Under Attack Read online

  ‘It will, I’m sure.’

  Alice spoke with false confidence. It was easy to see why Iris was not popular with men. She was a big, rather plain young woman with an over-eagerness that would deter most potential suitors. Worryingly, she’d started to copy Alice in the hope of improving her appearance. She had the same hairstyle and used the same cosmetics. Iris had even started to pick up her friend’s catchphrases and speech rhythms. In aping Alice, however, she was making herself even less appealing.

  ‘I wish I’d had the chance to meet him,’ she said.

  ‘Who are you talking about?’

  ‘Paul, of course – I’d like to have known your brother.’

  ‘He wasn’t very sociable, Iris.’

  ‘I’d have been happy to make allowances.’

  ‘He could be quite coarse sometimes.’

  ‘Beggars can’t be choosers,’ said Iris with a wan smile.

  Though she enjoyed working with her, Alice had always protected her private life. She didn’t want to let Iris get too close and she certainly hadn’t been ready to introduce her to the members of her family. The one time she’d gone out for the night with Iris had been unnerving. Pleasant and easy-going at first, Iris had become a different woman when she had a drink inside her. It had released all her inhibitions and she’d made a scene in public. Alice had had to hustle her quickly out of the bar into which they’d gone after an evening at the cinema. From that time on, she’d kept the other woman at arm’s length when off duty.

  ‘Do you think that Paul will ever come back?’

  ‘We don’t know, Iris.’

  ‘But you’re sure that he’s still alive.’

  ‘Oh, yes, there’s no doubt. Daddy feels strongly about that.’

  ‘You have such a happy family. Why did your brother run away?’

  ‘We don’t know. He felt he didn’t belong with us any more, perhaps.’

  ‘Since he had shell shock, you’d have thought he’d be even more dependent on you all. He was virtually blind at first, wasn’t he?’

  ‘His eyesight steadily improved. Unfortunately, his behaviour didn’t.’

  ‘Didn’t he have any friends from the army?’

  ‘He did at first,’ replied Alice. ‘He used to meet a group of them from time to time. They’d all been invalided home. Paul soon got bored with them. He used to be so tolerant in the old days, but not any more.’

  ‘It must be so upsetting for you.’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Do you think the army did enough for him?’

  ‘They did what they could, Iris. Paul is only one of thousands, many of whom are in a far worse state. There was only so much time the doctor could give him.’

  ‘Is he bitter about the war?’

  ‘Who wouldn’t be in his position?’

  ‘We had a taste of war ourselves earlier on. That air raid really scared me.’

  ‘I was visiting my mother when I heard the explosions. Those incendiary bombs can cause so much damage.’

  When they turned a corner, the road widened. Coming towards them on the opposite pavement were two policemen on their beat. Alice acknowledged them with a smile but Iris gave them a cheery wave. Both men grinned. Iris was despondent.

  ‘I don’t know why I bothered,’ she said. ‘They only looked at you.’

  Marmion and Keedy caught a train to Birmingham and managed to find an empty compartment where they could talk freely. They reviewed what they’d learnt from the visit to the tailor’s shop.

  ‘They both said the same thing,’ observed Marmion. ‘Mr Donohoe was very refined. When he came to London, he often went to the theatre or a concert.’

  ‘I wish I had the time and money to do that.’

  ‘The likes of us have to make do with the cinema, Joe.’

  ‘We haven’t seen a film for months,’ said Keedy. ‘Alice is always complaining about it.’

  ‘Inspector White summed him up correctly. Donohoe was a rich businessman. Knowing his politics, I’m surprised that Everitt didn’t call him a bloated capitalist.’

  ‘That’s what he was – in both senses. He was very flabby. It takes a lot of four-course meals to make a body look as repellent as that. It’s a pity that neither the manager nor Vickery knew where he stayed when he was in London. Donohoe had a secretive streak, by all accounts.’

  ‘Refined, prosperous, overweight, secretive,’ mused Marmion. ‘He lived in a very different world to us, Joe.’

  ‘How well do you know Birmingham?’

  ‘I know enough to recognise that Edgbaston is one of the posh parts of the city. Since he lives there, he must have money to burn. What surprises me is that nobody’s reported him as a missing person.’

  ‘He’d only been in London for a few days, Harv. Maybe his family was used to him being away that long. After all, he had business to transact in the City.’

  ‘Not any more, he doesn’t.’

  ‘There’ll be partners and associates to talk to,’ said Keedy, uneasily. ‘We’re on foreign soil there. That suit Donohoe was wearing cost over a hundred pounds,’ he added in disbelief. ‘We’re going to be dealing with people who have the same expensive tastes.’

  ‘They may have the money,’ said Marmion, hand to his chest, ‘but our job brings us rewards of the heart. Besides, it’s not impossible that the killer was a business rival. He won’t have much use for a hundred-pound suit when we secure a conviction. He’ll be shivering in prison garb as he waits for the hangman to come calling.’

  ‘Do you think Donohoe was murdered by a business rival?’

  ‘It’s an obvious assumption. On the other hand, it may be that he was simply killed for his money. Wallet, watch and cufflinks were taken. They’re the kind of things a thief would be after.’

  ‘Why did he remove the tailor’s name out of the coat?’

  ‘He wanted to delay identification of the victim.’

  ‘Most thieves wouldn’t have bothered. As soon as they’d got what they wanted, they’d simply drop their victim in the river and run for it.’

  ‘Everitt White thought he might have been murdered as a warning.’

  ‘Who was the warning aimed at?’

  ‘Some associates of his, I suppose. Don’t forget his tongue.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Keedy, ‘why was that cut out?’

  ‘Perhaps he spoke out of turn and someone objected to what he said. We can but speculate. The main thing is that we have a name and address. Once the family has been informed, details can be passed on to the press. If Donohoe was a regular visitor to London, a lot of people will have known him. We just have to hope that they’ll come forward to help us.’

  Though often derided by those in the lower ranks, Claude Chatfield had his virtues. Indeed, in some ways, he did certain things better than Marmion. He had a good grasp of detail, a readiness to take on the burden of administration and a gift for deploying the right people to the various cases that landed on his desk. His ability to work long hours impressed his colleagues. They found him less admirable when Chatfield, a devout Roman Catholic, lapsed into homiletic mode. Most of them felt that finger-wagging Christianity was out of place in Scotland Yard.

  Chatfield was leafing through some documents when there was a tap on the door and the commissioner entered. The superintendent stood politely to his feet.

  ‘Sit down, sit down,’ said the visitor, flapping a hand. ‘I just wanted you to see this report. It’s so relevant to what I was saying to you all earlier on.’

  Handing a sheet of paper to Chatfield, he waited while the other man resumed his seat and started reading. It was a report of the brawl between two gangs. The superintendent was shocked by the details.

  ‘This is deplorable,’ he said. ‘It’s open warfare on the streets of London.’

  ‘That’s what it’s come to, Superintendent, and it’s why I’m giving it priority.’

  ‘They’re nothing but adolescent ruffians.’

  ‘As you can see, th
e ones who were viciously attacked call themselves the Stepney Warriors. They’re a law unto themselves. We don’t know their individual names. They refused to give them. When they staggered off, some of them had the sense to go to the hospital for attention but they gave false names there.’

  ‘Were there no witnesses?’

  ‘There were several,’ said the commissioner, ‘but they stayed in their houses and watched from behind the curtains. Needless to say, they didn’t rush to come forward when our officers asked for statements.’

  ‘They’re afraid, Sir Edward. These gangs always threaten revenge.’

  ‘Oh, I think we know where they’ll try to get that – from the vile thugs who laid that ambush. They rejoice in the name of the Evil Spirits. Well, they can’t be allowed to do so for long. I want the whole area exorcised.’

  ‘I couldn’t agree with you more, Sir Edward.’

  ‘The East End can do without any more upheaval. It’s been in the eye of the hurricane for far too long. Don’t these hooligans realise that there’s a war on? Heavens!’ exclaimed the commissioner. ‘Poplar was hit by German bombs only this morning and so was part of Stepney. Those gangs should have been helping to rescue people from the rubble, not doing their damnedest to kill each other.’

  ‘Thank you for showing me this,’ said Chatfield, returning the report. ‘It’s a timely reminder of a growing problem.’

  ‘I came to you for advice. When I discussed it with the new unit, we were of one mind. The most effective way to deal with this problem is to infiltrate the gangs in some way.’ He raised a palm. ‘I don’t mean that we should hire some fifteen-year-old to take his life in his hands and join the Stepney Warriors or the Evil Spirits. That would be impossible. But we need someone who knows the East End well and who can get close enough to these young blackguards to find out their names and anticipate where they’ll strike next.’

  Chatfield scratched his head. ‘That’s a tall order, Sir Edward.’

  ‘I’m asking a number of senior officers to suggest names.’

  ‘The detective chosen would be taking huge risks.’

  ‘That’s why we need someone who does that routinely.’

  ‘Ordinarily, I’d have put forward Sergeant Keedy,’ said Chatfield. ‘He’s fearless to the point of being foolhardy at times. But he’s a first-rate detective. The main strike against him is that he’s not an East Ender. He wouldn’t blend in so easily. Also, he and Inspector Marmion are already busy elsewhere.’

  ‘Can you think of anyone else?’

  Chatfield pondered. ‘There is someone,’ he said at length.

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Constable Burge.’

  ‘How long has he been with us?’

  ‘He came to Scotland Yard five years ago, Sir Edward, and I’ve heard nothing but good of him. In fact, I believe that Clifford Burge is sergeant material in due course. His record is exemplary.’

  ‘Does he know the area?’

  ‘He was born and brought up in Limehouse. When you first meet him, you think he ought to be selling fruit from a stall in the local market but you’d be mistaken. He’s got a keen intelligence and a talent for making significant arrests.’

  ‘I like the sound of this fellow already.’

  ‘Interview others, if you must, but I do recommend that you also take a look at Constable Burge.’

  ‘I most certainly will.’

  About to leave, the commissioner remembered something. ‘You mentioned Inspector Marmion a moment ago.’

  ‘He and Sergeant Keedy are on their way to Birmingham.’

  ‘What are they doing there?’

  ‘They have to break the bad news to a family of a murder victim.’

  ‘Is this the man who was hauled out of the Thames earlier on?’

  ‘It is, Sir Edward. His name is Gilbert Donohoe. He was a businessman of sorts and a very successful one, it seems.’

  ‘Perhaps someone resented his success,’ said Sir Edward. ‘At all events, you put the right person in charge of the investigation. Inspector Marmion never lets us down, does he?’

  With some difficulty, Chatfield manufactured a semblance of a smile.

  The house was even bigger than they’d anticipated. Sitting on two acres of land, it was a Victorian construction with three storeys. Standing apart from it was a large garage with living accommodation above it. When the taxi dropped them off there, Keedy stood and marvelled.

  ‘It’s enormous,’ he said. ‘It’s big enough to have a snooker room.’

  Marmion laughed. ‘Is that your idea of luxury, Joe – to play snooker whenever you fancy?’

  ‘Don’t mock. You enjoy a game as much as I do. If you keep at it, you might actually beat me one day.’

  ‘Your luck won’t last for ever.’ As they walked towards the house, Marmion pricked up his ears. ‘Can you hear something?’

  ‘It’s only the sound of money being counted.’

  ‘No, listen. It’s quite clear. Someone is playing the piano.’

  Keedy concentrated. ‘You’re right, Harv, and they’re playing it very well.’

  ‘It’s a shame to interrupt the music – especially with the news that we bring.’

  He tugged the bell pull and there was a tinkling sound deep inside the house. The door was soon opened by a maidservant. Marmion performed the introductions and both men produced their warrant cards. Young and pale-faced, the woman was clearly alarmed.

  ‘Mr Donohoe is not here,’ she stuttered.

  ‘We know that,’ said Marmion. ‘We came to speak to other members of the family. How many of them are here?’

  ‘Mrs Donohoe is in the music room. That’s her, playing the piano. Her son is here as well. He’s not long come back from the factory.’

  ‘We’d like to speak to both of them together, please.’

  After inviting them into the hall, she went off down the corridor. The first person she alerted was Adrian Donohoe who came at once. When he reached the detectives, he appraised them with an almost patrician air. He was a tall, lean, assertive individual in his thirties. Keedy recognised the facial similarities with the father. Before they could explain the reason for their visit, they saw Clara Donohoe coming towards them. Middle-aged and of middle height, she was a woman with natural poise who’d kept both her figure and her beauty. After names had been exchanged, she invited the detectives into the spacious and tastefully furnished living room. While she sat on the sofa with her son, Marmion and Keedy settled into armchairs opposite them. Keedy had been more than happy to take the lead at the morgue. In a situation like the present one, however, he was glad to let Marmion do most of the talking. The inspector had many years’ experience of passing on bad news gently and tactfully.

  ‘Is this about my father?’ asked Adrian, bluntly.

  ‘I’m afraid that it is, sir,’ replied Marmion.

  ‘Has there been some kind of accident?’

  ‘It’s rather more serious than that.’

  Clara tensed. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘A body was retrieved from the Thames earlier today, Mrs Donohoe. We have reason to believe that it might be that of your husband. To be absolutely certain,’ said Marmion, softly, ‘we’ll need a formal identification by next of kin, of course.’

  Clara was numbed. Significantly, Adrian made no attempt to comfort his mother. He fumed in silence for several seconds then blurted out an accusation.

  ‘You must be mistaken, Inspector,’ he said. ‘Father had a regular schedule whenever he went to London. He’d never go anywhere near the river. You’ve given us an unnecessary fright. I think you should be more certain of your facts before you barge into someone’s house like this.’

  ‘We spoke to his tailor, sir. He recognised the suit that Mr Donohoe had been wearing. Your father has been a client for some years, I gather.’

  Adrian was scornful. ‘Is that all you’re going on – the word of a tailor?’

  ‘Keep your voice down,�
� advised his mother, quietly.

  ‘I refuse to believe that Father would either have fallen in the river when he’d drunk too much or – an even more ridiculous idea – that he committed suicide. Both suggestions are palpably absurd.’

  ‘I haven’t made either of them, sir,’ said Marmion, levelly.

  ‘Then how is he supposed to have ended up there?’

  The inspector looked from mother to son before speaking. ‘He was murdered, sir,’ he told them, almost whispering. ‘Valuables were taken from him and there were no means of identification on the body. We had to resort to a trawl around a series of men’s outfitters. One of them eventually recognised the suit.’

  ‘It was at Langley, Hope and Catto in Bond Street,’ interjected Keedy.

  ‘Does that name ring a bell?’

  Adrian glared at them. ‘Yes, it does,’ he said through gritted teeth.

  Before he could say anything else, his mother put a firm hand on his arm.

  ‘Let the inspector speak, dear,’ she said. ‘I want to hear every single detail he can tell us. Then we can go to London in due course to … identify the body ourselves. I’ll need you with me to do that.’

  ‘Your son could go in your stead, Mrs Donohoe,’ suggested Keedy.

  ‘He was my husband, Sergeant. I won’t shrink from my duty.’

  ‘You must do as you wish.’

  ‘We’d be grateful for all the information you can give us,’ said Marmion. ‘We’d like, for instance, to know where he stayed when he was in London and whom he was going to see on this latest visit.’

  ‘Before that,’ she said, mastering her emotions, ‘I’d like to know exactly what happened. However disagreeable the truth, I must hear it.’

  Marmion was astonished at the control and dignity she was showing. It was at variance with the glowering resentment exhibited by her son. Adrian Donohoe was still not ready to accept their version of events. He kept looking for ways to challenge the account that Marmion went on to give. Having viewed the corpse, Keedy gave them a succinct report of what he found, mentioning the bruising around the neck caused by strangulation but omitting any reference to the missing tongue. Clara listened intently throughout. When the detectives had told her everything they intended to, she thanked them for their straightforwardness.