The Holiday Murders (36 page)

‘How did you find us?’

Titus explained what he’d heard when Jones and Fred entered Joe’s flat, and how he’d immediately contacted Dick Goad. Goad had surmised that the Belgrave house was the most likely place for Jones to go to.

‘No one’s lived in it for years,’ Goad said, ‘but it was the only chance we had, so we took it. We got lucky.’

‘Did you hear me calling out?’

‘No. We knew you were in there because the car they stole to get to Belgrave was parked outside. We heard a woman scream something, and we moved in.’

‘Who shot Jones?’

‘I did,’ Tom Chafer said. ‘He was about to kill you.’

‘What will happen to Mary Quinn?’

Chafer closed his notebook.

‘Mary Quinn is an invaluable resource,’ he said. ‘We’re taking charge of her. What she has to tell us about Jones and his cronies is of national importance, and I’m afraid that trumps whatever claims Homicide might have on her. We’ll deal with Mitchell Magill and his mob, too, and we’ll find George Starling.’

‘Well, that’s all nicely tidied away isn’t it?’ Joe said.

‘Yes,’ Chafer said. ‘Intelligence is a tidy organisation.’

‘We don’t want any of this going through the courts, Sergeant. You must understand that nothing good would be served by having the general public know what happened here. Remember the hysteria that gripped this city when Private Leonski killed those women back in ’42? The press went to town — Jack the Ripper was on the loose, they said. When it turned out to be that Yank soldier, he was tried and executed with military efficiency, and that put an end to it. As I see it, that’s what we’re doing here — putting an end to it. Your murderer is dead, and his girlfriend is a Nazi sympathiser. We, not Homicide, deal with Nazi sympathisers. The last thing we want is newspapers screaming “Tattoo murder horror”. Lurid headlines won’t do any of us any good.’

Goad turned to Titus. ‘We’re treading on your toes, Inspector. I’m aware of that.’

Tom Chafer left the room as Dick Goad was talking.

‘The difference between Tom Chafer and me is that I’ll tread on your toes and then apologise. I’ll still tread on them, though.’

Titus considered this.

‘You’ll pass on to us anything you learn that might be pertinent to us?’ he said.

‘Of course.’

Both Titus and Joe knew that Goad was lying, and that Intelligence had no interest in tying up Homicide’s loose ends. They now had what they wanted — a live Nazi to play with. After the application of a little persuasion, she might be convinced to lead them to a traitors’ nest, if such a thing existed.

When Goad had left, Titus sat in the chair beside Joe’s bed, running his fingers through what was left of his hair.

‘Two men were shot dead last night in Constance Thorpe’s flat,’ he said. ‘There may be some connection with Jones and Mary Quinn. It’s too early to say — we don’t know yet who the bodies are. Constable Lord is interviewing Constance and Dora now. I gather these men claimed to be police, which is why Constance opened the door to them.

Titus looked exhausted.

‘I wish people would stop killing each other,’ he said.

At that moment, Maude Lambert came into Joe’s room. Her face was drawn, and her eyes were red from crying.

‘I’m sorry,’ Joe said. ‘I’m so sorry.’

Without much conviction, it seemed to Joe, she said, ‘You have nothing to apologise for. None of this is your fault. Next you’ll be apologising for the siege of Stalingrad.’

‘How is he?’ Titus asked.

Maude began to cry.

‘He’s all broken, Titus. He’s all broken.’

Titus took her in his arms She leaned tightly into him to contain her shaking body, but when she calmed down she pulled away.

‘When he can, he’ll come home to us, won’t he, Titus? We’ll nurse him.’

‘Of course.’

Maude managed a weak smile, kissed Titus lightly on the lips, and left without saying goodbye to Joe. She hadn’t asked how he was feeling.

‘Give her time, Joe,’ Titus said. ‘This is all very raw.’

‘Constable Lord isn’t happy with me, either, but I can’t remember why not.’

‘Constable Lord feels excluded. She is an excellent detective. She is, however, a junior officer, and her inclusion at any level is at my discretion — not yours, and not hers. I’ll make this clear to her this afternoon when she briefs me on her interviews with Constance Thorpe and Dora Mansfield.’

‘Have they been arrested?’

‘No. They’re voluntarily at Russell Street.’

‘Are you satisfied, sir, that the Quinn and Draper murders have been solved?’

‘Yes. I’m satisfied that Jones did them, and I’m satisfied that he also killed the tattooist, but we stumbled through this investigation. It was solved by accident, not design. If Jones and Miss Quinn had been smarter, or if Jones hadn’t had such dangerous ambitions, I don’t think we would have solved it at all.’

‘In the end, though, don’t most investigations depend on the carelessness and stupidity of the perpetrators?’

‘I suppose that’s true. It’s a bit dispiriting, though, to think that that’s what we do — wait until the other person makes a mistake.’

‘We have to be close enough to them to take advantage of that mistake, don’t we, and smart enough to know when they’ve made it?’

Titus nodded and forced a smile.

‘We’ll need you back as soon as possible, Sergeant. Despite appearances to the contrary, Constable Lord would rather work with you at the moment than with me, and that suits me. You have a lot to learn from her.’

It took a moment for this last comment to register. By the time it had, Titus was at the door of the room.

‘I suppose we’ll never know now,’ he said, ‘if Mary Quinn had anything to do with the accident that killed her father’s mistress. Homicide is clearly not as tidy an organisation as Intelligence.’

When Titus had gone, Joe explored the extent of his injuries. Whatever painkiller he’d been given — and a general itchiness made him think it had been morphine — was beginning to wear off, and he was conscious of a swelling ache near his left shoulder. As far he could tell, there was nothing else wrong with him, and he swung his legs out of bed. Immediately, though, his bruised ribs announced themselves. He stood up and took a look in the mirror. What a mess. His face, still grazed from his fall, his black eye, and now his bandaged arm and shoulder made him look as though he’d fallen out of a high window.

He left his room and went in search of Tom Mackenzie. A nurse directed him to a room where he found Tom lying bandaged and plastered into immobility. His eyes were vacant with morphine, although he managed a dull expression of recognition. Joe understood what Maude had meant when she’d said that he was all broken. Perhaps it was the drugs, but Joe suspected it was more than that. The man in the bed was somehow absent. Conversation was impossible. Joe spoke as naturally as he could, as if the sight of Tom hadn’t shocked him. He told him what he supposed he’d already heard — that Jones was dead and that Mary Quinn was in the hands of Intelligence. Fred hadn’t been picked up yet; he hadn’t been at the Belgrave house. They’d get him, though. Sure as eggs.

Tom gave the smallest of nods, as if all this was of only the faintest interest to him. Joe was uncertain, in fact, if Tom had heard a word that he’d said.

In the corridor outside Tom’s room, Joe met the doctor who was treating him.

‘Is he going to be all right? I mean, is he going to get back to normal?’

‘Do you want the truth, or a comforting lie?’

‘The truth.’

‘He’s suffered a great trauma. We don’t know exactly what was done to him, but it’s probable that he’ll show signs of a kind of shell-shock for some time to come. He’s going to need a lot of help. His physical injuries aren’t life-threatening, and I can treat them. But I’m not a psychiatrist, and he’s going to need one. I’m sorry.’

Joe thanked him for his honesty. He knew that Maude Lambert had been right to slight him. Things would never be the same between them again, because one or both of them would always be pretending that everything that had happened had just been part of the job, and that that made it all right.

The job. Joe leaned against a wall and closed his eyes. No one would be able to persuade him that he’d done a good job. Maybe he wasn’t cut out for it. What had happened here was nothing like what was happening in Europe, and still he felt overwhelmed by the challenges, unequal to them. He felt … what? Changed, certainly, but more than that — damaged. He opened his eyes. He didn’t feel less naïve, more mature, tougher. He just felt damaged. Could he really go back to work as if all that was wrong with him was a few bruises and a stab wound? He’d thought that finding the person who’d murdered the Quinns and Sheila Draper would make some kind of difference …

At precisely this moment, Tom Mackenzie uttered a small groan, and Joe’s stomach twisted.

Joe probably shouldn’t
have shown up for work on Monday morning. He’d wrestled with a strong desire to tender his resignation. Inspector Lambert had told him to take all the time he needed, but he didn’t need time; what he needed, he’d realised, was distraction. Helen Lord was sitting at Joe’s desk, looking through papers. When she saw him, she made to stand up, but changed her mind.

‘We weren’t expecting you for a few more days,’ she said. ‘You look like you’ve been hit by a tram.’

‘I’m fine. Thanks for asking.’

‘I assumed you were fine, otherwise you wouldn’t be here.’

‘Why are you mad at me?’

‘You doubted me.’

‘I doubted myself.’

‘That’s reasonable. Doubting me isn’t.’

‘If it’s any consolation, Inspector Lambert said I had a lot to learn from you. I think he’s right.’

‘If it’s any consolation, Inspector Lambert put me firmly in my place on Saturday. He said if I wasn’t happy, there was a vacancy in the cast of
The Red Mask
I could audition for.’

‘If it’s any consolation,’ Titus said as he came out of his office, ‘we have a lot of work to do. We have identities for the dead men in the Thorpe flat. They need to be followed up. Not by you, Sergeant — you’d frighten people looking like that. You’ll be confined to desk duties until you’re more presentable. I’m afraid we’re not finished with this case. Or it isn’t finished with us.’

Helen Lord looked up at Joe Sable.

‘So,’ she said. ‘How
are
you?’

‘Shithouse,’ he said. ‘But thanks for asking. I appreciate it.’