Rennie Airth_John Madden 03 Read online

  same woman she saw in the tube station.’

  'And you’re happy with that?’

  'Oh, I think so, sir.’ Cook nodded. 'Florrie saw her close

  up.’

  'What about this man she says was following Rosa?’

  'We were just getting into that when I heard you were

  here.’ The Bow Street inspector eyed them both. 'But even

  from what little she’s told me I’d say he was our bloke. What

  I suggest is I fill you in first on what happened earlier, how

  she spotted Rosa, then we’ll go in and get her to tell us the

  rest.’

  He trod on his cigarette.

  'When the sirens sounded the first time, Florrie ran over

  to the tube station, but they went off again a few minutes

  later and no one seemed sure at first what it meant, whether

  it was the all-clear, or what. Actually, it was a false alarm, but

  people were milling about for a while. Florrie herself was at

  the bottom of the stairs, trying to decide whether it was safe

  to go out again, when this young woman went by her. She

  was carrying something in each hand, just like Rosa was, and

  as she worked her way through the crowd they came face to

  face. That’s why Florrie’s so sure it was her. Anyway, she

  went up the steps, this girl who must have been Rosa, and a

  few seconds later Florrie followed.

  'When she got to the top, Florrie paused, still nervous, not

  sure whether it was safe to go back to her pitch. The blackout

  was on, of course, but she could still see the girl who’d gone

  past her crossing the Tottenham Court Road, heading east,

  which was the direction Rosa would have taken. Just then

  there was a disturbance behind her, a lot of pushing and

  shoving on the stairs, and a man came up, forcing his way

  through the crowd, obviously in a hurry, not caring who he

  elbowed. When he got to the top, he looked around, saw

  Florrie standing there and asked her straight out if she’d seen

  a girl with a bag in each hand go by.’

  Cook paused, rubbing his nose. He looked reflective.

  'Now it seems they had a conversation of sorts, Florrie

  and this fellow, and although I haven’t got the sense of it yet

  it’s pretty clear what happened, reading between the lines.

  She didn’t want him chasing off after some other girl, she

  wanted to hook him herself: she was thinking it would save

  her the time and trouble of going back to Soho Square to

  look for a customer. But if that is what she had in mind, it

  didn’t work out that way. What happened was he turned

  nasty.’

  'How?’ Billy killed his own cigarette. 'What did he do?’

  'That’s what I don’t know yet.’ Cook had his hand on the

  doorknob. He looked at them both. 'But what say we go

  inside and find out.’

  The door behind them opened and a uniformed constable

  came in bearing a tray laden with cups of tea. He carried it

  carefully to the table, set it down, and with a nod to Cook

  left the room. Billy glanced at his watch. He’d promised

  Helen to have Madden at Waterloo station by half-past three

  when they had dropped her off earlier. The possibility of

  grabbing a bite of lunch had vanished, but they still had some

  time in hand. Not that there was much point in lingering.

  They had just about squeezed French Florrie dry.

  Or she them.

  He grinned as he watched the woman seated across the

  table simultaneously extinguish the cigarette she’d been

  smoking and refuse the cup of tea Cook was holding out to

  her with a disdainful gesture. Small in stature, and with sharp,

  catlike features, she was dressed in a tight blue skirt and a

  blouse cut to display the tops of her small breasts. Red hair

  shaped like a cap framed her carefully made-up face, to

  which she was attending now, applying lipstick and following

  this with a dab of powder to her nose from a compact

  she’d removed from her handbag a moment before. Then,

  having studied the result for several seconds, she snapped

  the compact shut.

  lEh bien, c’est finif*

  Billy’s schoolboy French was just about up to understanding

  her words, though not a number of others she’d used

  in the course of the description she had just given of her

  brush with the man who in all likelihood had killed Rosa

  Nowak, an account laced with epithets and gestures which,

  though crude, had lent a compelling edge to her narrative.

  Listening to her, Billy had realized why Lofty was setting

  such store by her testimony, why he considered finding her

  such a stroke of luck. An experienced detective himself,

  he knew it wasn’t often that you came across a witness

  as observant as Florence Desmoulins; one whose memory

  seemed so attuned to the finest detail; whose quick green eyes

  missed nothing. Talents she had no doubt honed in response

  to the demands of her profession, but no less valuable on that

  account.

  A case in point was the description she’d given them

  earlier of the man she’d encountered at the top of the stairs

  outside the tube station. This was the first question Cook had

  put to her on returning to the interview room, and Florrie

  had responded without a second’s hesitation.

  'He was not young,’ she had told Lofty. 'More than forty

  years, I think. Tall, but not as tall as you. Nor this gentleman.’

  Her glance had shifted to Madden. 'Mais peut-etre comme

  toi.’

  The remark, which Billy didn’t understand, had been

  addressed to Cook’s colleague, Joe Grace, one of the detectives

  sent to Little Russell Street, who was standing with his

  back to the wall by the door, having given up his chair to

  Madden. Without warning Florrie had risen and walked over

  to where he was standing, checked her height against his and

  then returned to her seat, nodding.

  'Comme ca.’ She had gestured with a jerk of her red head.

  'The same.’

  Cook had noted it down as five feet ten inches and then

  quickly determined that the man’s face and figure had been

  lean and his hair black and cut short.

  'What about his eyes?’ he had asked then, and Florrie had

  shrugged.

  'At night in the blackout all eyes are dark.’ She spoke with

  an accent, one she might even have exaggerated a bit, or so

  Billy thought, rolling her rs and saying 'ze’ when she meant

  'the’. 'Perhaps you already know zat, Inspecteur.’ Her smile

  had been half taunting, half provocative, and Lofty had

  chosen to ignore it, staying bent over his notepad.

  'And what was he wearing?’

  'Wearing . . . ?’ Florrie had considered the question for

  some time, gazing up at the ceiling as if the answer lay there.

  'A dark coat and a hat is all I remember. He was carrying . . .

  how do you call it? A case?’

  'A suitcase?’

  'Non . . . plus petite. It was smaller.’ She demonstrated

  with her hands.

  'A briefcase, then?’ Cook asked, and she nodded.

  'Exact
ement.’

  'Could he have been a businessman?’

  She shrugged.

  It was then that Cook had asked his witness to describe

  her brush with the man, and Florrie had launched into a

  graphic description of their brief encounter.

  “I have come up the stairs, oui, I am standing there, and

  this man, ce connard, he asks me if I have seen a woman

  carrying two bags.’ She had shrugged. “I know who he means,

  it is the same girl who went past me, but I think maybe he

  would like to stop and talk, so I make a joke, I say, “What’s

  your hurry?”’ Her voice took on a droll note. “I ask him if

  he want to spend some time with me. I am being friendly. To comprendsT

  Out of the corner of his eye Billy saw a cynical smile flit

  across Joe Grace’s thin, pockmarked countenance.

  'But he only asks again about this girl, where she has gone,

  and when he speak a second time I change my mind. Even

  though he is smiling I know this is one I don’t want. So

  I say, “What’s it to you?” Et sans rien dire il me prend par

  la gorge, le salaud.’

  'What’s that? What did you say?’ Cook struck the table

  with his fist in frustration. 'Speak English, damn it.’

  'He grab me by the throat.’ Florrie spat the words back.

  'Comme ga, to vois.’ She clutched her own throat. 'And then

  he speak, but so softly only I can hear. He say, “Answer the

  question or I break your bloody neck.” '

  Flushed in the face, eyes bright, she stared at Cook.

  'And I tell you, Inspector.’ Her own voice had dropped to

  a hoarse whisper. 'This one … he means it.’

  In the silence that followed, Cook caught Billy’s eye.

  'And so?’

  'And so I tell him. I say she go that way . . .’ Florrie waved

  her hand. 'And he leaves, walking fast, across the road, and

  when he is more than halfway I call after him. I shout, “To

  n’es qu’un connard . . . une merde”, which is a big piece of

  shit, if you want to know.’ Her voice had risen. “I tell him

  I won’t forget his face – “Je n’oublierai pas ta sale gueule,” I

  scream, so I know he will hear, and I am ready to run because

  he stops and turns and he looks at me and I think he is

  coming back. But instead he goes on and I don’t see him

  again.’

  She sat back, breathing fast, her breasts rising and falling

  beneath her blouse. Like her cheeks they were flushed. After

  a moment’s pause, she spoke again, but in a lower tone.

  'You are thinking he is the one who killed this girl? Maybe

  you are right. I wish now that I had not told him which way

  she go.’

  She glanced down at her hands. Then, as though to rid

  herself of some memory, she shook her head, reaching for

  her handbag at the same time. Unsnapping the clasp, she

  plucked out her compact and while Cook was checking

  through his notes she repaired the make-up on her face.

  'Eh bien. C’est fini?’

  Cook glanced at Billy, who shook his head – he had

  nothing more to ask her – then at Madden, who was sitting a

  little back from the table, near the corner, with his arms

  folded and a pensive look on his face.

  'Sir . . . ?’

  Lofty’s tone was respectful and it brought a grin to Billy’s

  lips. He had watched the effect of his old chief’s presence on both detectives with more than a little amusement. Even Joe

  Grace, as tough a nut as he’d encountered during his time

  in the Met, a man he’d once seen tackle a brace of thugs,

  enforcers for a smash-and-grab gang, and leave them both

  bloody and pleading for quarter, had moderated his usual

  abrasive manner and stood silent during the interview, as

  though out of deference to their visitor. And as for French

  Florrie, she had apparently decided from the outset that this

  was a male figure to whom she could relate, perhaps even

  flirt with, and had favoured him more than once with an

  inviting glance.

  'Yes, thank you, Inspector. There is one thing . . .’ Madden

  shifted in his chair so that he was facing the young woman.

  'You’ve been very patient, mademoiselle. I know how tedious

  this must be for you. But I was interested by something

  you’ve just said and I wondered if you could explain it.’

  'Something I said, monsieur?’

  Florrie bestowed a smile on her new interrogator: not the

  faint, contemptuous curl of the lips she’d reserved thus far

  for Lofty and his two colleagues, men she was more usually

  inclined to view as her persecutors, but a generous parting of

  her wide mouth, offering a glimpse of white, pointed teeth.

  'Yes, to this man when he was leaving.’ Oblivious to the

  reaction he’d aroused, Madden pressed on. 'You called him a

  name.’

  'C’est vrai. Une merde.’ Unabashed, she repeated the

  words. “I already explain what it mean . . .’

  'Yes, yes, but you said it in French, am I right?’ Madden

  leaned forward.

  'Of course.’ She spread her hands.

  'Why?’

  'Why}’ She stared at him.

  'Why not speak in English, so he would understand?’

  For a full five seconds her face remained a blank. Then

  comprehension dawned in her eyes.

  'Mais oui.’ The smile returned. 'Vous avez raison. But I

  speak in French because I know he will understand.’

  'What was that?’ Lofty Cook’s glance shot up from his

  notebook.

  “I forget to tell you . . .’ She turned to him. 'When he talk

  to me first, this man, and he ask about the girl who is carrying

  the bags, I pretend not to understand. So he tell me she is

  wearing this thing on her head -’ Florrie cupped her hands

  about her hair – 'cette chose . . . je ne connais pas le nom . . . how do you call it?’

  'A hood,’ Madden said.

  'Exactement. An 'ood. This is a word I have not heard

  before and when he see that I don’t understand he tell me

  what it is – “un capuchon” – and then he speak to me in

  French. He ask me again which way she go. Voilaf She

  demonstrated with a flourish of her hand. 'This is how I

  know.’

  Cook put down his pen.

  'So what are you saying exactly?’ he asked her. 'Was he

  French? Is that what you’re telling us?’

  'Ah, non. . .’ Florrie waved her hand dismissively. 'Pas du

  tout. He is English. I know from his accent.’

  The Bow Street inspector made a final note. He glanced at

  Madden to see if there was anything further he wished to say.

  'Just one last question.’ Madden smiled at the young

  woman. 'You said earlier – when you were telling us how

  you met this man – that you changed your mind about him?’

  'Monsieur . . . ?’ She seemed puzzled by his query.

  'At first you tried to talk to him. But then you changed

  your mind; and quite suddenly, too. “This is one I know I

  don’t want.” That’s what you said. And I wondered why.’

  She nodded her head thoughtfully. 'It is true . . .’

  'Up to then he’
d been polite. Even friendly. You said he

  was smiling. Isn’t that so?’

  Again she nodded.

  'Why then?’

  Florrie sat silent. She seemed uncertain how to reply.

  'Ecoute … it is hard explain.’ She blew out her cheeks

  in frustration. 'Mais il’ y avait quelque chose . . . there was

  something about this man that was not right.’

  'Not right?’

  'All I can tell you is what I know.’

  'Of course, mademoiselle.’

  Madden waited while Florrie sat tapping one red fingernail

  on the table top, searching for the right words.

  'Maybe it is his eyes, or maybe it is his smile – ' she glanced

  at Madden – 'but when I look at him I know.’

  'Know what?’

  'That this is one to stay away from.’

  “I must say I had hopes after reading Miss Desmoulins’s

  statement. I thought there was a good chance someone else

  might have spotted this man. That we’d have other sightings

  of him. But no luck so far, I’m afraid.’

  Sinclair’s sigh was lost in the static of the telephone line.

  “I tell you, John, this case is as slippery as an eel. You no

  sooner think you’ve got a grip on it than it slides through

  your fingers.’

  Three days had passed since Madden and his wife had

  returned from London, and true to his word the chief inspector

  had rung his old partner to bring him up to date on the

  progress of the investigation. His call had come while Madden

  and Helen were eating breakfast, a meal they took these

  days in the kitchen, where there was a wireless, so that they

  could listen to the news, even though lately it offered little in

  the way of comfort. The heady days of summer when the

  advance of the Allied armies across France after the breakthrough

  at Normandy had seemed irresistible were past.

  True, Paris had fallen without a fight, but the debacle at

  Arnhem had put a stop to further progress, at least for the

  time being, and if the reports published in the newspapers

  and broadcast on the radio were true, German forces were

  now digging in at their frontiers in preparation for the bitter

  fighting to come.

  To Madden, scarred by his memories of the slaughter of the

  trenches – by the conviction bequeathed him that war was

  merely butchery under another name – the conflict had seemed

  endless, the years of peace a distant dream. Too old for active

  service, he had commanded the Highfield Home Guard until