convent.’

‘I don’t think nuns have regular male visitors.’ It came out before Suzie could close her mouth: thinking aloud.

‘I’m aware of all that, heart. I meant, butcher, baker, candlestick … Oh, well.’

‘You want me in on that, sir, or…?’ Magnus left it hanging in the air.

‘No.’ Tommy firm, giving the impression that his dearest wish was to be a long way from Magnus. ‘Just remind me, the two women, the novices, which cells were they found in?’

‘One of them right at the far end, where the wall turns at the bottom of Easter Park. Then the one that’s a bloke, in the next cell. Then the younger nun.’

‘The man was kind of sandwiched between the two novices then?’

‘In a manner of speaking, guv’nor, yes.’

Wickedly, Suzie thought they really would make a gleesome threesome – then immediately regretted it. Suzie’s conscience was easily pricked when it came to religion, the product of being at St Helen’s, taught and kept to a rigid discipline by nuns. Even nuns of the Anglican persuasion could hold a special dread and an awesome respect.

They stood outside the main mortuary viewing room in a quiet and nice area for relatives or witnesses to wait until a body was ready for them to have a look-see. There was a table with flowers in a vase, and several chairs, a crucifix on the wall: too bad if you weren’t a Christian, but this was a Christian country, right?

‘No,’ Tommy repeated. ‘No, you make sure the crime scene is secure, Magnus.’

‘Very good, sir,’ obviously relieved. Then a long pause as though he was plucking up courage, standing there opening and closing his mouth like a fish. ‘There
was
one other thing, sir.’

‘Well?’ preparing to leave, giving Suzie the look that said ‘we’re off’. Glancing at Emma and nodding.

‘Delicate matter, sir. Marjorie brought it up.’

‘Marjorie?’

‘One of the assistants here, sir. Knew something funny had gone on. It’s probably nothing but…’

‘But what?’

‘Nuns’ underclothing, sir.’

‘What about it?’

‘Wondered if you knew anything about nuns’ underwear, sir.’

‘Do I look like somebody who knows about…? Maybe WDI Mountford…’

‘What’s the problem?’ Suzie asked.

‘Probably not a problem, but Marjorie disrobed the ladies and … well, a bit colourful. She thought it a bit colourful for nuns.’

‘Thought what in particular was a bit colourful?’

‘The … er … the drawers.’

‘The drawers are a bit colourful?’ Tommy almost exploding, looking pop-eyed. Pink. Uncomfortable.

‘Well, Directoire, naturally. That’s to be expected. Also, both the ladies were wearing them…’

‘Directoire?’ Tommy queried, definitely discomfited now.

‘ETBs,’ Suzie said with a grin. Don’t see why he’s embarrassed. Never embarrassed when he’s happily removing my drawers.

‘ETBs?’ Tommy quite out of his depth.

‘Elastic-Top-and-Bottom,’ Suzie smirked. ‘In training we used to call them passion killers; blackouts; the issue ones, woollen in winter, drawers cellular lightweight for the summer. Look, where’s this going, Pip?’

‘They’re made of a silky material. Bright scarlet. Marjorie thought the colour and texture a shade racy for nuns.’

‘Not at all. The nuns at my school wore vivid electric blue. Silk. Saucy really…’

‘How the hell did you know?’ Tommy seemed startled. ‘I mean, it’s not easy to look up a nun’s skirt.’

‘There was a little walled garden next to the laundry. Our classroom almost overlooked it and on Mondays we’d see the nuns’ knickers out on the line like a waving bunch of pennants. Electric blue.’

‘You said. Silk.’ Tommy fussed about with a cigarette, then headed for the door. Outside he lit up and, as though seeing her for the first time, again nodded to Emma. ‘Couldn’t miss the excitement, eh, Emma?’

Emma Penticost had a particularly destructive smile which she used now. Sickening, Suzie thought. Could twist Tommy round her thingamy.

‘You know why I’m here, Chief,’ Emma’s smile blasting golden sunshine right into Tommy’s eyes.

‘Not just for the thrill of it all?’

‘No, Chief. Part of my brief, isn’t it?’

Tommy grunted, unconvinced.

‘Part of my brief is to stick by you, Chief, unless you tell me to get lost. In that case I suppose I have to make my own decision.’

Tommy gave a half-hearted nod and asked Emma to walk with him, indicating Silverhurst Road, back in the direction of St Catherine’s Convent main entrance where Brian sat, silent, in the Wolseley. Suzie tucked herself in behind them and they walked slowly back, seemingly in deep conversation.

Emma was what Tommy – using the 1930s gangland description – liked to call the Reserve Squad’s ‘Muscle’. It was a tradition that had started with Molly Abelard who’d been drafted into the Reserve following a threat on Tommy’s life just before the war. Tommy was newsworthy, got written up in the Fleet Street newspapers a lot. They called him Dandy Tom on account of his sharp suits and impeccable turnout. The fact that he was the Honourable Tommy Livermore was also a help and Tom believed that tittle-tattle in the press always boosted his standing among the villainous classes. Dandy Tom, Gentleman Detective. ‘Detective, yes,’ he would say, ‘but I’m not so sure about the Gentleman.’