Under Attack Page 13

  ‘There you are, Cliff. That should make your job easier.’

  ‘I could never have found all that out so soon,’ said Burge, gratefully. ‘It would have taken days and days. How did you do it?’

  White winked at him. ‘It’s called old-fashioned policing.’

  Keedy noticed the difference as soon as he entered the hotel. Patrick Armitage wasn’t there. Without the manager on patrol, there was a more relaxed air to the place. It was a bonus. Set against it, however, was a disappointment. When he enquired, Keedy learnt that Adrian Donohoe had left the hotel earlier that evening. There would be no chance of talking to him again. The receptionist was a short, neat, bespectacled man in his fifties with lank hair combed over a spreading bald patch. He’d just come on duty for the night shift. Like most of the staff, he remembered and spoke well of Donohoe. Eager to assist the investigation, he allowed Keedy to study the ledger in which all guests’ names and addresses were listed. There was no manager to hamper him this time. He had a free hand. The ledger repaid close examination. Convinced that the killer might have stayed at the Devonian in order to stalk his victim, he looked for men who’d had single rooms on the two days before Donohoe’s disappearance. It was possible that the killer might have shared a double room with an accomplice but he thought it unlikely. He therefore concentrated his search on a lone man.

  He was undaunted by the fact that the killer would not have used his real name, hoping that he could learn something about him by other means. Excluding Donohoe, eight men stayed in single rooms at the hotel on the night before the murder. By flipping back through the pages, he discovered that five of them were regular patrons of the Devonian and could therefore be discounted. He was after newcomers, so his interest shifted to the three remaining names. Keedy tested the receptionist’s memory.

  ‘Were you on duty throughout the week?’

  ‘Yes, Sergeant, I was.’

  ‘Do you recall a Mr Jonah Jenkins from Cardiff?’

  ‘I remember speaking to a gentleman with a strong Welsh accent but I’m not sure of his name. He wished me goodnight as he went upstairs.’

  ‘What age would he be?’

  ‘Oh, he was quite elderly.’

  Keedy looked down at the second name. ‘What about a Mr Michael Sloman?’

  ‘He stayed on Monday, the same night as Mr Jenkins. I remember Mr Sloman because he asked if we had anything for a headache. As it happens, we do. Mr Armitage keeps a small pharmacy for emergencies. He thinks of everything.’

  ‘Can you describe Mr Sloman?’

  ‘He was about my height but a lot heavier. I’d say he was in his fifties.’

  Keedy put the ledger back on the counter and pointed to the third name.

  ‘That leaves this chap – Thomas Day from Birmingham.’

  ‘I only got a glimpse of him,’ said the receptionist. ‘He left very early in the morning. I was just about to go off duty when he walked past and slapped his room key down. Mr Day was in a hurry to go somewhere.’

  ‘What did he look like?’

  ‘He was as tall as you but somewhat older. I suppose you’d call him handsome but he didn’t really stay long enough for me to judge. The one thing I did notice was that he was well built.’ He smiled. ‘They obviously feed them well in Birmingham. That’s where he came from. Mr Day was very sleek.’

  ‘I doubt if Thomas Day was his real name.’

  ‘Then who was he?’

  Keedy thought that he had the answer. After his visit to Barnes, Marmion had given him a detailed description of Norris Sprake’s chauffeur. Keedy felt that he was hearing it all over again. Could it be that Jean-Louis Peebles and Thomas Day were one and the same person? It was an intriguing possibility.

  Harvey Marmion didn’t believe in coincidences that worked to his benefit. They rarely occurred. Malign acts of fate were more common in his life. He was so resigned to being buffeted by them that he’d given up all hope of an occasional slice of luck. Having spent the whole day brooding on the murder, he allowed himself a few minutes to think about his son once more. On the desk in front of him was the map he’d used when trying to find Paul, going from place to place in a futile search. Every city, town and village he’d visited was clearly marked. None had yielded him reliable information about his son’s whereabouts. Folding up the map, he slipped it into a drawer. The next moment, he was forced to revise his view about coincidences.

  There was a knock on the door, then it opened to allow Adrian Donohoe to walk in. He was carrying a bag and looking as unfriendly as ever.

  ‘The superintendent told me you’d be here,’ he said, coldly. ‘I’m catching a train back home. Before I do that, however, I’d like to know if there’ve been any developments.’

  ‘Do sit down, sir,’ invited Marmion, ‘and I’ll bring you up to date.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Putting down his bag, he lowered himself into a chair. Many relatives of murder victims had sat there over the years and they’d all been tense and grieving. Adrian Donohoe was neither. He looked impatient and disengaged. Marmion told him about the two visits to Norris Sprake, watching carefully for his reaction. When there was no visible response, he prodded his visitor with questions.

  ‘Did you spend time with Mr Sprake yourself?’

  ‘We had a few minutes together. That was ample. I was there to speak to Miss Kane. She was able to tell me much more about my father’s activities in the property market. Hitherto, she’s been rather evasive but those days are over.’ He gave a thin-lipped smile. ‘Miss Kane works for me now.’

  ‘Will she be going back to Birmingham?’

  ‘She’ll do whatever I decide.’

  Marmion wanted to ask his opinion of Jean-Louis Peebles but thought better of it. In Donohoe’s eyes, the man was an irrelevance, a minor functionary in the company with no power whatsoever. Marmion turned to his other visit.

  ‘What do you know of the Club Apollo?’

  Donohoe jerked as if he’d been stung. ‘Why do you ask me that?’

  ‘Sergeant Keedy and I paid it a visit earlier on. The facilities are very impressive – but you’ll have been there yourself.’

  ‘As a matter of fact, I haven’t. It holds no interest for me.’

  ‘Do you dislike music that much?’

  ‘I’m far too busy to listen to it.’

  ‘Nobody was busier than your father yet he found time to incorporate music into his life.’

  ‘That’s immaterial.’

  ‘Club Apollo seems to have been the fulfilment of a dream for him.’

  ‘How did you come to hear about it?’

  ‘Mr Ulverton walked in here and told us he was your father’s closest friend.’

  ‘That’s debatable.’

  ‘He praised the club so much that we were keen to see the place for ourselves. It really does offer a unique service. By the time we’d finished, we felt that we’d got to know your father much better.’

  ‘Don’t flatter yourself, Inspector. You’d need a lifetime to plumb the depths of his character. All you’ve done is scratch the surface.’

  ‘Have you ever met Mr Ulverton?’

  Donohoe wrinkled his nose. ‘I don’t need to meet him.’

  ‘There seems to be a mutual antagonism between the two of you.’

  ‘Ulverton doesn’t exist in my world.’

  ‘Why is that?’

  ‘It’s no concern of yours.’ He got to his feet. ‘Well, if you’ve nothing else to tell me, I’ll be on my way. You can reach me at home by telephone.’

  ‘One moment, sir,’ said Marmion, rising himself. ‘You came at an opportune time. Something has been recovered that may belong to your father. I’ve been wondering how best to get confirmation of that when, miraculously, you walk into my office. It’s the one piece of good fortune we’ve had in this case.’

  ‘What is it that you wish me to confirm?’

  Marmion opened a drawer and took out the pair of shoes. When he put th
em on his desk, the other man picked up one of them, glanced inside it then replaced it. He gave a slight nod.

  ‘They did belong to your father?’

  ‘Of course, they did,’ said Donohoe, almost derisively. ‘They were made in our factory. He’d wear nothing else.’

  ‘But they must make endless thousands of shoes. How do you know that that particular pair belonged to your father?’

  ‘They bear his initials, Inspector.’

  ‘Do they?’ Marmion was astonished. ‘I didn’t see any initials.’

  ‘That’s because you don’t know where to look. They’re inside the factory imprint. Right in the middle are the initials of my father’s name – Gilbert Oliver Donohoe. That proves the shoes are his.’

  Picking one up, Marmion looked inside and saw the factory name and emblem clearly. Bang in the middle of it were three tiny initials.

  ‘I can see them now,’ he said. ‘They spell God.’

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Alice Marmion had waited until past midnight more than once in order to see Keedy. She was spared such a protracted vigil this time. As she sat beside the window in her room, there was still enough light for her to pick out the shape of anyone approaching the house where she lived. She had agonised for hours over the problem of whether or not to confront him about their wedding and she was still undecided. Keedy would have had a much longer working day than her and would be tired. It might not be the ideal time to talk about something so important. On the other hand, she didn’t know when she might get another chance to spend time with him. If she didn’t strike while she could, Alice might have to wait for weeks.

  Expecting to sit there for an hour or two, she was suddenly galvanised by the sight of a man running towards her with one hand holding his hat in place. She knew instantly that it was Keedy. Grabbing her handbag, she let herself out of the room and padded silently downstairs before leaving the house. Alice ran towards him and threw herself into his arms. He kissed and hugged her for minutes then held her away from him so that he could look at her properly.

  ‘I’ve missed doing that so much, Alice.’

  ‘And I’ve missed you. I’ve been aching for you to get here.’

  ‘Where shall we go?’

  ‘There’s only one place we can go, Joe.’

  ‘No, there isn’t,’ he said, grinning. ‘You could always smuggle me into your house. I’ve always wanted to see that room of yours.’

  ‘My landlady would have a fit,’ she protested.

  ‘We could sneak upstairs without making a sound.’

  ‘It’s too dangerous.’

  ‘In other words, you don’t want me enough.’

  ‘Of course I do. You know that.’

  ‘Then let’s take a chance. It will be worth it.’

  ‘Stop teasing,’ she said. ‘It’s just not possible. Do you want me to be thrown out of there altogether?’

  ‘Yes, I do – you can move in with me, then.’

  ‘Joe!’

  ‘I’m the one with the double bed, remember.’ He winced as she elbowed him in the stomach. ‘That hurt, Alice.’

  ‘It was meant to.’

  Laughing together, they walked along arm in arm. They were less than ten minutes from a park where they’d be able to sit and talk. That would be the place to raise the subject of marriage, thought Alice. He was in far too excitable a mood to discuss anything seriously at the moment.

  ‘Has something happened, Joe?’

  ‘Yes, I’m back with the woman I love.’

  ‘I’m talking about this latest case. When you’re as lively as this, it usually means you’ve had a good day.’

  ‘I’ve had a very good day. Your father actually congratulated me.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I rang him from the Devonian Hotel to tell him that I might have unmasked the killer.’

  ‘You have?’ she said. ‘Who is he?’

  ‘I’ll tell you when we’re absolutely certain.’

  ‘You sound as if you’ve already reached that point.’

  ‘I have, Alice,’ he explained, ‘but your Dad still hasn’t. You know what he’s like. He always insists on rock-solid evidence that will stand up in court.’

  ‘And he’s right, Joe.’

  ‘Whose side are you on?’ he said in mock fury. ‘You should support me.’

  ‘I won’t support either of you until I know the full details.’

  ‘Well, you’re certainly not going to hear them now. I’m not going to waste precious time alone with you by talking about the case – and I don’t want you to talk about what you’ve been up to at work. Tonight is just for us, Alice. Agreed?’

  She kissed him on the cheek. ‘Agreed.’

  Gregory Wain had started planning reprisals as soon as he’d been released from hospital. As leader of the Stepney Warriors, he knew that he had to inflict more injury on the Evil Spirits than his gang had received at their hands. They’d been caught napping. It wouldn’t happen again. Because there’d been no immediate act of retribution, the Spirits would believe that they’d tamed their rivals and were now in sole control over the territory. In knocking Wain to his knees with a hammer, they felt that they’d disabled the Warriors’ leader and frightened his gang into submission. They were about to get a shock.

  ‘They’ll be in that shed they took from us,’ said Wain to the others. ‘I bet they’ll still be sniggerin’ abaht us.’

  ‘So wor do we do, Greg?’ asked someone.

  ‘Stand by till I give the signal.’

  There were over a dozen of them, most bearing wounds from the last encounter. Their weapons included knives, razors, clubs, a pitchfork and a hatchet. Wain intended to creep up on the lookout and overpower him, holding a cloth over his mouth so that he couldn’t raise the alarm. Gang members would tie him up, insert a gag in his mouth then each kick him in turn. Wain, meanwhile, would sidle up to the shed, hurl a brick through the window and stand beside the door with his pick handle to fell the first person who came out. Still smarting from their defeat, the Warriors intended to give their rivals such a violent beating that they’d never mount a challenge again.

  Before they left, Wain roused them with an appeal to their bloodlust. He soon had them pulsing for action. They were about to file out into the darkness when Bruce Kerry came running up to them. He’d been sent out to make sure that the coast was clear. When he got his breath back, he had bad news.

  ‘No good, Greg,’ he said. ‘Place is crawlin’ with bleedin’ coppers.’

  ‘Wor you on abaht?’ demanded Wain.

  ‘Iss true. They’re everywhere.’

  It was an exaggeration but it had more than a grain of truth. Once he’d established that the shoes had belonged to the murder victim, Marmion drove to Stepney with six uniformed constables, a number that was augmented by the two on the beat in the vicinity. Everitt White had been thorough. He’d not only forced the shopkeeper to name the boy who’d sold him the shoes, he’d gone to the house to speak to the lad. Promising him that he would not be in trouble, he got the boy to take him to the exact spot where the shoes had been found. The letter sent to Marmion had contained the precise location. What Kerry had seen as he lurked near the headquarters of the Evil Spirits was the arrival of two vehicles out of which policemen climbed. It had sent him flying back to the rest of the gang.

  Marmion, meanwhile, had led his men down the street to the riverbank. Since the gas lamps shed only poor light, they’d all brought torches. When they got to the place described by White, they saw a figure waiting on the river’s edge.

  ‘Who are you?’ demanded Marmion.

  ‘I’m Detective Constable Burge, sir,’ replied the other, crossing over to him. ‘And I suspect that you are Inspector Marmion. This is the exact spot where the shoes were found. Sergeant White told me that you’d be along sooner or later.’

  ‘On good authority, we can say that they did belong to Mr Donohoe.’

  ‘But you’d have com
e even if you didn’t know that. Inspector White said that simple curiosity would bring you here.’

  ‘Everitt knows me of old.’

  He told his men to spread out to conduct a methodical search. Though he didn’t expect them to find anything of value – that would already have been whisked away by the scavengers who haunted the bank – he hoped they’d chance on something else that proved that the murder took place there. If it was the scene of the crime, Marmion would have it more thoroughly searched in daylight.

  ‘Burge, did you say? I’ve heard that name before.’

  ‘They wanted someone to investigate the gangs around here. Superintendent Chatfield was kind enough to put my name forward and here I am.’

  ‘Congratulations on getting the job.’

  ‘I didn’t realise it would be linked to a murder case.’

  Marmion smiled philosophically. ‘Detective work is full of surprises.’

  It was just like old times. Keedy and Alice were seated on a bench in the park and savouring the simple joy of being together. It was a warm summer’s night and they were completely alone. As they looked up at the stars, his arm was around her and their heads were resting gently against each other. He reached a decision.

  ‘We mustn’t let this happen again, Alice.’

  ‘But I love it here.’

  ‘I’m not complaining about the park. It’s this job of mine. It keeps us apart far too much and I’m fed up with it.’

  ‘What can we do about it?’

  ‘I could leave Scotland Yard.’

  She was so shocked that she sat up and turned to look at him.

  ‘You’d never do that, Joe. You love the work.’

  ‘I love you much more and it’s time I started to put you first.’

  ‘It’s wonderful to hear that but you don’t have to abandon a career that means so much to you. In any case, what else could you do?’

  ‘I could go back to the family business.’

  She broke away from him. ‘I’m not going to marry an undertaker,’ she said, indignantly.