She narrowed her eyes. “Very demanding, ’e was, if you get my meaning. You had to know ’ow to ’andle ’im.”
Powell detected a note of pride in her voice. “You knew how to handle him, didn’t you, Mrs. Hobson?”
“Not ’alf!” she snorted.
“Where do you suppose he was then, on Monday night?”
“Out with some tart, I expect,” she replied without hesitation.
Powell raised an eyebrow. “You mean a prostitute, Mrs. Hobson?”
She stared at him. “What else?”
“Did Mr. Morton often consort with prostitutes?”
“Whenever the dirty old sod could get it up, I expect.”
Powell suspected that Mrs. Hobson would not be asked to give the eulogy at Morton’s funeral.
“Sometimes he’d bring them ’ere,” the housekeeper
continued in a conspiratorial tone. “You wouldn’t believe the things they’d get up to! I’d ’ave to pick up after them. It was disgusting!”
“The imagination runs wild, Mrs. Hobson. I can’t imagine how you put up with it.”
Mrs. Hobson lowered her voice. “Once the ’ubby and I were in Leicester Square after the cinema, and we saw Mr. Morton hanging about with all the other punters, chatting up some tart!”
Powell’s mental antennae began to vibrate. That would be just a stone’s throw from Leicester Court where Morton’s body was found. He leaned forward in his chair. “I’ll let you in on a little secret, Mrs. Hobson, but only if you promise not to tell anyone. Can I count on you?”
The housekeeper was positively glowing now. “Of course, Chief Superintendent! Mum’s the word.”
“I’m working on the theory that Mr. Morton was murdered by someone he knew. Can you think of anybody who might have had it in for him?”
She looked skeptical. “You’re joking.”
“You did say he was very, er, demanding, Mrs. Hobson.”
“Yeah, well, I can think of a ’undred people who didn’t
like
’im.
I
didn’t like ’im, come to that, but that’s a different thing than killing ’im, isn’t it?”
“Very true, Mrs. Hobson, very true. But are you sure there isn’t someone in particular who may have had a score to settle with him?”
The housekeeper’s face tightened into a state of deep concentration as she considered this possibility. For the
first time, Powell became aware of a clock ticking loudly somewhere in the house.
“If you ask me,” she said eventually, “it was one of ’is bleedin’ tarts.”
Back at the Yard, Powell sorted through his mail and discovered that the Morton file had arrived from West End Central. He took it with him to the cafeteria where he hoped he could study it free from interruptions. He paid for a cup of the instant swill that passes for coffee in such establishments and selected a table by a window. He was just starting in on the pathologist’s report when he sensed somebody standing beside him. He looked up.
It was Detective-Sergeant Sarah Evans, carrying a tray laden with tea things and some sort of seed-infested muffin.
“You don’t look very glad to see me,” she said brightly.
Powell sighed. “Sit down, Evans. But spare me the chirpiness.”
“I hear you’re working with Bill Black on the Brighton case,” she said as she settled herself across from him.
“Word does get around.”
“Are you making any progress?”
“It’s early days yet.” Powell’s eyes rested lightly on her, and he liked what he saw. Bright, capable, and ambitious, not to mention extremely attractive, she had assisted him on the Yorkshire moors murder, proving her mettle on her first major investigation. “What have you been up to?” he asked.
She grimaced. “Not much, I’m afraid. I could use a good murder case to get the juices flowing again.”
“I’ll keep you in mind.”
“Thanks. By the way, I hear Merriman’s got it in for you.”
“Charming,” Powell rejoined. “My life is an open book.”
She laughed. “You should be flattered that I’m interested.” She poured herself a cup of tea from the miniature pot. “Now then, why don’t you tell me all about the case?”
“I was hoping to get some work done,” Powell said pointedly.
“Oh, come on. For old times’ sake.”
“I never could resist your charms, Evans. I will comply with your request if you promise to leave me in peace when I’m finished.”
She nodded eagerly, whilst attempting to saw through her muffin with the plastic knife that had been provided.
“About a month ago,” Powell began, “Richard Brighton, the Southwark councillor, was found floating in the Thames without his wallet. The locals are treating it as
a mugging but haven’t been able to come up with any suspects—”
“I remember reading something in the papers about a controversial development that Brighton was involved in—I think it involved the eviction of some council tenants,” Evans interjected. “Maybe he had enemies.”
“Thank you for jumping in with your ideas, Evans. I find these brainstorming sessions so stimulating.”
She smiled innocently, ignoring the sarcasm. “No problem. Two heads are better than one, I always say.”
“As
I
was about to say, it may in fact be a case of simply being in the wrong place at the wrong time. However, we are considering other possibilities, including the one you mentioned.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
Evans looked disappointed.
“There is one other thing …” Powell said mischievously
“Oh, yes?”
“I expect you’ve heard about Clive Morton.”
“The late restaurant critic.”
“The very one. Found with his throat cut in an alley in Soho early Tuesday morning.”
Evans looked puzzled. “I don’t see the connection.”
“The ability to discern patterns and relationships amidst a chaos of clues is the hallmark of a good detective, Evans.”
She flushed but didn’t say anything.
“By coincidence, it turns out that Morton had a business
interest in the very development scheme you alluded to.”
“You once told me that you didn’t believe in coincidences.”
“In this case, I’m not so sure … It also seems that Morton had a predilection for ladies of the evening; it may be that one of them didn’t appreciate his critical review of her performance.”
Evans looked doubtful. “A little drastic, don’t you think?”
“You never know—a woman scorned …”
She ignored this. “Did he have his wallet on him?”
“You impress me, Evans. Yes, he did, as a matter of fact.”
Sarah pondered this for a moment. “I used to read Morton’s column occasionally for a laugh. It seems to me that he often referred to a companion—you know, ‘my companion had to endure the execrable escargot’ sort of thing. It might be interesting to find out who she was and what she thought about his extracurricular activities.”
“That’s a good point, although his housekeeper maintains that no one would put up with him.”
“I’m not surprised.” She paused thoughtfully. “If you want my advice, I’d concentrate on Brighton. If there’s a connection with the Morton case, that’s the place to look.”
“Thank you for your advice, Evans. Now then, if you’ve finished your tea, I really should be getting back to work.”
“I can take a hint,” she said with good humor. She stood and picked up her tray. “But if you want to bounce any more ideas off me …” She trailed off hopefully.
Powell looked at her speculatively. “I just may do that, Evans. What about lunch tomorrow? I seem to recall promising you in Yorkshire that I’d take you to the K2 sometime.”
She hesitated only for an instant. “Thanks. I’d like that.”
“I’ll meet you in the Back Hall at noon tomorrow.”
After a slightly awkward moment, she replied, “Right. I’ll see you then.
When Evans had gone, he turned once more to the pathologist’s report and began humming to himself.
“There’s no shortage of bad feelings on the local council, that seems clear enough,” Detective-Sergeant Black concluded later in Powell’s office. I chatted up the clerk at the council office—a Miss Froy—who was most helpful. She indicated that the councillors basically fall into two camps on the Dockside project—those for it, led by Brighton, and those against it, with no in-between as far as I can tell. She mentioned two individuals in particular. One is a solicitor named Charles Mansfield. He’s a Conservative who supports the project but who felt that Brighton was an opportunist trying to hijack the Conservative agenda. Interestingly, Mansfield was also Brighton’s chief rival for mayor and was generally considered to be the underdog, given the composition of the council. The other bloke is Adrian
Turner, a Labour activist and the leader of the anti forces who accused Brighton of selling out his socialist principles.”
“Sounds like a microcosm of contemporary British politics,” Powell observed.
“Yes, sir,” Black said tolerantly. “And there’s more. The most vocal opponent of the scheme is a woman named Tess Morgan. She represents the tenants of the council block that gets demolished if the project goes ahead. Apparently she’s threatened to do whatever it takes to stop it, including lying down in front of the bulldozers, if it comes to that.”
“Keep poking around and see if you can come up with anything else. In the meantime, I’ll have a chat with our two political rivals and the community activist.”
Black nodded. “Anything new in the Morton case, sir?”
Powell described his conversation with Mrs. Hobson the housekeeper. “It seems old Clive liked to look for love in all the wrong places,” he concluded.
“Maybe he got in a dispute with a pimp,” Black ventured.
“It’s a possibility,” Powell agreed. He recalled what Sarah Evans had said and mentioned it to Black. “According to Mrs. Hobson, Morton wasn’t involved in a long-term relationship, but we should probably find out who his dinner companions were.”
Black frowned. Something was clearly bothering him. “What about Morton’s connection with Dockside, sir?”
“I’ll follow that up,” Powell replied absently. He was thinking about the postmortem report. Something was scrabbling around in a dark corner of his brain.
Helen Brighton picked up the telephone, her hand moving in slow motion. “Yes …? I’m all right, thanks … You didn’t have to—I’ve told you, it’s too soon. I need time to think …” Her voice was reluctant. “He was still my husband …” She sighed. “I know you don’t.”
She closed her eyes as she listened to the sound of his voice, her face expressionless. She could hear the hum of traffic through the open window. She had heard it all before, had even tried to convince herself with the same reasoned arguments. There was no escaping the fact that her life had changed utterly. He was dead now, and she was free to do as she wished. Why shouldn’t she think about what
she
wanted for once? His voice was passionate, persuasive, awakening something in her she hadn’t felt for a long time. The relationship would have to be on her terms—she could never again be content to simply serve someone else’s ambition. She was motivated by something much more basic. She wanted desperately to believe in something again. A sudden cooling breeze pressed the fabric of her dress against her body, and she opened her eyes. She knew there were those who wouldn’t understand, who would draw their own conclusions, but she no longer cared what other people thought. There was a silence on the other end of the line. She took a deep breath. “Yes, all right. In twenty
minutes.” She replaced the receiver in its cradle and sat motionlessly, watching the restless stirring of the curtains.
The next morning, Powell was en route to the Southwark Police Station to see Inspector Boles, the officer who had been investigating Richard’s Brighton’s murder. He had put it off as long as possible, as he could well imagine how the locals felt about having the rug pulled out from under them, but it came down to a matter of common courtesy. And he could not deny that he was motivated in part by self-interest: It was possible, indeed likely, that Boles would have something to contribute that hadn’t made its way into the official report.
It was with these thoughts in mind that Powell passed through the claustrophobic confines of Clink Street, past the notorious prison of the same name—now a tourist trap—where color tellies and fitness facilities, or at least their historical equivalents, would have been an anathema. It was raining lightly, and he thought about the umbrella he had left propped in the corner of his office behind the door. Ahead was the massive stone tower of Southwark Cathedral, dark and brooding above
a labyrinth of brick warehouses and a hulking, clanking railway viaduct. Powell followed underneath the viaduct to Borough High Street. By the time he got to the police station, he was damp and cold and not in the best of moods.
Inspector Boles, a donnish-looking man with a pallid complexion, didn’t look particularly happy to see him, but, to his credit, he was pleasant enough and ushered Powell into a tiny windowless office. After the usual formalities, Powell got straight to the point.
“I won’t try to justify the fact that I’m here, Boles, but suffice it to say I had about as much choice in the matter as you did. In any case, here we are.”
Boles smiled a paper-thin smile. “Let me put you at ease, Mr. Powell. I’ve been around long enough to have learned that Lord Tennyson got it about right:
Theirs not to reason why, Theirs but to do and die.
I don’t take it personally.”
“I’d appreciate your views on this business, Boles. You’re much closer to it than I am.”
He regarded Powell thoughtfully. “I must admit,” he said, “I had mixed feelings about this one from the start. On the one hand, it seemed like a piece of cake. Brighton goes for a walk along the river near his home one night and has the misfortune to encounter someone desperate for a few quid—a junkie perhaps. A struggle ensues, and Brighton is struck on the head. When he realizes what he has done, our assailant panics and pushes his victim over the railing into the Thames. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time that sort of thing has happened in Bermondsey. This used to be a pretty rough area—still
is in some parts despite the recent development boom.” He paused.
“And on the other hand …” Powell prompted.