Instrument of Slaughter Page 7

  Chatfield was dismissive. ‘That’s immaterial,’ he said, flicking a hand. ‘Before he acts as a nightwatchman, what will the sergeant be doing?’

  ‘I’m sending him off to the cemetery to speak to Horrie Waldron.’

  ‘Is he that gravedigger?’

  ‘He is indeed, sir.’

  ‘Good,’ said Chatfield, rubbing his hands together. ‘That’s the one positive lead that you’ve managed to uncover. This fellow fits the picture I envisage of the killer. He knows Ablatt well, he loathes conscientious objectors, he has a record of causing trouble and, I’ll venture, he’s often sufficiently inebriated to throw off all inhibition. There’s no need to send Sergeant Keedy. It’s a job for a uniformed constable. He can arrest Waldron and bring him in for questioning.’

  ‘I’d strongly advise against that, sir.’

  ‘Use your eyes, man! He’s a prime suspect.’

  ‘He’s certainly worthy of investigation,’ said Marmion, coolly, ‘but we have no evidence to arrest him. Besides, we don’t want to alert him to the fact that we harbour suspicions about him or he’s likely to be thrown on the defensive. A heavy-handed approach would be a mistake.’

  ‘There’s a history of friction between him and Ablatt, leading to that incident at the library. Isn’t that what Leach told you?’

  ‘Yes, sir, but he also told me that Waldron spends most of his free time in a pub. How would he even know about yesterday’s meeting at Devonshire House or be aware of Ablatt’s movements after he left Bishopsgate? I’ll wager that he’s sometimes too drunk to remember what day of the week it is. This murder involved calculation and I don’t believe that Waldron is capable of that.’

  Chatfield was checked. ‘Please yourself,’ he said, patently annoyed at the rebuff. ‘You’re nominally in charge of this investigation. If and when it emerges that this fellow was indeed the killer, I hope that you’ll have the grace to apologise to me.’

  ‘I’ll do so on bended knee, Superintendent.’

  ‘Sarcasm ill becomes you.’

  ‘Put it down to lack of food,’ said Marmion, getting up again. ‘After I’ve had breakfast, I’m sure that I’ll feel much better. As for Waldron,’ he added, ‘I promise you that – if he is guilty – he won’t slip through our fingers.’

  Abney Park cemetery was much more than a burial ground. It was also an arboretum, a place of architectural interest and a vital green lung in the urban sprawl of Stoke Newington. Horace Waldron never noticed the vast expanse of trees and shrubs. Nor did he pay any heed to the magnificent gates, the Egyptian lodges and the Gothic chapel. His gaze was fixed solely on the earth he had to shift in order to accommodate a new guest. Waldron was a burly man in his late fifties with an unsightly face, pitted with age and reddened by alcohol. His clothes were grimed beyond reclaim and his cap sat precariously on the back of his head. When he arrived for work that morning, he carried a spade over his shoulder. Putting it aside, he first stepped behind a large gravestone so that he could urinate against it with a measure of privacy. After spitting on the ground, he was about to start work when he noticed the dried bloodstains along the edge of his spade. He cleaned them off under the tap beside the shed where he usually kept his implements.

  Laughing to himself, he was soon digging his first grave of the day.

  When the notion was put to him, Keedy didn’t find it at all appealing. Over a cup of tea in the canteen, he explored the idea without enthusiasm.

  ‘What are the chances of him coming tonight?’

  ‘Your guess is as good as mine.’

  ‘That’s the trouble, Harv. We’re very much in the realm of guesswork. We’re guessing that the artist lives nearby and would have an irresistible compulsion to pick up his brush tonight and get back to work.’

  ‘He may wait a few days before doing so,’ admitted Marmion.

  ‘He may not even come back at all.’

  ‘Oh, I fancy that he – or she, for that matter – will appear before long.’

  ‘So I have to shiver all through the night in someone’s front room for what could be a week or more. Is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘No, it isn’t, Joe. And if you think the assignment is too onerous, I can always find someone else to shoulder it. You were the one who said we needed to catch him. I was simply giving you the first chance to do that.’

  ‘Yes,’ confessed Keedy, ‘he certainly needs to be nabbed. It’s just that I was hoping for a little free time at the end of the day.’

  ‘Even romance takes second place in a murder case, especially one as problematical as this. You’ll have to disappoint her, I’m afraid.’

  Keedy made no reply. He thought about the jibes painted on the wall of the Ablatt house. They were cruel and vulgar. Whoever put them there had spent a fair amount of time up a ladder. The artist could have relied on the fact that, even if he’d been discovered at work, nobody was likely to report him to the police. Most people in the area would have condoned what he was doing. A conscientious objector was being punished. Thick white paint was more conspicuous than a frail white feather.

  ‘I’ll do it, Harv,’ he said at length. ‘It could be important.’

  ‘I agree. Before that, however, we’ve other work to do.’

  ‘What can you tell me about this gravedigger you want me to find?’

  ‘All I know is what I picked up from Gordon Leach.’

  He passed on the description given to him of Horrie Waldron then offered his assessment of the baker. Keedy had already told him about the visit to Hambridge’s house and how the carpenter was devastated by the news. Unable to make contact with Mansel Price, the sergeant had left a message for him at his digs.

  ‘We can be sure of one thing,’ said Marmion. ‘All three of his friends relied completely on Ablatt. How will his death affect their resolve? Or, to put it another way, how conscientious will their objections be now that he’s gone?’

  ‘Hambridge is a Quaker. It won’t change his mind.’

  ‘I’m less certain about Leach. He could waver.’

  ‘Apparently, Price is one of those characters who hates all authority.’

  ‘So do I when it’s in the hands of someone like the superintendent.’

  Keedy chuckled. ‘Did you get another rap over the knuckles from Chat?’

  ‘He wanted Waldron arrested and hauled into Scotland Yard.’

  ‘But we have nothing on him yet.’

  ‘According to Superintendent Chatfield, we do. We have a man with motive and means to kill Ablatt. We simply have to establish that he had the opportunity as well and we can charge him.’

  ‘It’s another of Chat’s barmy theories.’

  ‘In fairness,’ conceded Marmion, ‘they’re not always so barmy. He made some very significant arrests during his time as an inspector. However, it’s an open question as to whether that was luck or judgement. We’ll have to give him the benefit of the doubt. Finish your tea,’ he went on, standing up. ‘We have people to see and answers to get.’

  ‘Right,’ said Keedy, swallowing the last of his tea then leaping to his feet. ‘I’m ready, Harv. Will you give me a lift to the cemetery?’

  ‘Of course – and we must arrange a place to meet up afterwards.’

  ‘Where do we go then?’

  ‘We need to speak to a certain photographer.’

  They left the canteen and walked side by side along the corridor. All that lay ahead of them was the promise of hard work, much of which would be tedious and unrewarding. Yet they felt excited in a way that they always did at the start of a hunt for a killer. Keedy recalled what the inspector had said earlier.

  ‘Why do you think Leach will waver?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t doubt the sincerity of his pacifism,’ said Marmion, ‘and he won’t renounce that. But I sensed a weakness. He’s engaged to be married. He has to make decisions that involve two people. That could make things a lot trickier.’

  Leach’s head was pounding. So much had hap
pened in the space of a couple of hours that he was confused and fearful. He’d awoken with a sense of dread, then been told what Hambridge had learnt about a gruesome murder during the night. Leach felt certain that it had to be his friend. A Scotland Yard detective had confirmed the name of the victim and questioned him about his contact with Ablatt the previous day. It had left the baker completely jangled. He’d pleaded with his father to be released from his duties at the shop and, since he’d finished his delivery rounds, he was allowed to leave. Leach had arranged to meet Ruby Cosgrove that evening but he couldn’t contain himself that long. As a matter of urgency, he needed to speak to her now. She had to be told.

  His fiancée had responded to the appeal for help in the war effort by working in a small factory that produced tinned meat to be sent to British soldiers in the trenches. It was boring, repetitive, undemanding labour but it gave her the feeling that she was making a contribution. Ruby worked set hours. Leach knew that during her lunch break she usually popped out of the factory to escape the pandemonium, get some fresh air and enjoy a cigarette.

  When he got to the factory, he saw her lurking in a doorway with some of the other female employees. Even though she was wearing an ugly fawn overall and a fawn scarf, the mere sight of Ruby Cosgrove lifted his spirits. Spotting him, the other women nudged Ruby and giggled. One of them whispered something in her ear and she blushed. By the time he got to them, Leach was out of breath.

  ‘What are you doing here, Gordon?’ she asked in surprise.

  Unable to find the words at first, he gave the other women such a look of desperation that they took pity on him and moved away so that the couple could talk alone. He led Ruby to a low wall and made her sit down.

  ‘I had to come,’ he said, lowering himself down beside her.

  ‘Whatever’s the matter with you? You’re trembling.’

  ‘There’s something I must tell you, Ruby.’

  ‘Well, be quick about it,’ she said. ‘The hooter will go in a minute.’

  He looked into her face and realised why he loved her so much. Ruby had an exaggerated prettiness that had captivated him when he first met her and a way of jiggling her head about as she spoke that he found entrancing. He didn’t mind that she was rather plump. If anything, it added to her attraction, the large bust swelling under her overall, the generous thighs and wide hips enlarging her contours. He hated having to pass on such tragic news but he could hold it in no longer. Taking her by the shoulders, he inhaled deeply.

  ‘Something terrible has happened,’ he said.

  She tensed. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Cyril is dead.’

  ‘No!’ she exclaimed, palms slapping against her chubby cheeks. ‘I don’t believe it. Tell me it’s not true, Gordon. Tell me it’s some kind of joke.’

  ‘I swear that it’s true – and there’s worse to come.’

  ‘What could possibly be worse than that?’

  Tears now streamed down his face. ‘He was murdered, Ruby. A detective came to the bakery to tell me. While we were all waiting for him at Fred’s house, Cyril was battered to death.’

  It was all too much for Ruby. She simply couldn’t cope with the gravity of the news and its many implications for her fiancé, and for her. While she liked Ablatt, she resented him for taking up so much of Leach’s time. All that resentment vanished now, drowned beneath a flood of sympathy. After biting her lip and emitting a laugh of disbelief, she swayed to and fro before fainting into his arms.

  When the factory hooter sounded, she never even heard it.

  ‘Are you Horace Waldron?’

  ‘No, I’m not.’

  ‘But I was told that you were.’

  ‘Then you was told lies – my name is Horrie.’

  ‘It’s only a diminutive of Horace.’

  ‘What the fuck is that?’

  ‘Never mind, sir.’

  ‘And who are you calling “sir”? What’s your game?’

  ‘I need to speak to you.’

  ‘Not when I got work to do.’

  ‘This is important.’

  ‘So is earning my bleeding beer money.’

  Joe Keedy could see that he was in for a difficult interview. When he tracked Waldron down in the cemetery, the man was standing in a grave that was three feet deep. Surly and uncooperative, Waldron chewed on a pipe but there was no tobacco in it. He resumed his digging. Squatting down, Keedy put a hand on his shoulder to stop him.

  ‘Let go of me,’ snarled Waldron.

  ‘I have to ask you some questions, sir.’

  ‘Bugger off!’

  ‘Or perhaps you’d rather answer them in the nearest police station?’

  ‘That explains the stink round here – you’re a copper.’

  ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Keedy from Scotland Yard and I’m involved in a murder inquiry.’

  ‘Then why not leave me alone and get on with it.’

  ‘I am getting on with it, sir.’

  As the gravedigger tried to carry on with his work, Keedy grabbed the spade and wrenched it from his grasp, throwing it down on the grass. Waldron bunched his fists and issued a string of expletives. After threatening to hit Keedy, he thought better of it. Assaulting a detective had serious consequences. Besides, the sergeant was much younger and looked muscular. Waldron folded his arms and scowled.

  ‘What’s this about a murder, then?’

  Keedy stood up. ‘A man named Cyril Ablatt was brutally killed last night.’

  ‘Really?’ asked Waldron, before releasing a guffaw and slapping his knee in celebration. ‘Are you telling me that snivelling little coward is dead? That goes to prove it – there is a God, after all.’

  ‘I believe that you knew Mr Ablatt.’

  ‘Yes – I knew the cocky bastard and I despised him.’

  ‘Why was that?’

  ‘Cyril always knew best. No matter what the argument was about, he had to have the last bleeding word. Oh, he was clever, I’ll give him that. He read lots of books and suchlike. But he looked down on me, Sergeant Whatever-Your-Name-Is.’

  ‘It’s Keedy – Sergeant Keedy.’

  ‘Nobody does that to Horrie Waldron. I got my standards, see?’ Hauling himself out of the grave, he retrieved his spade and used it as a prop. After looking Keedy up and down, he shifted the pipe to the other side of his mouth. ‘Why have you come bothering me, then?’

  ‘Where were you yesterday evening?’

  ‘Where else would I be but in the pub?’

  ‘Would that be the Weavers Arms?’

  ‘Yes – they serve a good pint.’

  ‘Are there witnesses who’d confirm that you were there?’

  Waldron eyed him warily. ‘Ask the landlord. He’ll tell you. Mind you,’ he went on, ‘I did slip out for an hour or two.’

  ‘Where did you go?’

  ‘That’s my business,’ said Waldron, belligerently.

  ‘It happens to be my business as well.’

  ‘It’s private.’

  ‘There’s no such thing as privacy in a murder investigation.’

  Waldron was indignant. ‘I got nothing to do with that.’

  ‘We’ll see,’ said Keedy, meeting his gaze without flinching. ‘Let me remind you that withholding evidence is a crime. We can also add the charge that you’re impeding a police officer in the execution of his duties. If you don’t answer my questions properly, we can have this conversation through the bars of a cell in which you’ll be locked. Understood?’ The gravedigger glowered at him. ‘That’s better. Now then, let’s go back to what I asked. Where did you go last night?’

  ‘I went to see a friend – nothing wrong with that, is there?’

  Keedy took out his notebook. ‘What’s the name of this friend?’

  ‘I’m not saying.’

  ‘In short, there was no friend. You invented him.’

  ‘That’s not true!’ howled Waldron.

  ‘Then why won’t you give me his name?’

  ‘It
wasn’t a man, Sergeant – it was a woman.’

  ‘In that case, give me her name.’

  ‘I can’t. I got to protect her, haven’t I? It’s what I promised, see? Nobody else knows about her and me. Nobody else is going to know.’

  ‘And you were with this woman for an hour or two, is that it?’

  ‘Could be longer – I don’t have a watch.’

  ‘What did you do afterwards?’

  ‘I went back to the pub – ask, Stan. He’s the landlord.’

  ‘I’m more interested in the time when you have nobody who can account for your movements.’

  Waldron cackled. ‘Oh, she accounted for my movements, I can tell you that!’

  As his cackle became a full-throated laugh, he opened his mouth to expose three blackened teeth in the middle of a gaping void. Even from a few yards away, Keedy could smell his foul breath. After his years as a detective, he could usually sense if someone was lying to him but Waldron was difficult to fathom. The woman friend might or might not exist. Looking at the gravedigger, Keedy thought it unlikely because of the man’s repulsive appearance, but then, he reminded himself, he’d seen even more hideous faces excite the love and devotion of a woman. Waldron might have hidden charms. His claim had a coarse plausibility.

  ‘You’re not helping yourself, sir,’ said Keedy.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘If what you say is true, there’s someone who can clear your name. Until she does that, you’re bound to be viewed as a suspect.’

  ‘I didn’t kill Ablatt,’ protested the other. ‘I didn’t even know he was dead.’

  ‘But you’re obviously glad that he is.’

  Waldron sniggered. ‘Best news I’ve heard in years!’

  ‘Do you have any idea who might have wanted to kill him?’

  ‘I can think of lots of people. I’m one of them.’

  Keedy lifted his pencil. ‘Can you give me some names?’

  ‘You’re the detective – find them.’

  ‘Stop being so obstructive.’

  ‘Ablatt was a conchie,’ said Waldron, derisively. ‘He was the lowest of the low in my book. Lots of people think the same. The little sod deserved to die. None of us would have actually murdered him, maybe, but we’d all like to shake the hand of the man who did.’