Rennie Airth_John Madden 03 Page 4

  'Couldn’t it be someone with the same name? What was it

  again? Rosa . . . Rosa something . . . ?’

  'Rosa Nowak. No there’s no mistake.’ The chief inspector

  glanced across at his superior. 'You didn’t notice her address,

  sir? The farm where she was working? The name of her

  employer . . . ?’

  Wordlessly he passed the message back to Bennett, who

  peered at it through his spectacles for a moment, then shook

  his head in amazement.

  'Well, I’ll be damned,’ he said.

  'John Madden}’ Lofty Cook looked sceptical. “I saw the

  name, of course, but it didn’t ring a bell. Are you sure it’s

  the same bloke?’

  'It’s him all right.’

  'Your old guv’nor?’

  Billy Styles chuckled. He’d just had a flash of memory:

  himself as a callow young detective-constable, pink-cheeked,

  and with a waistline that was now only a memory. And of

  the man he’d been assigned to then. All of twenty years ago

  it was now.

  'I’d hardly call him that,’ he said. 'We only worked

  together the one time and I was wet behind the ears.’

  'Still, he gave you your chance, didn’t he? Melling Lodge!

  What a case to kick off with. But then you always were a

  lucky devil.’ Cook glanced down at his colleague, grinning.

  Recently promoted to detective-inspector, he stood a couple

  of inches over six feet and was called Lofty by his pals, of

  whom Billy was one. They had joined the force at the same

  time, right after the last war, but though Billy had advanced

  more quickly – he’d been an inspector for half a dozen years

  now – it hadn’t affected their friendship, and Billy had been

  pleased to see his old chum’s familiar hatchet face split by a

  grin when he’d climbed out of the radio car that had brought

  him from the Embankment up to Bloomsbury.

  Although the gale had abated overnight, its icy claws could

  still be felt gusting down the narrow street and the pair of

  them had taken refuge in the doorway of a stationer’s shop.

  Across the road from -where they were standing, two detectives

  from Bow Street were busy searching the spot where

  the young woman’s body had been found. The area, marked

  with tape, lay at the edge of a small unfenced yard that

  backed on to a bomb site, a building that had taken a direct

  hit at some time in the past and was now, like countless other

  tracts of ground all over London, a gutted ruin. An assortment

  of debris had been piled up in the cramped, cobbled

  space – bricks, mortar, sections of plastered wall – and the

  corpse had apparently been left on the fringe of this refuse,

  with the legs protruding on to the pavement.

  'What happened to Madden, then?’ Cook asked. He

  offered Billy a cigarette from his packet of Woodbines. 'After

  Melling Lodge, I mean? After he quit the force?’

  'He got married to a lady he met while he was on the case.

  She was the village doctor.’

  'Must have been something special,’ Lofty observed. Cupping

  his hand, he struck a match and lit their cigarettes.

  'Special. . . ?’ Billy considered the remark, drawing on his

  fag. 'Yes, I reckon you could say that.’ He smiled to himself.

  'Anyway, he bought a farm down there, Madden did. Same

  farm where this girl was working. Which explains why I’m

  here. The chief inspector wants the full story. He and Madden

  are old friends.’

  'Fair enough.’ Cook pursed his lips, exhaling a plume of

  tobacco smoke into the frosty air. 'But there’s not that much

  to tell. A case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time,

  if you ask me.’

  It was an opinion Billy had already heard voiced, and by

  the chief inspector himself when he’d been summoned to his

  office not half an hour earlier.

  'Odds on it was a casual assault, a crime of chance.’

  Sinclair had shown him the initial Bow Street report. 'I’ve

  just spoken to John. The girl had only been with them for

  two months. She’d been given the weekend off and come up

  to London to see her aunt. Find out what you can. But don’t

  spend too much time on it. Just determine the facts and

  report back.’

  The chief inspector had not thought it necessary to refer to

  the case Billy had been working on, a tortuous investigation

  into the sale by a black-market ring of petrol and heating fuels

  stolen from military depots, which had ended only the week

  before in a successful prosecution; nor the few days’ leave he’d

  been promised. With the shortage of staff that had prevailed

  for several years now, detectives were expected to put aside

  their personal lives as and when occasion demanded it.

  'And just so you’re clear in your mind, I’m not looking for

  an excuse to take this off Bow Street’s hands. We’ve enough

  on our plate as it is. Just see to it there are no loose ends.’

  These last words had been spoken with a scowl, as though

  his listener was known to be contemplating just such an

  outrage, from which Billy, armed with his sleuth’s intuition,

  had deduced that the old boy’s gout must be playing up. In

  spite of his awesome reputation, the chief inspector had his

  critics at the Yard and the suggestion had been made in more

  than one quarter that it was time he was put out to pasture.

  Billy, though, would have none of it. Having come under

  Sinclair’s eye early in his career, and in circumstances where

  his inexperience might have cost him dear, he had never

  forgotten how the chief inspector, for all the sharpness of his

  tongue, had forgiven him his mistakes. And allowed him to

  profit from them.

  He’d been more than content, too, with the orders he’d

  been given, particularly when he’d found out who was in

  charge at Little Russell Street. The Yard’s habit of interfering

  in other divisions’ business, of keeping plum cases for themselves,

  was often a sore point and he was glad he could tell

  Lofty that the investigation was still his to conduct. Given

  the rawness of the morning, neither of them had been disposed

  to dally and Cook had quickly shepherded him to the

  shelter of the stationer’s doorway, where Billy learned that

  the body of Rosa Nowak had been removed to the mortuary

  at Paddington overnight after the pathologist called to the

  scene had examined it by torchlight.

  'Who was the sawbones?’ he asked.

  'Ransom, from St Mary’s. He thought it most likely she

  was strangled but said he’d give us a definite opinion later

  today after he’s had her on the slab.’ Cook stamped his feet

  to keep warm. 'It took us a while to discover who she was.

  We didn’t find her wallet until it was light.’ He nodded

  towards the two plainclothes men who were busy searching

  the rubble. 'She must have been carrying it in that basket.’

  He pointed to the object which was lying tipped over beside

  the white silhouette formed by the tape. Billy could see some


  apples lying loose there, mingled with the remains of broken

  eggshells. 'The wallet ended up under a piece of corrugated

  iron. It had her identity card inside.’

  'What’s your opinion, Lofty? Do you think it was a sexual

  assault?’

  'Looks that way to me.’ The Bow Street inspector nodded.

  'She was lying on her back when we found her. Mind you, I

  don’t think he got very far. Her coat was still buttoned up

  when we found her. It occurred to me he might have killed

  her by mistake.’

  'Oh . . . ?’ Billy lifted an eyebrow.

  'Squeezed too hard, maybe. Then run off when he realized

  he’d topped her.’ Cook shrugged. 'But that’s only a guess.’

  “I read it was a WPC who got here first.’

  'That’s right. Name of Poole. Lily Poole.’ Cook grinned.

  'She’s stationed at Bow Street. Keen as mustard. She was

  walking back to the station after her shift when she heard the

  warden blowing his whistle and came over here to see what

  all the fuss was about. Didn’t waste any time, either. Went

  straight up to Great Russell Street – there’s a police call box

  there – and rang the station. By the time I got here she was

  already knocking on doors. But it didn’t do any good. This

  isn’t a residential street. Just shops and businesses. We spoke

  to one or two people who’d heard the warden’s whistle, but

  nobody who saw anything.’

  'Do we know when she was killed?’

  'Almost to the minute. It was a little after ten o’clock.

  That’s thanks to the warden. Name of Cotter. He’d bumped

  into her earlier. They had a chat. The last he saw of her she

  was walking down the street from that corner.’ Cook pointed

  to his right. 'Twenty minutes later he came back – he was on

  his way home – and he tripped over the body.’

  Billy nodded, taking it all in. He waited while a group of

  women dressed in dun-coloured overalls under their coats,

  and with their hair tied up in scarves or handkerchiefs, went

  by. They were trailed by a pair of WAAFs, who craned their

  necks to look at the two detectives bent double in the yard

  and at the uniformed constable who was standing guard there.

  'Maybe all he meant to do was rob her?’ he suggested.

  “I thought of that. But it doesn’t seem likely.’ Cook blew

  on his fingers. 'Her wallet may have disappeared when she

  dropped her basket. But he didn’t go through her things.’

  He gestured at a suitcase bound with cord that was lying on

  the pavement beside the yard.

  “I understand she was on her way to visit her aunt. Does

  she live nearby?’

  'Just round the corner, in Montague Street. A Mrs Laski.

  She’s a widow, quite an elderly lady. Naturalized. Been living

  here since the Twenties. She’d sat up all night waiting for her

  niece to arrive, then rang the station this morning. By that

  time we’d found the girl’s wallet, so I had to take her over

  to Paddington to identify the body. Poor woman. Rosa was

  her only family. She got here soon after war broke out,

  but her parents were still in Poland, and they’re gone now

  most likely, or so Mrs Laski reckons.’

  'Gone?’

  'They’re Jewish,’ Cook explained. He caught Billy’s eye.

  'Anyway, she worked for a couple of years in the Polish

  community, Rosa did. Looking after refugee families, that

  kind of thing. But she wanted to be in the country – she grew

  up in a village – so she joined the Land Army. Her first

  job was on a farm in Norfolk, but that packed up earlier this year when men invalided out of the services came home

  looking for work. That’s when she was sent to Surrey. To

  Mr Madden’s place. This was the first time she’d come up

  to London. She was planning to spend the weekend with her

  aunt and then go back on Monday.’

  The inspector’s face split in a yawn, and Billy wondered

  how much sleep he’d been getting. It was a problem everyone

  faced these days, a sort of national disease. After five years of

  war, five years of rationing and restrictions, a deep fatigue

  had settled like snow on the whole population. It could be

  dangerous, particularly in a job like theirs, his and Lofty’s.

  It was easy to miss things.

  'What about men friends?’ he asked.

  'None, according to the aunt. When she came here from

  France at the start of the war she travelled with a Polish boy,

  but he was just a friend, and anyway he joined up and was

  killed in North Africa. She was shy with men, Mrs Laski

  says. Old-fashioned when it came to the opposite sex.’ Cook

  shrugged.

  'In other words, she wasn’t the sort of girl who would

  have picked up a man, say. Or let herself be picked up.’

  'Out of the question. Or so her aunt reckons. I put it to

  her myself. Had to. Anyway, the girl was alone when the

  warden ran into her. That’s for certain.’

  Billy grunted. He trod on his cigarette. 'Are you done

  then?’ he called out to the two men who’d been busy in the

  yard. One was named Hoskins, the other Grace. With more

  than twenty years on the force, Billy had made the acquaintance

  of just about every plainclothes man in London at one

  time or another, and worked with a good many of them.

  'Finished, sir.’ It was Hoskins who replied. Plump, and

  purple in the face despite the gelid air, he’d been making

  heavy weather of all the bending required by their task and

  stood breathing heavily beside the taped barrier that he

  and his partner had just erected at the edge of the yard with

  the help of a pair of iron stakes salvaged from the rubble.

  They were busy decorating it with a police notice on which

  the words KEEP OUT were printed in large capitals.

  'Let’s see what you’ve got.’

  Trailed by Cook, Billy crossed the street and went down

  on his haunches to examine the objects the pair had retrieved

  and laid on a strip of cardboard. Besides the apples spilled

  from the basket they’d found two brown paper parcels, each

  containing a plucked chicken, three jars of homemade jam

  and a crock of honey.

  'She must have brought those up from the country,’ Joe

  Grace remarked. A thin, hard-faced man with the rank of

  detective-sergeant, he’d been one of a team of which Billy

  had been a part that the Yard had set up before the war to

  deal with the smash-and-grab gangs active in the capital at

  that time. 'There are two loaves of bread and a round of

  cheese jammed in at the bottom. We left 'em there.’ He

  nodded at the basket which still lay beside the taped outline

  of the body. 'We also found these.’ He indicated three

  matched buttons lying separate from the larger items, one of

  them still with a curl of thread attached to it. 'They were on

  the ground, near where her head was. Must have come from

  her coat.’

  'No, they couldn’t have.’ Cook intervened. 'The buttons

  were all done up when we found her. There were
none

  missing.’

  'Where’s it now?’ Billy asked.

  'At the mortuary. She was still wearing it when they took

  her away.’ He turned to Grace. 'Is that all?’ he asked.

  'Pretty much.’ The detective shrugged. 'The rest was just

  odds and ends.’ He pointed to a handful of items deposited

  near the edge of the piece of cardboard which included an

  empty bottle of lemon rum, a broken comb, two hairpins and

  the chewed stub of a lead pencil, all coated with dust.

  Completing the haul were four charred matchsticks, which

  Billy examined with interest. He noticed that although their

  tops were blackened the stems beneath had hardly been

  touched by the flame.

  'Looks like someone was trying to strike a match in the

  wind,’ he remarked. 'And lately. The wood’s still fresh.

  There’s no sign of weathering.’ He rose, stretching his

  cramped leg muscles.

  Cook spoke to the two plainclothes men. 'You can put all

  this stuff back in the basket and take it to the station. Her

  suitcase, too. I’ll deal with them later. We’ll have to put up

  posters in the area. We need to know if anyone saw the girl

  earlier. Other than the warden, I mean.’ Yawning, he glanced

  at Billy. 'Well, what do you think?’

  Billy reflected. So far he’d heard nothing to suggest that

  Lofty wasn’t right in his assessment. It seemed likely the

  girl had encountered her killer by accident in the darkness

  of the blackout. If so, it was a crime of chance, just as the

  chief inspector had supposed. But he wasn’t ready to make

  his report quite yet. Sinclair’s caution about leaving no loose

  ends was still fresh in his ears.

  'What about slipping over to Paddington?’ he suggested.

  'I’d like a word with Ransom. He should be done by now.’

  The corpse lay on a steel-topped table, hidden from sight

  except for the head and shoulders, which the orderly on duty

  in the mortuary had exposed by drawing back the white cloth

  covering it. Looking down at the lifeless face, so pale it

  seemed drained of blood, Billy recalled the photograph Lofty

  had shown him in the car coming over, a snapshot of Rosa

  Nowak which he’d obtained from her aunt. The dark-haired

  girl pictured in the snapshot had faced the camera with a

  remote and sorrowful expression, no trace of which remained

  now.

  'Well, there she is, poor lass.’

  An elderly man, one who’d either been retained like many