Under Attack Page 9

  ‘Mr Donohoe must have placed great faith in you.’

  ‘I did my best to repay that faith.’

  ‘Do you spend all your time in London?’

  ‘I try to go home at weekends, if it’s possible,’ she replied. ‘My parents are both still alive. They live in a small village called Moseley, not far from Birmingham. There were times when Mr Donohoe needed me here on Saturday and Sunday. His demands always came first.’

  ‘Was he a demanding sort of man?’

  She gave a first smile. ‘No, far from it – he always used polite requests when he wanted me to do something. And if I did work overtime, I was well paid.’

  ‘Did you want to move to London?’

  ‘To be honest, I didn’t. I’m a Birmingham girl through and through.’

  ‘What changed your mind?’

  ‘Well, it was a promotion, after all. I’m allowed to do things that most secretaries never get a chance to do. Instead of taking dictation and typing letters all day, I have more important duties. Mr Donohoe said I had a good business instinct and Mr Sprake agrees.’

  ‘Do you live nearby?’

  ‘Yes, I rent a room less than ten minutes’ walk away.’

  ‘So you never get to stay at the Devonian Hotel, I suppose?’

  ‘Oh, I’d be a fish out of water there, Inspector,’ she said, tittering. ‘The one time I did go, I felt I was intruding. I know my place.’

  ‘Describe a typical working day with Mr Donohoe.’

  Her eyes bulged. ‘Why?’

  ‘It might help me understand a few things.’

  Harriet needed several seconds before she felt able to go on. Marmion sat back and listened. The secretary was such an unappealing woman that any notion of an intimate relationship between her and her employer was unthinkable. She’d earned her promotion on merit. At a time when few women were given any real status and responsibility at work, she was entrusted with insights into the complexities of the Donohoe empire. So dedicated had she been to him that she was prepared to uproot herself from the city she loved and move away from the family with whom she’d lived for her entire life.

  As she talked about her duties, she shuttled between humility and pride, stressing that she did nothing without her employer’s permission, then recalling times when he’d actually sought her advice. Harriet Kane had been both tea-maker and putative associate. Realising that the heady days when she’d enjoyed a whiff of power had gone for ever, she lowered her head to her chest. Marmion felt that it would be too cruel to ask her what she did with her leisure time.

  ‘You were a woman here among men,’ he pointed out. ‘Didn’t that trouble you in any way?’

  ‘No, Inspector,’ she said. ‘They all accepted me – in time, that is.’

  ‘Mr Sprake told me that you were indispensable.’

  ‘That’s going too far.’

  ‘He also said the same about his chauffeur.’

  ‘Jean-Louis really is indispensable. He looks after Mr Sprake then does valuable secretarial work for him. Whenever they went on holiday, he usually took charge of the yacht.’

  ‘He’s an experienced sailor, then?’

  ‘There’s nothing he can’t do, Inspector.’

  ‘Both partners were very fortunate,’ said Marmion, thoughtfully. ‘Each of them found someone on whom they could rely completely. Mr Donohoe had you to turn to and Mr Sprake had Jean-Louis. They were blessed.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I suppose they were.’

  ‘How do you get on with Jean-Louis?’

  ‘Very well, I think.’

  ‘You only think?’

  ‘We’re friends. He’s kind to me.’

  ‘He isn’t envious of you, then?’

  ‘Why should he be?’

  ‘Well,’ said Marmion, ‘he’s more or less confined to secretarial work when he’s here, whereas you have attended meetings between the partners and their associates. In short, you’re senior to Jean-Louis. Doesn’t that worry him?’

  ‘Not in the slightest,’ she said, briskly.

  It was the first time that he knew she was lying.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Clifford Burge enjoyed walking through his old haunts so much that he had to remind himself that he was there in the line of duty. He paid a courtesy call on his sister-in-law, Annie, and found her trying to control two small, noisy, truculent sons while doing the washing in the tin bath in the scullery. Drying the foam off her forearms, she offered to make him a cup of tea but he told her he couldn’t stay. He just wanted her to know that he’d been given the job for which he’d been interviewed.

  ‘Les told me about that. Well done, Cliff!’

  ‘Good to be back again.’

  ‘I bet.’

  ‘Bit more dangerous out there than in my days.’

  ‘Don’t we know it!’

  Annie Burge was a plump woman with a fading prettiness spoilt by her protruding front teeth. He’d noticed the bulging midriff as soon as he arrived.

  ‘When is it due?’

  ‘Not for months yet but it feels like lead.’

  ‘Les said you wanted a girl.’

  ‘I couldn’t cope with another boy,’ she said, pausing to slap one of her sons across the back of his head. ‘It’s like being in the middle of the Battle of the Somme with these two. They fight all day long.’

  ‘Did the same with my bruvver.’

  ‘When did you grow out of it?’

  ‘Not sure we ever did.’ She laughed grimly. ‘Be around for some time from now on so I’ll call in another day.’ There was a yell of pain from one boy as his brother punched him in the stomach. Burge lifted each of them up by the scruff of his neck. ‘You’re in the same family,’ he told them, jocularly. ‘Be friends and let your mother have a rest for once. Otherwise, she’ll set Uncle Cliff on you.’ He put them back on the floor and kissed his sister-in-law. ‘Bye, Annie.’

  ‘Look after yourself, Cliff.’

  Letting himself out of the house, he walked along the street and reflected on the two occasions when he’d come close to marriage. In both cases, he’d had a lucky escape. He might have ended up like his brother, with a harassed wife trying to cope with two energetic children while waiting for a third to arrive. That would make five mouths to feed. Marriage had its advantages – he was the first to admit that – but it brought too many restrictions and Burge had always relished his freedom. Spurning fatherhood, he could enjoy its pleasures at a distance, so to speak, by spending time with his brother’s family. He found himself asking a question that troubled him. How many years would it be before his two nephews were part of a gang? How long before their futures were shaped by a war of attrition against their enemies?

  It was only a matter of minutes before he came to the market. He loved its bustle, its ceaseless banter, its pungent smells and its sheer variety. People of all nationalities mingled there. Arguments were being conducted in different languages. Most people were still talking about the air raid. Everyone seemed to have friends who were either killed, wounded or had their homes destroyed. Burge inhaled the compound of aromas and listened to the tales of woe about the raid. Rubbing shoulders with local people made him feel part of the vibrant area once again. All around him were assertive women, haggling over prices as they strove to spend their meagre resources wisely. They railed against food shortages and the bane of rationing, seen as an unwarranted intrusion into their lives. They wondered, as on every other day, when the war would end.

  When he came out of the market, he walked down a long street until he reached a corner, pausing to look in the window of a junk shop. Most of the items were sad relics with little appeal. Surrounded by stuffed animals, discarded ironware, mottled vases, battered suitcases and useless trinkets, an old mangle occupied much of the space. It was ancient and rust-covered. A birdcage hung from its handle. Burge was about to walk away when he thought he saw something he recognised. He stared with more concentration this time and was startled. He w
as right. Something of his was indeed on sale. Perched on the top of the mangle was his stolen hat.

  He was mortified.

  Keedy had worked assiduously at the Devonian Hotel. Arriving back at Scotland Yard, he made use of Marmion’s office to collate all the information he’d gathered. His guess about the manager had been on target. When he’d spoken to the younger female members of staff, he produced a few blushes and a lot of smiles. Patrick Armitage had something akin to a harem. The head of housekeeping had been the most helpful person. As a redoubtable middle-aged woman of fearsome appearance, she’d not been one of the manager’s conquests and seemed like the only person able to stand up to him. To Keedy’s delight, she had an extremely good memory and could recall the exact times over the previous year when Gilbert Donohoe had vanished for a night or two while still paying for his room at the hotel.

  ‘Didn’t you think that was eccentric?’ Keedy had asked.

  She was stony-faced. ‘I’m not paid to think, Sergeant.’

  ‘Did Mr Donohoe ever say where he was going?’

  ‘We didn’t know he’d left the hotel until the following day.’

  Though the manager hovered disapprovingly in the background, Keedy had pressed on, even interviewing the lift boy and some of the kitchen staff. On his way back to Scotland Yard, he’d prevailed on his driver to see if they could somehow intercept Alice on her beat. Their moment together sent him off with raised spirits and, he liked to think, it had cheered her up as well. Like Alice, he was acutely aware of how little time they’d spent together recently. In arranging to meet her later on, he had something to help him through the tedium of reading the endless statements he’d collected at the hotel.

  Claude Chatfield burst into the room with characteristic suddenness.

  ‘Ah, I thought the inspector was back.’

  ‘He’s still down in Barnes, sir.’

  ‘You’ve been to the hotel, I hear.’

  ‘That’s right, Superintendent. I’ve just been going through the material I gathered there. The Devonian is a misnomer. It should be called the Iceberg.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘What you see on the surface is only a small part of the whole. The real activity goes on below the waterline. It opened my eyes.’

  ‘Really?’

  He demanded to know what Keedy had learnt and was treated to quotations from a variety of sources. The woman in charge of housekeeping was most often mentioned. The superintendent became tetchy.

  ‘So you haven’t unearthed any suspects, is that it?’

  ‘Mr Armitage might qualify,’ said Keedy. ‘Though he pretends to help, he’s as slippery as an eel. I agree with the inspector. We should keep him in mind.’

  ‘Why should a hotel manager want to kill one of his guests?’

  ‘I’m not suggesting that he actually committed the murder, sir. To begin with, he’s far too fastidious to get his hands dirty. If we do discover a conspiracy, however, he could belong to it.’

  ‘Did you talk to Donohoe’s son?’

  ‘Yes, sir, I did. Trying to get information out of Adrian Donohoe is like trying to get blood from a stone. It’s almost as if he doesn’t want us to find the killer.’

  ‘The inspector felt that there could have been friction between father and son.’

  ‘It may have gone beyond friction,’ said Keedy.

  ‘Should he be treated as a potential suspect?’

  ‘He’s like the manager, sir – worthy of close attention.’

  ‘That’s too nebulous for me. I like cast-iron certainties to emerge early in an investigation. So far, we’ve got nothing and the press is already baying at our heels. If you’ve seen the coverage this morning,’ said Chatfield, ruefully, ‘you’ll know that we’ve come in for a good kicking because, allegedly, we can’t keep the streets of London safe. Donohoe’s is only the latest unsolved murder.’

  ‘Most killers are brought to book, Superintendent.’

  ‘That’s not good enough for crime reporters. They expect recurring success.’

  ‘Then they should try doing our job,’ said Keedy, angrily, ‘instead of writing snide articles about it. They might realise how difficult it is then.’ He looked down at the sheets of paper he’d filled. ‘I’ve interviewed well over thirty people at that hotel and I plan to go back this evening to talk to some more.’

  ‘What’s the rationale behind that?’

  ‘Inspector Marmion and I both agree that the Devonian is the key location in this case. Adrian Donohoe admitted that his father had been spending more and more time there. If someone had designs on his life, they’d certainly have kept an eye on the hotel; they may even have stayed there in order to wait for the moment to strike. That being the case, the killer’s name may well be among the lists of recent guests. I’ll take a look at their records.’

  ‘Couldn’t you have done that this morning?’

  ‘Yes, sir, but I’d have had the manager looking over my shoulder. He goes off duty at eight.’ Keedy grinned. ‘I’ll get a lot more cooperation from the staff when Armitage is not around.’

  ‘Good thinking.’ He pointed to the desk. ‘When you’ve completed the report, bring it straight to me.’ Chatfield was about to leave when something jogged his memory. ‘How is the inspector coping with the disappearance of his son?’

  ‘He’s coping very well, sir.’

  ‘I just hope the press doesn’t catch wind of it.’

  ‘So do I.’

  ‘They’d have a field day. When the inspector can’t even find his own son, they’d argue, how can we expect him to track down the vicious killer who ended Donohoe’s life? His competence would be called into question and that would be monstrously unfair.’

  Of the three people he’d spoken to, Harriet Kane was both the most interesting and intelligent. Having none of the educational advantages enjoyed by Roy Vernon and Malcolm Brant, she’d slowly clawed her way up the ladder to become Donohoe’s personal secretary in Birmingham. So reliant had he become on her discretion and conscientiousness that he’d even taken her to London with him. Over the years, her role had been enlarged and she handled the extra responsibility with aplomb. Marmion spent far longer with her than with Vernon and Brant together. They were mere ciphers of Donohoe. She was integral to his whole life.

  Marmion called next on the man who intrigued him, tapping on his door before entering the office.

  ‘I’m sorry to interrupt you, sir.’

  ‘No, no, do come on in. Mr Sprake said you wished to talk to me.’

  ‘I won’t take up too much of your time.’

  ‘Take up as much as you wish, Inspector.’

  Marmion had saved Jean-Louis Peebles until the very end, partly because he was the least important employee but mainly because he was the most unlikely person to find there. Vernon and Brant were exactly what one would expect of businessmen trying to advance themselves, and Harriet – now that she’d explained what she did – also seemed to fit into the company. Peebles stood out. He looked altogether too dignified to act as a manservant and to fulfil basic secretarial duties. Instead of helping Sprake into a wheelchair, Marmion thought, he should be pursuing a career of his own that was entirely free of menial chores.

  The inspector soon changed his mind. Sensing what Marmion was thinking, Peebles explained that, when his parents died, he wanted to see more of the world. He therefore drifted around Europe and ended up working in a restaurant on the coast of Crete. Disarmingly honest, he admitted that it was a rather aimless life involving too much drink and too many brushes with bad company. Norris Sprake had been his saviour. While moored in the harbour one summer, Sprake and his wife came ashore to patronise the restaurant. They took an interest in Peebles and felt that he deserved something better.

  ‘Mr Sprake had two good legs in those days,’ explained Peebles. ‘He was mad about sailing and delighted when I told him I’d worked on a couple of yachts in my time. I was born within sight of the Mediterra
nean,’ he went on. ‘The sea was in my nostrils. When my parents moved to Scotland, I used to go boating on the lochs.’

  Peebles made no bones about the fact that he’d dodged all attempts to get him a good education even to the point of absconding from one school. As a result, he had no formal qualifications, just a readiness to work hard at whatever came his way.

  ‘So you were, in effect, adopted by Mr and Mrs Sprake?’

  ‘That’s what it amounted to in the end, I suppose. Their three daughters treated me like a sort of pet at first then, one by one, they went off to get married and start families of their own.’

  ‘Did you never wish to do that?’

  Peebles hunched his shoulders. ‘I don’t have anything to offer a wife.’

  ‘A lot of women would disagree,’ said Marmion, producing a dazzling smile. ‘Mr Sprake told me that you considered joining up when the war broke out.’

  ‘It’s true – I did.’

  ‘Which army would you have chosen – British or French?’

  ‘I’d have picked a Scots Regiment in the British Army.’

  ‘What prevented you from signing up?’

  ‘I couldn’t leave Mr Sprake. He depends on me.’

  Peebles went on to explain exactly what he did on a normal day and how he fitted into the household. It was clear that he had nothing like the business experience of Harriet Kane and had no intention of trying to acquire it. He seemed happy to carry on exactly as he was. His one complaint was that the war had prevented them from sailing around the Mediterranean again. Peebles had an engaging manner and an easy smile. He was doing his best to charm the inspector but the latter was not taken in. Though the chauffeur was careful to present himself in the best possible light, what Marmion saw was an adventurer who lived off his wits and who’d wormed his way into the Sprake family.

  ‘What happened to his legs?’ asked Marmion.