The Chelsea Murders (6 page)

She led him to a stuffy attic, crammed with books. It was dark and she put the light on.

‘This section is local records,’ she said. Shelves filled with booklets, pamphlets, parish magazines. She fingered neatly through. ‘Here we are. Would you like to see it here?’

‘Thanks.’

She left him and Mason sat and studied the list. It was a
three-pager
, duplicated, in a cover. It took him only one look through to see that nobody else had the same initials as the three sets he’d got. Astounded, slightly stunned, he went through it again.

No. Just those.

Well, damn it, he thought.

He took the list and went below.

‘Can I borrow this?’ he said.

‘Sorry. Nothing can be taken from the reference library.’

‘Well.’ He had to have it. ‘I noticed a copier below. Can I just go and copy it?’

‘Nothing’s allowed to leave this room.’

‘I’d leave you my driving licence,’ Mason said, smiling.

‘Sorry …’

Jesus. He’d have to show her. He took his wallet out and withdrew enough of his warrant card for her to see. The girl’s eyes went curiously over him.

‘Go on, I’ll only be a tick,’ Mason said, wrinkling his nose as he smiled, which he knew often worked.

‘Be ever so quick, then.’

Mason was quick. Five minutes later he was out in Manresa Road again, with the copy, his heart thudding.

Two things had occurred to him. One was that whatever the significance of his find, it couldn’t fail to do him a power of good. Scotland Yard and Fleet Street combined had so far failed to discover a single connecting factor between the
murders
.

He had just gone and discovered one.

It could rocket a young cop up through the firmament.

The other thing was that he might have a dab at the pussy cat in the reference library. She’d told him her name: Brenda. She was interested in him, he could see that.

First things first, though.

M
ASON
was right about the pussy cat, but for the wrong reasons. Brenda was interested. She hated sitting like a dummy all night with the clever talk going on round her. Sometimes they had the actors and actresses, which she much preferred. She knew she was prettier than a lot of the girls, but they had more to say. She was flattered they asked her, really.

She had been asked to The Potters for that night, so she was glad she had something to say.

The only thing was, Frank was there, and he made her sick.

‘Did he fancy you, darling?’ Frank said, nodding at her. ‘You know, sniff-sniff. Did he go sniff-sniff?’

‘I don’t know, I’m sure,’ Brenda said.

‘Bet he did. Take my word for it. I’ve developed a taste for detectives. I feel a frisson when one is near.’

Something had happened to Frank, they’d all noticed it. Steve had told him to wrap up a couple of times, and she wished he would. He made her physically ill.

‘Why a list of plaques?’ Steve said.

‘It isn’t just plaques. It’s all the famous residents – all the dead ones, Sir Thomas More and Thomas Carlyle. It’s partly the Greater London Council list, you know, G.L.C., and partly –’

‘What did he want with it?’ Steve said.

She wished she could say ‘
Darling, I don’t know,
’ like the actresses. She couldn’t make herself form the words, despite the two gin-and-tonics she’d had. She wished some other girls would show up. She felt exposed with the three men.

‘Isn’t Mary Mooney coming?’ she said.

‘Mooney-Mooney-we-won’t-tell-Mooney,’ Frank chanted.

Steve looked at him. ‘Why not?’ he said.

‘We won’t,’ Frank said, with a little nod. ‘That’s all.’ He kept nodding, and also twirling a little string of worry beads that he had lately taken to carrying.

Brenda felt her head going round with the beads, and the
gin-and
-tonics. She picked up her handbag. ‘Excuse me a moment,’ she said, and headed for the Ladies’.

‘What are you thinking of?’ Steve said.

‘We could have fun,’ Frank said.

‘How?’

‘I don’t know. I’ll think. I will have a little chat with
Brendah
,’ Frank said, camping up the name. ‘Tell her to forget it.’

‘Yeah, she’s bound to from you,’ Artie said.

Frank looked at him with dislike. ‘Why are you being such a beast this evening?’

‘Oh, bugger off,’ Artie told him.’

‘Well, thank you, fans.’

Steve was watching Artie. He was certainly bugged. Steve knew what was bugging him, and he thought it childish. He’d already privately explained why he hadn’t been able to tell him about Frank until the matter was straightened out.

‘I will have a chat with Brendan,’ Frank said again.

‘No, skip it,’ Steve-said. He could see this was bugging Artie,
too. Everything was bugging him lately. Anyway, he knew the girl would forget the matter if nobody said anything. He saw Brenda appearing, distantly, and got up himself. ‘I’ve had enough for one night,’ he said.

‘So soon?’ Frank said. ‘What’s up with everyone? What you all need is a session with the detectives. They perk a fellow up. In fact,
everything
needs perking up. Isn’t that right, darling?’ he said, as Brenda, rather pale, stood beside them.

‘What?’ Brenda said, despite herself.

But playful Frank wouldn’t tell her. He just twirled his beads as they left the pub. That was lateish on Monday night.

The envelope arrived on Wednesday. Because it was addressed just to
Murder HQ, Chelsea Police Station
, it went first to the clerks in the Incident Room. It was a long white envelope, and inside was a sheet of cartridge paper folded in three.

On the sheet were four lines of Letraset Gothic lettering,
carefully
placed. They read:

There was nothing else in the envelope, so the clerk who had opened it simply recorded its arrival in the Journal, with the day and the time, Wednesday, 2.30 p.m.; which marked the official start of the Chelsea Murders (Series II).

T
WO
miles up the road, Mooney was in her customary position for the day and the hour. The day was the same Wednesday, the hour ten. She was looking along her jeans-clad legs, stretched on the next chair, and nodding glumly at what was coming at her out of the phone.

Taking one with another, Wednesdays were bloody terrible. Everything started again on Wednesday. It was like Sisyphus rolling his stone to the top of the hill and never getting there. Something of an anti-climactic nature did actually happen here once a week, but it happened on Tuesday. The last pages went off to Dorking then, for printing on Wednesday, publication dated Friday.

The
Gazette
was one of a chain of eight suburban papers
sharing
common advertising and features. Their own news pages had to be dovetailed in with the others, which meant the least newsworthy items had to go first; hence the regular Wednesday dredge of municipal offices, churches, clubs.

Not Fleet Street.

‘Well, I’m sure everyone realizes that, Monty,’ she said.

She was talking to Montague Humboldt of the Artists’ Guild. He was giving her an earful about the national disgrace of Normanby’s widow being on public assistance.

‘They don’t, Mary, honestly!’ Monty said, excitedly.

He continued raving so she cast an eye over the proof pages.
VICAR RAPS CHURCH VANDALS
. ‘
Beastliness’ in Vestry
. Not bad, but it had only made page 7; he hadn’t specified the beastliness even to Len Offard, who had done the story.

Len was sitting opposite her now, at the other side of the twin banks of ancient roll-top desks. He was using his own phone, and she was distracted by the need to keep an ear open for what he was saying. He wasn’t discussing the
Gazette
’s business, but his own; he was talking to
The Sun
. She was almost sure it was about the murders because of the extreme
abbreviation of his remarks and the way his eyes flitted shiftily over hers.

Old Monty kept going.

‘… think the G.L.C. at least would have the grace to mark in some way the studio where he created his greatest …’

‘I thought they had, Monty.’

‘Of course you did. People do think that,’ Monty said. ‘Yet not so much as a –’

Mooney made a note. Might be something. Nothing on the public assistance issue. Normanby’s widow hadn’t suffered in silence. Marking of studios, though: G.L.C. falling down on the job.

‘Where was his studio – Tite Street?’

‘No. You see! Glebe Place. Near where Galsworthy wrote –’

Galsworthy, eh? Not bad. ‘Okay, Monty, I’ll look into it. Are you sure he’s not listed anywhere?’

‘Oh,
listed
possibly,’ Monty said contemptuously, ‘but I can assure you –’

‘Lovely.’ Bye, Monty.’ She hung up and jiggled the phone. ‘Sandra, can you put me through to Wilfred.’

‘He’s right here, Mary.’

Yes, course he was.

‘Yes, Mary?’

‘Wilfred, I want something on Stanley Normanby. Is his old studio listed anywhere?’

‘Normanby. I’ll call you.’

As Mooney hung up, two things struck her. One was that Len had hung up at the identical moment with a very smug look on his face. The other was the old pub slate with messages, hung on the wall. Someone had chalked on it
MOONEY
IS SPOONY
. This could only be a reference to Otto Wertmuller. She had done a diary item on him, describing his scrumptiousness in perhaps extravagant terms.

She brooded on this as she tidied the items collected so far.

Wertmuller had been blond and gorgeous and gentle, despite his build, which was along cave-man lines. He had that kind of hair that needed fingers running through it. She had felt a slight itch in her fingers at sight of it. His own fingers had been
beautiful,
long and delicate and capable of all sorts of useful stuff on their own account.

Mooney put together a small item from the Citizens’ Advice Bureau, relevant to unmarried mothers, still brooding.
Wertmuller
hadn’t evidently felt the need for an immediate grab at her; no calls, no follow-ups, though she’d been particularly
careful
to give him both numbers, office and home.

What the devil was going on of late?

Mooney was no hysterical advocate of the need for the body’s rapture, but she thought fair was fair, and that people ought to get their share. Of latter months she had been wondering what had happened to hers. This thing and that had fallen through to her considerable bemusement. She got around, saw people, chatted. Month after raptureless month had withered away.

She had a quick look along the length of herself, and felt a compulsive need for a look at her face, too, so she got out her compact and had one.

‘It’s Len, old chap,’ Len said on the phone, opposite her,
carefully
not mentioning the old chap’s name. ‘Anything doing?’

It was looking a bit old, her face, leathery, experienced. But as faces went, it was full of character, intelligent, amusing, falling easily into a smile. She let it fall into one to see what it looked like. It looked fine. It had laughed its head off, had that face, for the benefit of likely-looking rapturists.

Her phone rang.

‘News room,’ she said.

‘You’ve got that list,’ Wilfred said.

‘
I
have?’

‘Your initials here, M.M.’

She
had
had the list – a little story about Augustus John, three weeks ago – but it had gone back. She was certain of it. He had come and taken it back himself.

‘It isn’t here now,’ she said.

‘Well, you’re not signed out.’

Of course she wasn’t signed out. He’d
taken
it. Probably gone down and hung around Sandra at the switchboard. He’d got it filed under something else by now, mind full of rapture.

‘Aren’t there any other copies about?’ she said.

‘At Manresa Road. How about this one, though?’

‘Well, I haven’t got it, Wilfred. I haven’t sold it.’

‘Your initials, you see.’

‘Yeah, okay, Wilfred.’

Silly little clot.

All the silly little clots were getting their rapture.

Everyone in the world was.

It wasn’t making her sour. She had a quick look at her face to see that it wasn’t. She saw vestigial expressions there – one of faint scorn had just crossed it – that Wertmuller had not had the benefit of. She was almost certain he hadn’t, and it was rather good. She tried it again. She saw Len watching her, and
examined
her teeth instead.

‘Many thanks, old chap,’ Len said. ‘Much appreciate it.’

He hung up and went out.

Mooney closed her compact, torn between thoughts of
Wertmuller
’s fingers and the public neglect of Normanby and the chap who had just earned Len’s appreciation.

She picked up her phone and called the
Globe
.

‘Chris? Mooney here. Anything doing?’

‘Hello, Mary.’ He immediately began talking to someone in the office without even asking her to hang on. Her heart slowly sank. What
was
it with everything lately? She’d got them a marvellous exclusive. It was practically her story. Was this getting away from her, too? And just because she’d fallen down on a couple of things, Frank and the pregnancy. She’d been certain a few days ago that they would offer her a job. Certain of it …

‘Mary, I’m tied up now. Is it anything special?’

‘No, I was only wondering –’

‘Okay, we’ll call if we need anything.’

‘All right,’ Mooney said quietly, and hung up and sat with her stomach turned to lead.

She thought that the best thing would be to go home and have a bath and get back in bed with the covers over her head.

Then she thought, no it wouldn’t. What with the general
maladjustment of things, she was going to have a treat. She was going to have a look at Wertmuller; a huge ample thing, top to toe and back again. While at it – he was only across the way from Manresa Road – she would look into the library and see what could be done about poor neglected Normanby.

Neglect, neglect. People could die of it, even the dead.

She didn’t know what she’d say to Wertmuller, but as it
happened
she didn’t have to say anything. She walked through to the backroom of Options & Renewals (the option was of selling them stuff or getting them to repair it) and he just rose from his chair, foot after foot of him, with the most glorious smile ever seen on human face.

‘Mary,’ he said, ‘oh, Mary, it is so nice to see you.’

‘H-h-hello, Otto. I – I –’

‘I had no means of getting in touch. I am late last night back from Germany. My father was seriously ill.’

‘Oh. Was he? I mean is he –’

‘Now, thank God, he is recovered. But all the time, Mary, I thought of you.’

Oh, well, damn it, Mooney thought. She didn’t know whether to pick a square metre of him and start in kissing or simply pass out on the floor from sheer gratitude. He had a sort of viola in his arms and he put it down and took her hands.

‘You have walked in as if to my dream,’ he said.

Was she hearing aright? She didn’t want to shake her head and clear it because it was fine the way it was. If it was a dream, this was the kind to have.

‘Just now I sat and wondered what you must think of me, if perhaps I have queered my – boats?’

‘Pitch,’ Mooney said. God! No. You haven’t, Otto. All yours, the whole pitch.

She wasn’t rightly certain what else he said. In conjunction with that fantastic twinkle in his eye, slightly triste, absolutely bang-on, and his hair, and his whole God-sent self, he was gently kneading her hands with those unbelievable fingers. What was
needed was some kind of computer to store, to bank, and then feed back moment after golden moment of it for all her
remaining
years.

She didn’t know if it was rash or not, she just damn well
invited
him to dinner. She wrapped it up somehow, didn’t know what friends he’d made as yet … Shewas only passing, on Press business – And how was that frame that had so interested her?

He gladly showed her the frame. He had this notion – the newly opened shop had called the paper two or three weeks ago, to milk a bit of publicity – that old picture frames were often finer works of art than those they enclosed. He restored them, and old things generally. He was a very good restorer.

Oh, boy, and how! Mooney thought, running recklessly across the road towards the library and the restoration of Normanby’s reputation.

Righto, Normanby! she said to herself. After what you’ve done for me, you’ve got something coming. I’ll see you right, Normanby. I’ll take on the G.L.C., the Government, the U.N., Idi Amin. It’s you and me, Normanby!

She raced up the two flights like a mountain goat.

‘My word, Brenda – your hair!’

She hadn’t seen the girl lately.

‘Don’t you like it?’ Brenda said, nervously touching it.

‘Like it? It’s fantastic.’

‘Is it? Only nobody’s said anything.’

‘Smashing, love. It transforms you.’

‘Oh, well,’ Brenda said, transformed, and just stood and breathed for a moment. ‘And I’m going out with a chap tonight,’ she said.

Mooney well understood that this girl’s basic life urge at the moment was to lay hands on a mirror, but she sped on. ‘I want the listing of Normanby’s old studio – the artist. You’ve got it here somewhere, haven’t you?’

‘Yes. In Special Collections. You know where it is.’

‘Don’t know if I can find it. Is Frank up there?’

‘Not yet. I’ll show you, then. That’s funny,’ Brenda said, leading the way. ‘You’re the second this week for that list. We had a detective in here.’

‘Oh, yes.’

Brenda was so sent by her hair she forgot for a moment that somebody had said Mooney wasn’t to know. Then she
remembered
it was Frank who’d said it, and she had a rude thought about Frank.

Mooney was so sent by Wertmuller that she didn’t all at once take in what had been said.

When she did, and between proffering her compact and the odd word on hair, she unravelled what had gone on.

Later, alone with the list, she sat and quietly marvelled at how things went, when they went for you.

She thought of heavenly Otto and the job on the
Globe
, both, less than an hour ago, apparently lost to her.

She stationed Wertmuller in a portion of her mind convenient for later attention, and bent to the list.

It took only a few lightning swings round the battlefield to see where the panzers had to go in.

When she left the library she had the dope on Normanby and some other dope.

One of the troubles with the
Globe
, she thought, was that they didn’t know how to treat a girl right. Call her when needed, would they? There were other fish in the sea. She knew how a certain percentage of them, in the region of a hundred per cent, would react to what she had to offer.

Pow!

She had no intention of offering yet. Certain subjects needed a little coaxing; subjects like Wertmuller came in this class.

Mooney made a couple of purchases at nearby shops and sprang lithely up to her flat opposite the post office before
resuming
serious work.

That was at about eleven.