A Bespoke Murder Page 7

  ‘I’ve had the report from the fire brigade,’ explained Marmion. ‘They found the petrol can amid the debris but there was no way of identifying where it was bought. The intense heat had melted it and caused it to buckle.’

  ‘We’ve drawn a blank there, then,’ said Keedy.

  ‘My guess is that it was sold by a garage nearby. Nobody wants to carry a full can of petrol any distance. It would be too heavy. I’ve sent men off to check at any garages in the locality.’

  ‘That’s very wise, Inspector.’

  ‘Wisdom is like sciatica, Joe – it comes with age.’

  ‘You’re still a young man at heart.’

  ‘I don’t feel young. When I look at our Alice and realise how old she is now, I feel quite ancient.’

  ‘How is Alice?’

  ‘I’d like to say that she’s very well but she’s got this weird idea into her head that she’d like to join the WEC.’

  ‘What’s so weird about it?’

  Marmion sighed. ‘Alice worked her socks off to get qualifications to teach, Joe. I don’t want her to throw all that effort away. In any case, the WEC is not short of recruits, whereas schools are certainly short of good teachers like my daughter.’

  ‘It’s her decision and she is over twenty-one.’

  ‘We accept that, Joe. At the end of the day, we’ll support her in whatever she does – as long as she doesn’t join the Women’s Police Service, that is. Apparently, that’s what you advised her to do.’

  ‘I did,’ said Keedy. ‘I think she’d make a good policewoman. Alice is bright, hard-working and she’s got a natural authority. I know there’s a lot of opposition to the Women’s Force but I think girls like Alice could do certain things much better than we can.’

  ‘That’s exactly what I thought when I visited the Stein house,’ recalled Marmion. ‘I was following up that rape allegation. I never actually spoke to the victim herself – she was still in shock – but I felt very awkward as I talked to her mother. It was exactly the sort of situation where a woman would have come into her own.’

  ‘You should have taken Alice with you.’

  ‘She is not going to join the police.’

  It was Marmion’s turn to recount details of an interview. He told Keedy how struck he was by Miriam Stein’s dignity and by her steely determination to seek justice for her daughter. At a time when she was coping with one family catastrophe, she had the strength to deal with another one. She’d been able to pass on two significant details about Ruth’s attackers. Keedy was interested to hear of them.

  ‘It took one phone call to find out what I wanted,’ he said. ‘The only soldiers who embarked for the Continent today were members of the East Surrey Regiment. They’re going to Ypres as reinforcements.’

  ‘Then they’re brave men. Ypres is a real hellhole.’

  ‘The two people we’re after are not brave, Joe. They’re cruel, heartless bastards and their names are somewhere on this list.’ He indicated the sheaf of papers in front of him. ‘I had this sent over from the War Office. They were very reluctant at first, then I threatened to set the commissioner onto them. That did the trick.’

  ‘Have you discovered who the two men are?’

  ‘Not yet, I haven’t. Bring that other chair over and help me.’

  Keedy picked up an upright chair, placed it behind the desk and sat beside the inspector. Marmion spread the pages out.

  ‘How far have you got?’ asked Keedy.

  ‘I’ve had a first glance through the names and there are four Olivers in the regiment. One is a major, so I think we can discount him immediately. We’re looking for two uncouth characters. They’ll be somewhere in the ranks.’

  ‘What was the other name Mrs Stein mentioned?’

  ‘Gatty.’

  ‘Could that be short for Gareth or something?’

  ‘If it is, we’re stumped. There’s no Gareth on the list.’

  ‘Let me see.’

  Keedy pulled the pages closer so that he could scan them. When he’d been through the Christian names of all the men, he went quickly through the list again and concentrated on the surnames. Finding what he was after, he jabbed a triumphant finger at the name.

  ‘That’s him,’ he decided. ‘John Gatliffe. I’d put money on him being called Gatty.’

  ‘You could be right, Joe.’

  ‘I am right. There’s no other surname like it.’

  ‘If Gatliffe is our man, we can soon unmask his friend, Oliver.’

  ‘How can you do that, Inspector?’

  ‘By comparing addresses,’ said Marmion, opening a folder to take out another list. ‘Friends usually live close to each other. Let’s see where our three Olivers live, shall we?’ It took him less than a minute to identify the man. ‘Here he is – Oliver Cochran. He lives in Ewell and so, by a strange coincidence, does John Gatliffe. It has to be him, Joe. Oliver Cochran was the one who actually carried out the rape. Gatliffe held the girl down.’

  ‘Then they’re both culpable.’

  Marmion gathered up the pages. ‘I promised to have these sent back at once to the War Office. They’ve fulfilled their purpose.’

  ‘What’s the next step, Inspector?’

  ‘The commissioner will have to go into battle for us.’

  ‘Do you think there’ll be opposition?’

  ‘I’m certain of it, Joe. The army won’t want any of its men subject to a police investigation. They need every soldier they can get. Sir Edward will have to use his full weight,’ said Marmion. ‘We must have warrants for the arrest of those men and documents that give us access to them. Apart from the rape, they may have also been guilty of looting the shop.’ His jaw tightened. ‘Gatliffe and Cochran are in for a big surprise.’

  They had never been abroad before and the sheer novelty of France diverted their minds from the uncertainties that lay ahead. Private John Gatliffe and Private Oliver Cochran of the East Surrey Regiment were amazed by the long straight roads lined with trees and by the quaint villages through which they were driven to the cheers of the locals. When the procession stopped for refreshment and everyone hopped out of their respective lorries, the friends were able to have a quiet chat together. Gatliffe lit a cigarette then used its tip to light the one he’d just given to Cochran. After inhaling deeply, they blew out smoke in unison.

  ‘It’s so different, Ol, isn’t it?’ said Gatliffe.

  ‘Yes,’ said Cochran, gloomily. ‘We’re heading for a war zone.’

  ‘I was talking about the countryside and the people.’

  ‘The countryside is all right but I don’t like the look of the people. All we’ve seen so far are scrawny old men and ugly peasant women. I loathe the French.’

  ‘But they’re our allies.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean I have to like them.’

  ‘I’m hoping to learn some French while I’m here.’

  Cochran was mystified. ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘So I can talk to them in their own language.’

  ‘That’s stupid, Gatty. If they want to talk to us, let them learn English. The only time we might need French is if we go on leave and find a brothel. Two words will do – “How much?” That’s unless we can get it free, of course.’

  Gatliffe was uncomfortably reminded of the incident on their final night in England but he did not bring it up again. Cochran had told him to forget all about it and that was what his friend was trying and failing to do. After another pull on his cigarette, Gatliffe looked ahead.

  ‘What do you think it will be like, Ol?’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘At the front.’

  ‘I’ve got no idea.’

  ‘You hear such terrible stories.’

  ‘I just ignore them,’ said Cochran, airily.

  ‘Aren’t you afraid of the Germans?’

  ‘No, Gatty, I’m more afraid of the bloody Frenchies. They’ll let us down. They can’t even defend their own borders. If it wasn’t for us, the Germans wo
uld have occupied Paris by now.’

  ‘Why did you join up?’

  ‘You know why.’

  ‘I know you got that white feather – so did I. But was that the real reason? I enlisted because my cousin was badly wounded at Mons. They shipped back what was left of him and he hung on until this year before he died.’ Gatliffe hunched his shoulders. ‘Pete was just nineteen. When he first came home, I couldn’t bear to look at him. He’d lost both legs and an eye. I wanted to hit back at the Germans who’d done that to him.’ He went off into a reverie for a few minutes. When he jerked himself out of it, he turned to Cochran. ‘What about you, Ol?’

  His friend blew out a smoke ring. ‘I was bored, Gatty.’

  ‘What – bored with living in Ewell?’

  ‘I was bored with everything. I was bored with my job, for a start. Mending roofs all day is no fun, I can tell you. I was bored with living at home and arguing with Dad time and time again. Most of all, I was bored with being asked by people why I hadn’t joined the army and gone off to fight for my country. In the end, I just wanted a bit of adventure so, when you decided to enlist, I did so as well.’

  ‘Weren’t you scared of the danger?’

  ‘No,’ said Cochran, emphatically. ‘You’re used to danger if you work as a roofer. I’ve seen two men badly injured after falling from a ladder and one killed when he slipped off a church roof. It can’t be much more dangerous than that at the front.’

  ‘Nothing ever seems to frighten you, does it?’ said Gatliffe, enviously. ‘I wish I was like that.’ A memory stabbed him like the thrust of a bayonet and he winced. ‘I also wish that we hadn’t bumped into that girl in London.’

  ‘Are you still worrying about that?’

  ‘I keep seeing her face, Ol.’

  Cochran laughed. ‘I keep feeling her body and tasting her lips and remembering how I shot my spunk into her. It was terrific, Gatty, every second of it. You don’t know what you missed.’

  Ruth Stein sat on the edge of the bath with the box of tablets in her hand. In her febrile mind, they seemed to offer an escape from the ruins of her life. She opened the packet, put a tablet in the palm of her hand and stared at it.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  David Cohen was on the verge of tears as he stood outside what had once been his place of work. All that was left of the shop now was an empty smoke-blackened shell. A waist-high fence had been erected to keep anyone from actually entering the premises but, since there was nothing left to steal, it was largely redundant. Acting as a second line of defence was a solitary policeman. Cohen was bound to wonder why he and his colleagues had not been on duty there the day before to safeguard the premises.

  Harvey Marmion had agreed to meet him in Jermyn Street rather than at Scotland Yard because he wanted to view the full extent of the damage in daylight. The two men stood side by side on the opposite pavement.

  ‘Mr Stein didn’t stand a chance,’ said Cohen, sorrowfully. ‘He was trapped upstairs by the fire.’

  ‘That’s not what happened,’ said Marmion, gently. ‘According to the pathologist conducting the post-mortem, your employer might have been dead before the fire even reached him. I’ve issued a statement to the press to the effect that Jacob Stein was murdered.’

  Cohen was horror-struck. ‘Murdered – but how?’

  ‘He was stabbed through the heart, sir.’

  The news was like a hammer blow to Cohen. He needed minutes to recover from the shock. Dabbing at his eyes with a handkerchief he plucked from the sleeve of his jacket, he looked up to heaven in supplication. Cohen was the manager of the shop, the person entrusted to run it and handle any initial enquiries for the high-quality bespoke tailoring on offer. Since the man had worked there for well over fifteen years, Marmion deduced that he was good at his job. Otherwise Stein would not have kept him. Cohen was a slim, sinewy man of medium height in a superbly cut suit. Marmion put him somewhere in his early fifties.

  ‘What sort of an employer was he?’ asked Marmion.

  ‘You couldn’t wish to work for a better man,’ said Cohen, loyally. ‘It was a pleasure to be a member of his staff. He expected us to work hard, of course, but he set us all a perfect example.’

  ‘Did Mr Stein follow a set routine?’

  ‘Yes, Inspector – he was always the first to arrive and the last to leave. When the shop was closed, he’d take any cash and cheques from the till and put them in the safe upstairs. He was very conscious of security. That’s why all the doors had special locks.’

  ‘So when he went upstairs yesterday evening, he would have locked the door to the shop behind him.’

  ‘There’s no question about that.’

  ‘What about his other employees? I gather that apart from you, there were three full-time tailors and one man who worked part-time. Would they have had keys to all the doors?’

  ‘Oh, no,’ said Cohen, anxious to stress his seniority. ‘Only Mr Stein and I had a full set.’

  ‘What about the key to the safe?’

  ‘Mr Stein had that, Inspector. He kept a duplicate at home in case of loss. However, the key alone wouldn’t have opened the safe. You’d need to know the combination as well.’

  ‘Did anyone apart from Mr Stein know the combination?’

  ‘Nobody on the staff was told.’

  ‘What happened to the day’s takings if Mr Stein was not there and you had no access to his safe?’

  ‘It was only very rarely that he was absent during business hours. On such occasions,’ said Cohen, ‘I’d put everything in the night safe at the bank. He was such a kind man,’ he continued, wiping away a last tear, ‘and generous to a fault. Who could possibly have wanted to kill him?’

  ‘I’m hoping that you might point us in the right direction, sir.’

  Cohen was nonplussed. ‘How can I do that?’

  ‘By providing more detail about him,’ said Marmion. ‘Mr Stein was clearly well known but success usually breeds envy. Is there anyone who might have nursed resentment against him?’

  ‘I can’t think of anybody.’

  ‘What about his business rivals?’

  ‘Well, yes, there were one or two people who felt overshadowed by him. That’s in the nature of things. But surely none of them would go to the length of killing him,’ argued Cohen. ‘When the shop was burnt down, we’d effectively have been put out of business for a long time. Wasn’t that enough?’

  ‘I’d like the names of any particular rivals.’

  Cohen was circumspect. ‘I’m not accusing anyone, Inspector.’

  ‘That’s not what I’m asking you to do, sir,’ said Marmion. ‘I just want an insight into the closed world of gentlemen’s tailoring. Nobody is universally admired and none of us look benevolently upon all our fellow human beings. We tend to like or loathe. Is there anyone about whom Mr Stein spoke harshly?’

  ‘Yes,’ admitted the other, ‘there were a few people whom he regarded with …’ He searched for the right word. ‘Well, let’s call it suspicion rather than contempt.’

  ‘I’d appreciate their names, Mr Cohen.’

  ‘Very well – but you’re looking in the wrong direction.’

  ‘I’d also like the names of any employees who might have left under a cloud. Have any been dismissed in the last year?’

  ‘There was one,’ said Cohen, uneasily, ‘and another left of his own accord shortly afterwards. Not because of any bad treatment from Mr Stein, I hasten to add. They were simply … not suitable employees.’

  ‘Yet he must have thought so when he took them on.’

  ‘We all make errors of judgement, Inspector.’

  ‘So Mr Stein was not the paragon you portray him as,’ observed Marmion, taking out a pad and pencil. ‘Before I have those names from you, answer me this, if you will. I take it that you know Mr Stein’s brother quite well.’

  ‘Yes, I do,’ said the other, guardedly.

  ‘How did the two of them get on?’

  David Cohen was t
oo honest a man to tell a direct lie. At the same time, he did not wish to divulge confidential information and so he retreated into silence and gave an expressive shrug.

  Marmion read the message in his eyes.

  ‘Very well,’ he said, ‘let’s have those names, shall we?’

  * * *

  Detective Sergeant Joe Keedy had conducted countless interviews during his time as a policeman but none had resembled the one in which he took part that evening. Visiting the pub where members of the destructive mob had reportedly been drinking before they made for Jermyn Street, Keedy sought out Douglas Emmott, who worked there behind the bar. Emmott was a short, slender, ebullient man in his thirties with a swarthy complexion and shiny dark hair that gave him an almost Mediterranean look. When Keedy explained who he was and why he was there, Emmott took a combative stance.

  ‘Yes, I was there,’ he confessed, freely, ‘and, if you want the truth, I’m damned glad that I was.’

  Anticipating lies and evasion, Keedy was taken aback by the man’s defiant honesty. Emmott put his hands on his hips.

  ‘Given the chance,’ he said, ‘I’d do the same thing again.’

  ‘Oh – so you feel proud that you broke the law?’

  ‘I feel proud that I struck a blow for the downtrodden masses. I belong to them, see?’ He pointed an accusatory finger. ‘Have you ever seen the prices of the suits in that shop?’

  ‘I have, as a matter of fact,’ said Keedy.

  ‘They cost more than I earn in a whole year. That’s indecent, Sergeant. Why should anyone pay all that money for a suit when there are people starving in this city?’

  ‘That’s not the point at issue, sir.’

  ‘It is for me. I believe that society should have a moral basis. Let me explain what I mean,’ said Emmott, warming to his theme. ‘I started work in this pub last January and I got here very early in the morning on my first day. Do you know what I found?’

  ‘No,’ said Keedy, ‘what was it?’

  ‘I found an old man, curled up in the doorway, frozen to death. Imagine it, Sergeant. He’d crawled in there like an unwanted dog and spent his last hours on earth shivering throughout a cold winter’s night. How could that be allowed to happen in a civilised society?’