A Bespoke Murder (14 page)

He stood up, turned the table on its side and used it to knock Keedy from his chair and ram him against the door. When he tried to scramble over the detective’s body, however, Cochran felt a hand taking a firm grip on his ankle before yanking him off his feet. With both of them on the floor, there was a frantic fight and Keedy was always going to be the victor. He was quicker, stronger and more agile. His first punch caught Cochran on the nose, splitting it open and sending blood dribbling down his chin. A relay of heavy punches to the body stunned the soldier. Before he could counter, Cochran found himself expertly turned over so that the handcuffs could be snapped onto his wrists. Keedy stood up, righted the chair and table then lifted his assailant from the floor by the scruff of his neck.

‘I fancy that that amounts to a confession, Private Cochran,’ he said, breathing hard. ‘You will also face the additional charges of resisting arrest and assaulting a police officer in the execution of his duties.’ He took out a handkerchief and held it beneath Cochran’s nose to
stem the bleeding. ‘It’s easy to overpower a frightened young woman like Miss Stein, isn’t it? When you take on someone your own size, it’s a different matter.’

Cochran glared malevolently at him.

Harvey Marmion sized the man up before inviting him to take a seat. John Gatliffe was on the defensive at once. They were in the room that Major Birchfield used as his office. Remaining on his feet, Marmion explained why he was there and asked for Gatliffe’s response to the charge of rape.

‘I didn’t do it, Inspector,’ said the soldier, urgently.

‘We know that. The man who raped her was your friend, Oliver Cochran, but you assisted him by holding the girl down, didn’t you?’

‘No – I wasn’t even there. Nor was Olly – we’re innocent.’

‘I very much doubt that, Private Gatliffe.’

‘I’ve never heard of this Ruth Stein.’

‘That’s only because you never took the trouble to have any formal introductions,’ said Marmion with light sarcasm. ‘You were both drunk, a young woman comes out of the shop, so you felt that she was fair game.’

‘It’s a lie,’ wailed Gatliffe. ‘It wasn’t us, Inspector, I swear it.’

Marmion sat opposite him and looked deep into his eyes. What he saw was fear and desperation. There was also a hint of remorse. He surmised that it had not been Gatliffe’s idea to set upon Ruth Stein. He had simply done what he was told by a friend who was a stronger character. That did not, however, entitle him to Marmion’s sympathy. Gatliffe was an accessory. Even though it might have been against his will, he had committed a crime and merited severe punishment.

‘There are two ways to proceed,’ said Marmion.

‘It wasn’t us!’ repeated Gatliffe. ‘There’s been a mistake.’

‘Listen to me, please. You’re not a bad man, are you? In fact, I suspect that you have more than an ounce of decency in you. That’s why you spared the girl a second ordeal.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘That’s the first way to proceed,’ explained Marmion. ‘I make allegations and you respond with a tissue of lies. We could go on like that all day, Private Gatliffe. The problem with that strategy is that it will bring about your downfall. My colleague, Detective Sergeant Keedy, is interviewing Private Cochran and will meet with the same blanket denial that I’m getting. Your friend will invent an alibi which will differ substantially in detail from the one
you’re
trying to think up. In other words, we’ll know that you’re lying through your teeth.’

He fixed Gatliffe with a stare. ‘Are you going to tell the same lies under oath in a court of law?’

Gatliffe quailed. ‘It wasn’t me and Ol,’ he said, weakly.

‘The second way is the one that I’d recommend. It will not only save time, it will earn you some favour with the judge and jury. I’m talking about a confession,’ said Marmion. ‘I’m talking about having the courage to admit that you did something terribly wrong and that you’re prepared to face the consequences. We didn’t come all this way to let you slip through our fingers, Private Gatliffe. Back in London, a young woman is tormented by what you and your friend did to her. It’s a permanent wound that will never heal. The one thing that might act as balm to that wound is the knowledge that her attackers have been imprisoned. That’s why Sergeant Keedy and I are here.’

‘I need to speak to Olly,’ said Gatliffe, close to panic.

‘That won’t be possible, I’m afraid.’

‘We got rights, Inspector.’

‘I’m more concerned with Miss Stein’s rights. She’s the victim here, not you and Private Cochran.’

‘We’re in the army now – you can’t touch us.’

‘I’m afraid that you’ve been misinformed on that point.’

Gatliffe was cornered. His eyes darted and sweat broke out on his brow. His friend’s assurances that they were in the clear had proved groundless. Detectives had pursued them to the front and called them to account. He knew that Cochran would rebut any charges hotly but Gatliffe did not have his friend’s limitless capacity for telling lies. When their respective statements to the police were compared, they would be caught out. The girl would identify them in court. Gatliffe trembled. Instead of returning home as a war hero, he would be dragged back to London under arrest to face trial. Those fevered minutes with a terrified girl had been their ruination.

‘Well?’ said Marmion, watching him. ‘What have you decided?’

‘I need to think,’ said Gatliffe, morosely.

‘Let me remind you what else happened that evening. A mob, of which you may well have been part, attacked the shop owned by Jacob Stein in Jermyn Street. The window was smashed, the place was looted and someone set fire to the premises. Mr Stein – whose daughter was being raped nearby – was murdered. It remains to be seen if you and Cochran were implicated in these other crimes.’

‘We know nothing about murder,’ protested Gatliffe.

‘What about the fire? Did you start it?’

‘No, we never went inside the shop.’

Marmion smiled. ‘Ah, so you
were
there, after all,’ he said, making a note in his pad. ‘We’re making progress at last. Why don’t you tell me the full story, Private Gatliffe? Do you know what I think? I fancy that you’d like to get it off your chest. Am I right?’

After a lengthy pause, Gatliffe nodded his head.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

How had he found her? That was what Irene Bayard kept asking herself. She had never given Ernie Gill her sister’s address in London, nor had she told him about her intention to go there on her return from Ireland. Gill was essentially a friend and work colleague to her, someone with whom to pass the time while they were sailing on the
Lusitania
together but, on her side, there was no deeper commitment. Irene had never even told him where she lodged in Liverpool. How, therefore, had he managed to turn up on Dorothy’s doorstep? It was disturbing. As far as Irene was concerned, Gill was unwanted and unwelcome, a link with a past she was determined to sever.

He would be back. That much was certain. Gill was nothing if not persistent. She’d had ample evidence of that on board the liner. Rejection only seemed to intensify his interest in her. Since he’d come back in search of her, she needed to have an excuse to get rid of him without even inviting him into the house. Irene rehearsed various
possibilities in her mind. Whatever happened, she did not want Gill to meet her sister because it would lead to a flurry of awkward questions from Dorothy. If Irene wanted to preserve the serenity of the house, Gill had to be kept at bay. In her new life, he simply did not belong.

After a second day in search of employment, Irene made her way back home. As she walked down the street towards it, she wondered if he had called again and if Miss James would be waiting to tell her about it. But there was no bell summoning her. All she could hear from the front room was the rhythmical click of knitting needles. She was grateful there had been no second visit from Gill. It gave her a breathing space. While waiting for her sister to get back, Irene sat at the kitchen table and went through the list of jobs on offer. She narrowed the choice down to three. Hearing the sound of a key in the front door, she lit the gas under the kettle then gave Dorothy a smile as her sister entered the room.

‘A busy day?’ she enquired.

‘It’s always busy,’ said Dorothy, wearily, ‘though there’s more trying on than actually buying. We had one woman in this morning who tried on eight pairs of shoes before she decided that she didn’t really need any of them.’

‘I wouldn’t have the patience to deal with someone like that.’

‘It can be frustrating at times, Irene. We’ve had people who dart into the shop to escape a sudden downpour and who pretend they came in search of shoes. All they really want is a place to sit down in the dry.’ She removed her hat. ‘But what about you – have you made up your mind yet?’

‘More or less,’ said Irene.

‘Does that mean you’ve accepted a job?’

‘No, it means that I’ve got three to choose from, Dot. I’m still thinking it over. My guess is that I’ll finish up on the trams or in that toy factory, but there’s a third possibility as well.’

‘What is it?’

‘Well, I was accosted by a lady this afternoon,’ recalled Irene. ‘She noticed me looking at a job advert and asked if I’d ever thought of joining the WEC – that’s the Women’s Emergency Corps.’

Dorothy wrinkled her nose. ‘They’re all suffragettes, aren’t they?’

‘That’s not true, Dot. Besides,’ said Irene, ‘it wouldn’t worry me if they were. She was such a nice well-spoken lady. I had no idea of the range of the work that the WEC do. For instance, they have a kitchen department that’s aided by the National Food Fund. And they join with another organisation to train unemployed girls for domestic service and so on. They also help refugees from abroad by having women who can speak French waiting at railway stations and at the docks to advise them about accommodation and that.’

‘You don’t speak French, do you?’

‘No, but that’s not the point. The service is there. When they see a need, the WEC moves in to meet it.’

‘I think you’re better off on the trams,’ said Dorothy. ‘I’m sure these other people do good work but they’re too strident for my liking. They’re always demanding this and campaigning for that.’

‘Don’t you believe in women getting the vote, Dot?’

‘I believe in a quiet life.’

‘If we were able to vote, we might even use it to get equal pay one day. Surely, you’d want that.’

‘I get by.’

While her sister took off her coat and slipped it over the back of a chair, Irene began to get the tea things ready. She did not want an
argument with Dorothy, who had always been subservient towards men. In Irene’s view, it was a major reason why her sister had never married. She was too deferential. The few men in Dorothy’s life had sought obedience in a future wife but not when it verged on a kind of obsequiousness. It was best to keep off the subject of the WEC for the time being. Irene was about to launch into another topic of conversation when there was a loud knock on the front door.

‘Who can that be?’ wondered Dorothy.

‘I’ll go,’ said Irene, pulling her by the arm to stop her going out. ‘You make the tea, Dot.’

As she went out of the kitchen and into the little passageway, Irene made a point of closing the kitchen door behind her. It was Ernie Gill, she was sure of that. It was just the kind of authoritative knock that he would use. Even if it meant being rude to his face, she would have to get rid of him somehow. His pursuit of her had to be nipped in the bud. Bracing herself for the reunion, Irene put a hand on the knob and opened the front door.

‘I’m sorry, Ernie,’ she said, ‘but I can’t speak to you now.’

The man at the door blinked in astonishment. It was not Gill at all but a dapper individual in his fifties with a well-trimmed beard. Raising his hat, he gave a diffident smile.

‘Good evening,’ he said, politely. ‘I’ve come for Miss James.’

The main problem was to keep them apart. On the return journey, Marmion and Keedy had to make sure that their prisoners did not get close to each other. Their fear was that, given the chance, Cochran would attack his former friend. Now that Gatliffe had given a full confession, Cochran’s denials were meaningless. The only way that he could assuage his anger was by giving Gatliffe a beating but he was
never allowed to get close enough to do that. He was either handcuffed to Keedy or, when they boarded a ship at Calais, confined on his own. It was a joyless voyage. Apart from the detectives and the prisoners, the passengers were almost exclusively wounded soldiers being sent home. Their war was over. Many of them had suffered hideous injuries and were in constant pain.

It was a sobering experience for Harvey Marmion. When his son had first joined up, he had been proud of him and sent him off gladly to France, expecting him to be part of a relieving British army that supported French forces in driving out the Germans. Nine months later, the nature of the conflict had been transformed. Casualties on both sides were mounting rapidly and new weapons were doing unspeakable things to the human body. As he looked at some of the amputees lying on deck, Marmion wondered how he and Ellen would cope if their son came home without a leg or an arm. And even if he survived injury, what impact would the horrors he had witnessed have on Paul’s mind? It was bound to change his whole attitude to life.

Keedy strolled across to join his superior at the rail.

‘It’s a pack of lies, Harv,’ he said.

‘Have you been talking to Cochran again?’

‘No, I was thinking about the newspapers. They’re not telling us the truth. We’ve seen what it’s like at the front and it’s not being reported properly in the press. They say nothing whatsoever about the pitiable scenes in the clearing stations, and they never mention the awful smell of death and decay.’

‘They don’t want to scare people, Joe.’

‘Why not?’ asked Keedy. ‘It’s not going to put off new recruits. I reckon that it will do the reverse. If people really know what the
Germans are doing to our lads, they’ll want to wipe them off the face of the earth.’ He looked at a wounded man nearby, both legs missing and a bloodstained bandage across his eyes. ‘What sort of life is that poor fellow going to have?’