Under Attack Read online

  ‘Are you still using those old things?’ said Keedy. ‘You should have gone beyond rowing boats by now. Why not use a steam-powered vessel?’

  ‘We tried a couple of them,’ replied White, ‘and they just weren’t up to it. Three strong men in a galley are much more reliable. That’s why you’ve had a steady supply of bodies from us over the years.’

  ‘This latest one takes priority now,’ said Marmion. ‘One of us has to go in and take a close look at him. I’m volunteering you, Joe.’ Keedy gave a hollow laugh. ‘If there’s no identification on him, we’ll need some of his effects. Since he’s so well dressed, he may have an expensive London tailor.’

  ‘I’ll ask him,’ said Keedy.

  After an exchange of farewells with White, he went off and left the two old friends alone. White narrowed his eyelids as he peered at Marmion.

  ‘You look tired, Harvey.’

  ‘I feel exhausted.’

  ‘Has that swine of a superintendent been making a nuisance of himself?’

  ‘No,’ said Marmion, ‘he hasn’t. In fact, Chat has been very understanding. Our son decided to run away from home and I was granted ten days’ leave to find him. Chat urged me to go.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘It was a wild goose chase. I only came back to work today.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear about your son.’

  ‘We all have our crosses to bear, Everitt.’ He forced a smile. ‘Let’s go back to the murder victim. When you first saw him, did you draw any other conclusion?’

  ‘Yes, I did.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘It’s based on instinct rather than on any evidence.’

  ‘I’d still like to hear it.’

  White ran a contemplative hand across the lower part of his bulbous features.

  ‘I think he was killed as a warning to others,’ he said. ‘That’s why he was allowed to bob back up to the surface. If his killer had wanted him to disappear altogether, he’d have attached weights to keep him underwater indefinitely. But he deliberately let him pop up for us to find.’

  ‘It’s an interesting theory, Everitt. I’m not sure that I’m convinced by it.’

  ‘There’s something I haven’t mentioned.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘His tongue has been cut out.’

  CHAPTER THREE

  When the war broke out in 1914, Sir Edward Henry was well past the age of sixty and on the brink of retirement. A sense of duty impelled him to stay on in his taxing role as commissioner of the Metropolitan Police Force. A distinguished career in the civil service and the police lay behind him but he felt that he still had more to offer. He was a tall, elegant, impeccably attired man with curling grey hair counterpointed by a curling grey moustache. Everyone in the force respected him, though those in the lower ranks found him rather aloof, resenting his habit of dealing primarily with those at superintendent level or above it. True to type, he summoned a group of his senior colleagues to his office to pass on the latest news.

  ‘I can’t give you chapter and verse,’ he apologised, ‘but I do have some numbers to pass on. They are demoralising. As a result of today’s air raid, 162 people were killed and somewhere in the region of 400 were wounded.’

  There was a general murmur of sympathy and disgust.

  ‘All of these victims, please note, were civilians.’

  ‘It’s intolerable,’ said Chatfield. ‘War should be fought between soldiers. Due consideration should be given to non-combatants.’

  ‘I couldn’t agree more, Superintendent.’

  ‘Do those figures include the victims at that school?’

  ‘Unhappily, they do,’ replied the commissioner. ‘On the top floor, a class of girls was having a singing lesson. When the bomb came through the roof, one of them was killed outright. On the floor below, a boy was killed by flying rubble but the real carnage was in the basement. That was where the bomb exploded. It took away the lives of eighteen children and left thirty or so horribly maimed. Such are the monsters we are up against, gentlemen. They make no distinction whatsoever between soldiers and civilians. Women and children are equally attractive targets to them.’

  ‘It’s revolting!’ exclaimed someone. ‘It must be stopped.’

  ‘That task falls to our armed forces. All that we can do is to protect the people of London and give them a sense of safety, however tenuous it may be. In view of today’s raid, that will be even more difficult. When the war started,’ he reminded them, ‘the government imposed censorship on the press and controlled the flow of information that was released. They rightly suppressed some of the horrors at the front to prevent such news from spreading panic. But it’s impossible to hide what happened in the skies above London today. It was a perfect example of German ruthlessness. Our citizens will go to bed in fear tonight.’

  ‘Where was the Royal Flying Corps?’ demanded Chatfield. ‘Why weren’t our planes taking on the Gothas?’

  ‘You may well ask, Inspector.’

  ‘We had no defence at all.’

  ‘I’m sure that the newspapers will make that point,’ said the commissioner. ‘At least, they’ll have a story to tell tomorrow. When they’re starved of news, they make it up for themselves. Who will forget those nonsensical claims earlier this year that the bodies of soldiers killed in action were taken to a factory where they were boiled down to provide material for pig feed, fertiliser and soap? That’s what the British public were being asked to believe.’

  ‘I believed it myself at first,’ murmured someone. ‘The Huns are bestial.’

  ‘Even they have their limits,’ added Chatfield.

  ‘I’ve called you here this afternoon,’ said Sir Edward, ‘to issue two warnings. The first is to handle the press with care. There has been a lot of sniping at us recently. Naturally, I’ve had to bear the brunt of it but that’s my job. What I object to is the routine attacks on our operational efficiency. Newspaper editors seem to forget that we’ve taken on an increased range of duties with depleted manpower. I suppose that the pendulum was bound to swing the other way,’ he continued. ‘We all enjoyed the praise we garnered from the way we dealt with cases like those of Dr Crippen and Steinie Morrison. Our triumphs were well and truly trumpeted then. Open a newspaper today, however, and it’s our perceived failings that get the publicity.’

  There was general agreement that Scotland Yard had come in for sustained criticism of late. Instead of praise for their success, they were being called to account for their failures. Rising crime figures were attacked and those involved in unsolved murders were castigated. Pressure on the police was increasing all the time. Several people in the room had felt the painful lash of a newspaper’s whip.

  ‘To conclude,’ said the commissioner, bringing the debate to a halt, ‘we must get the press back on our side. The best way to do that is to redouble our efforts to solve outstanding cases and to project ourselves in a better light. And though we need to impress crime reporters, don’t get too close to them. Don’t leak information to them about a particular investigation. In a word – beware.’

  As he let his words sink in, he looked around at every face in the room.

  ‘You said that there were two warnings, Sir Edward,’ recalled Chatfield. ‘What’s the second one?’

  ‘It’s linked to the first. I’m talking about juvenile gangs. Reports of their antics are getting more and more publicity. It’s another stick with which the press can beat us. Unfortunately,’ said the commissioner, ‘it’s another consequence of the war. The fathers and elder brothers who could control these delinquents have either joined the army or died in action. There’s no strong voice in such families.’

  ‘It’s the same everywhere,’ someone interjected. ‘Glasgow has an appalling problem with young hooligans. Manchester, Birmingham and other cities have similar headaches. Feral gangs are terrorising the poorer districts. They’re running riot.’

  ‘Well, they’re not going to do that here,’ said the commissioner. ‘The rule of l
aw must be obeyed. When we lost a sizeable number of our men to the army, we appointed 20,000 constables in their wake. They’re all good, public-spirited men but they’re predominantly elderly. They can’t chase hooligans as fast as they’d like. So let me issue this warning,’ he went on, raising his voice, ‘I intend to divert resources to take a more robust stance against juvenile crime. As of today, I’m appointing a special unit to coordinate our response.’ Everyone voiced their approval. ‘London has enough to put up with already. I’m not having this city plagued by gang warfare.’

  There were eight of them in all and they walked along the street with the arrogant strut of conquering soldiers. All of them carried knives and some had additional weapons. Most of them bore scars from earlier encounters or from initiation ceremonies. Huddled in the doorways, old men, women and small children looked at them with mingled respect and fear. Nobody dared to get in their way. This was their territory and they were untouchable. The oldest of them was fifteen but he had the build of a full-grown man. As he led them into a long, dark tunnel, they yelled out obscenities for the sheer pleasure of hearing the echo. When they came out into the light again, they were laughing. Fatally, they were off guard. Before they knew it, they were ambushed by well over a dozen rival gang members, armed with broken bottles, hammers and knives. With the advantage of surprise, they struck with ferocity. The clash was over in a minute. When the attackers fled, they left wounded bodies strewn across the ground in pools of blood.

  ‘This is getting us nowhere,’ complained Keedy. ‘He may not even have had the suit made here in London. We could wear out our shoe leather for nothing.’

  ‘I thought you’d enjoy calling on some of the cream of our men’s outfitters, Joe. Every time you look in a window, you drool.’

  ‘I could never afford a suit like those.’

  ‘Staring at them costs nothing,’ said Marmion.

  ‘Well, I’ve had enough goggling for one afternoon.’

  They’d just come out of their third shop in Bond Street and it had been as unhelpful as the previous two. None of them had recognised the suit that had been removed from the corpse and – after most of the water was squeezed out of it – put into a sack. Managers of all three shops had recoiled when the soggy mass had been hauled out for their inspection.

  ‘This is ridiculous, Harv,’ said Keedy.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘We’re keeping dogs yet barking ourselves. This is not our job. We’ve got detective constables at our beck and call. Let one of them do the legwork.’

  ‘Do you really want to miss the fun?’

  ‘I haven’t noticed any so far.’

  Marmion laughed. ‘See it as your reward, Joe,’ he said. ‘Because you took on the sordid job of viewing the body on the slab, the least I could do was to let you be there when we discover who the deceased really is.’

  ‘We may never find out. The killer cut the tailor’s name out of the suit.’

  ‘He was just trying to make it difficult for us. I’m relying on Everitt White’s judgement. He knows a good suit when he sees one. Only last year, he fished a member of the House of Lords out of the river. And he was right about the latest victim, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Yes,’ conceded Keedy, grumpily. ‘The pathologist agreed that he’d only been in the water two or three days.’

  ‘The post-mortem may tell us why.’

  ‘Meanwhile, I have to carry this sack around London. It stinks.’

  ‘My sympathies lie with the man who used to wear it.’

  Keedy lowered his head. ‘And so should mine.’

  ‘Remember that, Joe.’

  ‘I’m sorry to moan. He’s the victim, not me. Oh, I hate this stage of an investigation,’ he said. ‘It’s tiresome. I joined the police for action.’

  ‘That begins when we have his identity.’

  ‘If we ever do, that is.’

  Marmion nudged him playfully. ‘Your optimism is an inspiration to us all.’

  By the time that the two middle-aged special constables got there, most of the gang had got to their feet and were threatening reprisals against their attackers. Some were badly wounded. The policemen could see the discarded broken bottles in the gutter and imagine what had happened. When they took out their notebooks, however, they were met by a wall of silence. None of the gang was prepared to give his name or to describe what had happened. Ignoring dire warnings, they vowed to get their revenge very soon.

  ‘We’ll kill them!’ boasted their leader.

  ‘Then you’ll finish up behind bars,’ said one of the policemen.

  ‘It’d be worth it.’

  The other policeman had been examining wounds. ‘Five of you at least need to go to hospital. Those gashes should be stitched up.’ He looked around at the members of the gang. ‘All of you need to be examined by a doctor. Some of you might have broken ribs or other wounds that are not visible.’

  ‘We’ll manage,’ said the leader.

  ‘You need help, lad.’

  ‘That’s our business.’

  ‘When there’s been a brawl in the street, it’s our business as well.’

  The gang sniggered with contempt and, though they were in obvious pain, they began to slink away. When one of the policemen tried to go after them, his companion put a restraining hand on his shoulder.

  ‘Let them go, Dave,’ he advised.

  ‘We should at least search them for weapons.’

  ‘And do you think they’d stand there meekly while we did so? Let them go. If they want to bleed to death, they’ll be doing us a favour.’

  At their fifth port of call, they finally had success. The manager wrinkled his nose in disgust when he first saw the suit, then he did something that none of his predecessors had done. They’d dismissed it instantly because it was not in their individual styles. Having laid out the jacket and trousers on the counter, the latest man extracted a tape from a drawer and took a series of measurements. Their hopes were raised.

  ‘Was it made here?’ asked Keedy.

  ‘I’m fairly certain that it was, sir,’ said the manager.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I’m trying to bring its owner back to life for you. We keep a detailed record of our clients’ measurements. You’d be surprised how they change over the years.’ He lowered his voice. ‘This gentleman, for instance, had a substantial paunch.’

  ‘I know. I saw it.’

  ‘You can see how the tailoring accommodated it so skilfully.’

  When he’d taken a complete set of measurements, the manager disappeared into the back room. In the plush surroundings, the suit looked both repulsive and incongruous. Marmion pointed to the model in the shop window.

  ‘How would you like to wear something like that, Joe?’

  ‘I’d love it,’ replied the other, eyeing the suit covetously. ‘But there’s the small problem of paying for it. I’d need to be promoted to the rank of commissioner before I could afford that.’

  ‘You’d have to leapfrog me to do that. And I’d have to leapfrog Chat.’

  ‘The chain of command above us is endless.’

  ‘I agree. We have to resign ourselves to staying where we are.’

  ‘You had a good chance to move up in the world, Harv.’

  ‘That was a mistake. When the job was within my grasp, I realised I didn’t really want it.’

  When the post of superintendent had become vacant, Marmion had applied for it along with Claude Chatfield. Both were equally well qualified to take on extra responsibility. Most onlookers felt that Marmion would be the better choice. At the last moment, however, he’d deliberately failed the interview so that he could keep a job that he prized. Knowing nothing of his change of mind, Chatfield had been promoted on the grounds of what he believed was his clear superiority and he was never slow to remind Marmion of that.

  They were still admiring the suit in the window when the manager returned with a small, round-shouldered man in his fifties, his face
clouded with grief. The detectives were introduced to Mr Vickery.

  ‘Is it true that he’s dead?’ he asked, querulously.

  ‘That depends who you mean,’ said Marmion.

  ‘He’s been a client for years. I made all of his suits.’ He looked wistfully down at the jacket and fingered the lapel. ‘Including this one.’

  ‘Then who the devil is he?’

  ‘I thought it might be Mr Vickery’s work when I first saw the suit,’ said the manager. ‘The measurements confirmed who bought it.’

  ‘What was his name?’

  ‘Mr Gilbert Donohoe.’

  ‘Do you have an address? We need to inform his next of kin.’

  ‘Of course, sir,’ said the other, reaching under the counter to produce a ledger. ‘Mr Donohoe lived in Birmingham.’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Back on duty, Alice Marmion walked along the pavement with her beat partner, Iris Goodliffe. Of the two, Alice was by far the slighter, smarter and prettier. Iris was always bemoaning the fact that, while her friend was engaged to a handsome detective sergeant, she aroused no interest at all in the opposite sex. It consigned her to a lot of lonely evenings.

  ‘I don’t know what to do, Alice,’ she said.

  ‘Someone will come along eventually.’

  ‘I’ve been saying that to myself for years.’

  ‘It’s one of the legacies of the war, Iris. It’s obvious why. Young men are in very short supply. Hundreds of thousands of them joined up. Many of those left behind are either married or not available for some reason.’

  ‘How did you manage to get your hands on someone like Joe Keedy?’

  ‘Oh, we’d known each other for ages,’ said Alice, ‘ever since he and my father started working together, in fact. Joe was simply a friend at first. Nothing developed between us for years, then one day …’

  ‘If only that sort of thing could happen to me!’