The Chelsea Murders (7 page)

S
OON
after half-past two, when the envelope and its contents went in to Warton, he lost himself in a cloud of smoke and brooded. His standing instructions in any major inquiry were that all letters for his HQ should be delivered immediately by special messenger from local post offices, and this one had been.

It had been mailed at the main post office in the King’s Road. It had slipped down the chute from the external box some time between 1 p.m. and 2 p.m., but because it was the lunch hour, and staff short, the exact time couldn’t be established.

He had the material copied and the originals sent for specialist examination, and by three o’clock had dispatched Mason to the library.

Mason was driven round in solitary grandeur, and mounted right away to the second floor.

‘If I wanted to look up some lines of a poem,’ he said to the bird, ‘how would I go about it?’

‘Have you got the poet’s name?’

‘No.’

‘Oh. Over here, then.’ She took him to Dictionaries and pointed out the volumes of quotations.

‘What’s the poem about?’ she said.

‘Suppose it was the moon.’

She took down an
Oxford
. ‘Well, you just look up this index at the back,’ she said, ‘and there you are. Moon.’

‘Thanks,’ Mason said.

He waited till she’d gone and looked up lilies.

A close-packed column on lilies.

Lilies.

    
Beauty lives though l. die.
           208:9.

He went down the column.

    
Three l. in her hand.
                 410:7.

He turned to page 410, quotation 7.

The name of the poem was ‘The Blessed Damozel’, and the poet Dante Gabriel Rossetti.

Mason copied all this, replaced the book, and took off.

By half-past three Warton was snouting through ‘The Blessed Damozel’.

‘Gold bar, sir,’ Summers said.

‘Ng.’

‘Waters stilled at even.’

‘Well aware of it, Summers.’ He thought if Summers kept pointing out possible allusions to The Gold Key and the nocturnal Thames, he’d do for him.

Some clever bastard was having them on here. Some clever
literary
bastard. The message, envelope, type, cartridge paper, were still with the experts; nothing at all to feed on except his own yellow rage.

‘Any further thoughts, Mason?’ he said.

They’d already been through it. The lad swore he’d told nobody. Bloody obvious his idea had got out somewhere. Warton had spotted the loophole himself, and waited for the lad to spot it. He knew Summers wouldn’t. Summers didn’t. Lad did.

‘Well, it
could
have got out through the library, sir.’

‘How?’

‘The girl saw my warrant card. Though I only asked for the list, sir.’

‘Who could gather anything from that?’

‘Perhaps – this fellow Colbert-Greer?’ Mason said slowly.

‘How?’

‘Well, he might have been reading about these murders, and if she mentioned a detective had asked for the list – could have
looked at it himself, made the same connection. He was working there, after all. So was this coloured bloke, the one interested in police records.’

‘Were they there when you were?’

‘No.’

‘What do you think, then?’

Saw him make the next leap. ‘Well, if they were regulars, the girl might have had friendly relations with them.’

‘Think she has?’

‘Worth looking into, sir.’

Yes. He’d do.

‘Go to it,’ Warton said.

Summers and Mason saw the chief librarian together in his small office. After a preliminary chat, Brenda was called in.

It was twenty-to five by this time, and she’d just been to the rest room to give her hair a touch. The library closed at five on Wednesdays, and she was meeting the chap at Sloane Square at quarter-past.

‘These gentlemen are from the police, Brenda,’ the librarian said. ‘They’d like to ask you a few questions.’

She saw Mason nodding at her, and her heart turned over. She thought immediately of Frank and his horrid’sniff-sniff remarks, and she knew it was to do with him.

‘Oh, yes?’ she said.

‘Sit down, dear.’

She sat down, a bit wobbly.

She’d actually planned to get off a bit early. Didn’t want to keep the chap waiting. First time she’d been out with him.

‘I expect you remember Mr Mason here.’ It was the tall gaunt one talking. ‘Came in first a couple of days ago.’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you remember what he wanted then?’

‘A list of plaques, wasn’t it, of famous residents?’

Mason just nodded at her; didn’t say anything.

‘Did you mention that to anyone?’

‘I
might
have done,’ she said.

‘It’s rather important,’ the gaunt one said. ‘There wouldn’t be anything wrong in it, no reason why you shouldn’t.’

‘Well.’ She made a pretence of thinking. All she could think of was horrible Frank, twirling his beads.

Bit by bit, she let it slip out, keeping it quite ladylike. The chief librarian wouldn’t think she was
getting off
with the readers, would he? Thank God, he was nodding approvingly at her. The others just watched and listened. They made her go over it again and again: who’d been in the pub circle; what talk there had been about the list, what questions asked.

She saw that it was two minutes to five, and then, oh God, two minutes after, and they were still going on. She didn’t like to mention her date, not after this particular pub date.

‘And that’s absolutely all that happened?’

‘Oh, yes.’

Five-past five. And she absolutely had to have a wee after all this.

‘And you didn’t mention it to anyone else?’

‘Oh, no.’

‘Well, I think that’s about all. I’d be glad if you wouldn’t mention it elsewhere for the time being.’

‘Oh, you won’t do that, Brenda, will you?’ the chief librarian said.

‘Oh, no!’ Brenda said, renouncing all sin.

‘Well, thank you, dear.’

She hared off to the loo, made short work of that, grabbed her bag and coat and was in the King’s Road like a jet. God above, it was nearly quarter-past! Taxi fare was a lunch, but she saw an empty one and threw herself in. ‘Sloane Square!’

In the cab she had a quick look at her face and licked up her lipstick and gave her hair a bit of a touch. In the same moment she remembered that she
had
told someone else.

Well, damn it, they weren’t interested in Mary, and if they were – twenty-past five! – they could jolly well go and do
something
a bit rude.

There had been several sets of fingerprints on the envelope –
which Warton knew would lead nowhere at all – but none on the cartridge paper. The paper-makers hadn’t yet been identified, but the Letraset people were compiling a list of customers who had taken the rather unusual type style. In general, it was used by advertising agencies, graphics studios and art schools. But more information would come from the wholesale stationers, whom they also supplied, and who in turn supplied shops selling artists’ materials, several of which were in the King’s Road.

The list of Famous Residents had apparently been circulated in an edition of fifty copies. Warton skipped the various civic authorities who had it, and concentrated on those with public access. There were not very many.

He wrote out the general assignment, and sent it through to Summers. As head of the Incident Room, it was Summers’s job to break it down and allot the work.

After this, and in an unusual mood of good cheer, Warton thought he would have an early night. In the hellish reaches of the afternoon, an amazingly good idea had come to him.

He thought he’d keep the idea to himself for the time being.

He gave a gruff ‘G’night’ to the Incident Room and took
himself
off.

He could see the scenario of his idea in its tiniest portions, and all of it looked good. Apart from the scenario, he could also see his plate, so lately piled high with mountains of unlooked-for crap.

Long years at his job had made Warton familiar with its
unpleasant
patterns. All the way to Sanderstead he visualized the extra crap now undoubtedly being created for him by the spry and imaginative chefs of Fleet Street.

Yes, best of luck, Warton wished them, turning cheerfully into his drive.

‘B
Y
way of starters,’ Jack said, ‘I’d like to spring this on Friday. Nothing doing on Saturday. Then depending on how the
Sundays
play it – number two. For Monday, perhaps Tuesday.’

Number two was headed
THE SIEGE OF CHELSEA
. The two men were studying roughs in the editor’s office. Jack was secretive about the roughs. He’d taken them out of a drawer after the editorial conference was over and the other
departmental
heads had left.

It was now Thursday and they were through with the
earthquake
. A few hundred were being added daily to the death toll but there was no excitement in the streets on the latest score.

Next week was national maniac week; it was obvious.

‘What basically worries me,’ Chris said, ‘is not to blow it too early.’

‘Which?’

‘The Siege.’

‘Yes. It’s a beaut, isn’t it?’ Jack said.

A pencil-sketched policeman stood all down the left-hand side of the page; evidently in an alley in lamplight. His helmet was turned steadfastly towards the huge headline. Above it, a two-line strap outlined the gravity of what he was watching.

‘Wednesday or Thursday,’ Jack mused, ‘would definitely be better. Allow the story to build. Too risky, though. It’s our siege at the moment. Which means playing this one rather close.’

He was tapping number one. This one just said
SCOTLAND
YARD BAF
fl
ED.
There were four photos; three of the recent dead, and a larger one of the man looking into the deaths.

‘It’s the nutter theory, is it?’ Chris said anxiously.

‘Oh, yes. Great piece from the shrink, by the way. We’ll need plenty of supporting ideas.’

‘Yes. The snag there,’ Chris said, ‘is that there aren’t any. No actual hard stuff, you see, Jack.’

‘That definitely isn’t our fault. If they’re not putting it out, we’ll make them. If they haven’t got it, why haven’t they?’

‘Well, true, but –’

‘I mean, what are we expressing but the general anxiety people must be feeling? If the Yard is worried – Christ, so am I. I as reader. I mean, what’s happening? Plenty to go for, surely?’

‘Well, there’s no doubt –’

‘Panic stalking the streets being the staple. In which
connection
– Violet’s piece. Far too chatty. All these people carrying on as usual. They shouldn’t be carrying on as usual. We need some genuine nervousness. Cinema takings
down
– locksmiths’ takings
up
. What time are they bolting in the old folks? Things of that nature. We can take your other ideas now.’

They discussed Chris’s other ideas, but he was by no means at ease with them. ‘What would make me happier, Jack, is some
hard
stuff. This film group Mooney was keen on. She seemed to think –’

‘Oh, God, she isn’t still going on about it, is she?’

‘Not at all. I can’t even raise her. But there’s apparently an Arab backing the film.’

‘You’re not suggesting he’s backing the maniac?’

‘No.’

‘Then change gear,’ the editor advised. ‘This thing is big.’

‘Okay,’ Chris said.

‘As are Arabs in season. But not this season. Scrub Arabs.’

Chris went out, not too happy, but a few minutes later was back again, much happier. A small item had come in which was definitely hard stuff. It was rather a mysterious item.

‘This wouldn’t be Arabs, would it?’ Jack said, studying the item.

‘Oh, no. She’s scrubbed those.’

‘C
OMPROMISE
on both sides, as part of the piss-making process,’ Abo said.

‘Abo,’ Frank said, cutting in on his headphones. ‘Say “peace”.’

‘Peace,’ Abo said.

‘Try that part again. From Dr Kissinger.’

‘Dr Kissinger said that what was needed was compromise on both sides, as part of the piss-making process.’

‘Abo.’

‘Hello?’ Abo said.

‘Say “leave”.’

‘Leave,’ Abo said.

‘Say “I leave you in peace”.’

‘I leave you in peace,’ Abo said.

‘Now read from Dr Kissinger again.’

‘Dr Kissinger said that what was needed,’ Abo said, ‘was compromise on both sides, as part of the piss-making process.’

‘Yes. Okay, Abo,’ Frank said, and ranged elsewhere.

Difficult case, Abo.

They were all difficult cases here. He had twelve of them. He was seated at his console, switching in and out of the
tape-recorders
they were mumbling into around the room.

He looked at his watch. Time – oh, God! – for a spot of grammar.

Four of the twelve, he knew, would fall asleep immediately in grammar. The remainder, with a solitary exception, would nod off before the end. The exception was the Jap. This clever little devil was after more grammar than Frank had. He walked about with a frightening book of it, finding paradoxes with which to tax Frank.

The one defence – of which Frank made full use – lay in the near impossibility of understanding a word that came out of him. Despite his astounding brain his mouth seemed to have been formed along lines not meant for Western speech.

Frank had a quick switch-in to see that all was still well in that quarter. The familiar yowling reassured him, so he threw both master switches, stopping all recorders and speaking to everybody at once.

‘Okay, team. Beautiful work. Grammar now.’

They dutifully took off their headsets and assembled nearer him, four of them at once snuggling into comfortable positions; the familiar glaze settling on other eyes. From the clever fellow with the big book the accustomed gleam shone out. Oh, well.

Frank rambled on about grammar for half an hour,
interrupted
by the occasional yowl.

‘Prizterrus krekyuze verbin cases substantive yow-oo-yong. Eyung?’

‘Yes,’ Frank said.

‘Or ong inacular ominative owyung ingular niaow?’

‘Good point, Miki.’ And the right one to stop him at. ‘Only sorry there isn’t time to go into it. Okay, chaps!’ he said loudly, and saw Abo come awake with the rest.

He followed Abo to the Ferrari and got in while Abo
detached
the two parking notices from the windscreen – he collected upwards of twenty a week at £6 a time – and they boomed grandly off to Sloane Square, and round it to Coryton Place.

They ascended together in the lift, Frank rather anxious. It was early yet, not quite four. But he had an appointment with Steve and Artie at five; and Abo had to be got over first.

Abo had the top floor of a splendid mansion. ‘Servant out this afternoon,’ he said, as they entered it. ‘Whisky?’

‘Gin. I feel ginny,’ Frank said, smacking his lips.

‘You make them, Frank. I feel dirty.’

From Abo this could have had a variety of meanings, but Frank knew he was only going to have a shower. One thing about this son of the sands, he was hygienic to a fault.

Frank poured the drinks, with bitters in his own, and walked about pondering the best way to raise the subject. Abo’s residence afforded ample areas for walking in. Interior decorators had been at it for months, knocking down large parts and putting in other parts that Abo wanted. He had a taste for mirrors and panelling; also for enormous picture windows. Frank sipped his gin, still pondering, and had a look out. The fire escape was the principal view from the main window. It snaked five floors down.

He could hear Abo warbling distantly, so he poured himself another, and found the right panel, and the gold cigarette box inside, and lit up one of Abo’s specials. Always a fine quality of hashish at the prince’s.

While doing it, he prudendy checked the main mirror. Only
his own reflection showed in it, but he felt for the panel and opened a half of the mirror and went into the room behind.

The camera was closed up to the mirror but not in operation. He looked through the viewfinder to see what it was closed up on. It was on the huge divan in the room outside. All the room could be seen through the two-way mirror.

Frank came out again and closed the panel and sat in one of the jumbo zebra chairs. The style of everything here was so hideous it amounted to a masterpiece. He knew the fault wasn’t the interior decorator’s. Abo was obstinate. He knew his own mind, and this was its reflection.

‘You lit up,’ Abo said, coming in sniffing.

‘Relaxer. What’s new with that camera?’

‘Show you later. Send you out of your mind, oo-wah!’ Abo said. He was in a crisp towelling robe, very white against his sallow skin; undeniably sexy, Frank thought. A lively, useful performer, the prince. Fickle, though.

‘Abo, what is all this nonsense about the film?’ he said,
deciding
on the direct approach, as Abo lit up and sat.

‘What nonsense?’

‘Giving them those bills back.’

‘Why I pay?’

‘You said you would.’

‘Why?’

Christ. Ancient failings. Frank remembered his father had had affairs with several Arabs – lowlier ones, from Marrakesh or thereabouts – and had damn near killed a few. Fickle.

‘Abo, honestly, what is this kind of money to you? You pay that in parking fines.’

‘True.’ Abo quietly crowed, amused. ‘Forget it, Frank.’

‘You’ll pay?’

‘No.’

‘Damn it, Abo, it’s my film, too. Why do this to me?’

Abo thought. ‘Okay. I see.’

‘Aren’t you having fun? Smashing boys, some of those actors.’

‘Boys so-so. Girls better,’ Abo said. ‘Surprise, those girls, Frank. Good families. Lady This, Lady That. Surprise.’

‘Well, there you are.’

‘True, know different things. But only one time.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘I see one girl one time, then no more. Why?’

‘H’m.’

Frank divined the difficulty. Boys were boys and girls were girls, and Abo’s experience leaned to the former. What Lady This and Lady That obviously needed was a good talking to.

‘You think it might be me?’ Abo said, anxiously watching.

‘Well, it might be, mightn’t it?’

Abo’s face darkened.

‘I could always ask them,’ Frank said.

‘Oh, no.’

‘Best way to find out, Abo.’

‘If I don’t like to hear?’

‘Why wouldn’t you?’ Frank asked.

‘Oh. Well,’ Abo said. He had now grown very gloomy.

He got up and poured another drink.

‘I mean, if there is some small thing here or there,’ Frank said, ‘that should be done some other way, why ever not? Might as well know what’s on.’

‘You think?’ Abo said.

‘Definitely. Can’t know unless we are told, can we?’

‘True,’ Abo said, more cheerfully.

Frank came to a strict decision on these girls. Jeopardizing the film for such peccadilloes. ‘And since we’re all in the film together, Abo,’ he said, pressing on rather, ‘it’s foolish not to know everyone thoroughly. It’s such a good film, anyway.’

‘Is it?’ Abo said. ‘I don’t understand this film, Frank. What story is it?’

‘Well,’ Frank said, bracing himself for, and then rejecting, the idea of explaining the film to Abo. ‘It’s about murders.’

‘Make plenty money?’ Abo was now quite jovial.

‘Well, it might. A few weeks ago I’d have said no. Though absolutely the thing for you,’ he added hurriedly. ‘Princely job, Abo, helping the arts. But with these murders, and the way the newspapers are going on, it could easily make a lot.’

‘Million pounds?’ Abo said.

‘Oh, I don’t know about that.’

‘Two million?’ Abo said, chuckling. He got up and refilled both glasses. ‘Come through now, Frank. Show you something.’

He opened the panel, switching on the small light inside, and they went behind the mirror.

The video room was well equipped. Apart from the TV camera, there was the video recorder, the screen, a couple of TV sets, and the control gear. The place was comfortably furnished; a sofa, armchairs, a small bar. The air conditioning quietly hummed.

Abo went to a tape library and selected a couple of spools. He put one on the recorder, and dimmed the light as he sat.

Lady This appeared almost instantly on the screen, examining her features in the mirror. She was out of focus, though
recognizable
enough, and recognizably not wearing anything. She seemed suddenly to totter vertically upwards, and Abo appeared, grinning. Peals of laughter and imprecations filled the room in quadrophonic sound as her legs straddled Abo’s neck. ‘Abo, you beast! Put me down. I’ll fall!’

Abo turned, on the screen, and paused a while to give the mirror a view of more of Lady This, and jigged a little round the room with her. Abo, too, was as Allah had made him. Then they collapsed on the divan in sharp focus, and some interesting stuff took place, till an altercation ensued, and Abo switched his remote control off. ‘Not interesting now,’ he said. ‘I show you another. Oo-wah, steam up, this one.’

This one was a mixed doubles, and certainly was steamy. He heard Abo by his side begin to giggle slightly in a way that usually presaged a certain something. Frank had no objection. As the complex foursome urged each other on from the
loudspeakers
all around, he’d steamed up himself.

They had another drink later, and Frank tried again about the film, without getting anything spectacular or immediate out of Abo.

The best that Abo could come up with was, ‘I see, Frank. I think, eh?’

Not a lot to tell the chaps, Frank thought.

He bussed down the King’s Road, wondering what might be the best thing all round.

What with one thing and another, he knew for certain what was best for the film.

He jumped off the bus at Manresa Road and hurried round the corner to the art school, already a bit late. Steve and Artie were waiting outside. They’d arranged to go to the bar of the Students’ Union, opposite: the art school shared it with the university’s chemistry department, whose members were usually there in larger numbers. He could see various white-clad chemical figures now, messing about with test tubes through the lighted windows of the laboratories.

Steve and Artie seemed rather silent. He couldn’t tell if he’d interrupted a planning session or an argument. However, he took them inside and told them the latest news, and while they mulled it over went and bought the beer.

‘Three pints, Honey,’ he said to the lady at the bar.

There was still an unpleasant silence when he returned.

‘Well, damn it, look,’ he said. ‘It isn’t the end of the world. Two hundred pounds is no fortune.’

‘Not if you’ve got it,’ Steve agreed.

‘They’ll surely let us
look
at the stuff.’

‘That’s exactly what they won’t fugging do,’ Artie said.

The results of the night shooting had still not been seen. The discussion went drearily on till Frank came up with his next idea.

‘How about Artie trying to rustle up a commercial backer,’ he said, ‘to look at what we’ve got?’

‘Screw that, too!’ Artie said.

‘Oh.’ Frank realized the source of the silence. ‘I only thought, with all these. murders –’

‘What Artie thinks there,’ Steve said, ‘is that we probably haven’t got enough to –’

‘What is this “probably” shit?’ Artie asked. ‘Am I the only one
into
this film? We’re shooting out of sequence. We still have no special effects. The stuff those shit-heads are hanging on to is so vital for any kind of – Oh, Christ!’

‘All right, only an idea,’ Frank said. ‘All we need really is two hundred quid for the time being.’

‘That’s all,’ Artie said.

‘Anybody thought of Denny?’

‘Denny?’ Artie looked at him. ‘What about Denny?’

‘Hasn’t that wily oriental got black money tucked away ready to go to the cleaners … Maybe a loan, or an investment?’

‘Well, how about that?’ Artie said to Steve.

Steve had a drink. ‘He wouldn’t lend it,’ he said.

‘Why wouldn’t he?’

‘How would you guarantee he got it back?’

‘An investment, then.’

‘Denny invests in stuff he knows about. Jeans.’

‘That’s all?’ Artie said, and let a small silence develop.

On his quarterly trips to Hong Kong and other parts, Denny handled stuff other than jeans. The money resulting from this stuff was the kind that needed cleaning up. It wasn’t money that actually went into a bank anywhere.

They thought about this. Blue Stuff was Denny’s one retail outlet – a prestigious Chelsea one, to keep him in touch with the fashion end of the trade – but his basic business was that of importer and wholesaler. His warehouse was at Wembley, where Denny also lived. A Chinese partner ran the warehouse.

Steve was so sure it was a non-starter, he couldn’t even bother arguing.

But he thought it funny that Frank should have pushed the idea so hard; and that Artie should have gone along with it.

They both knew Denny.