Mistress Murder (5 page)

Oldfield was a small town about five miles from Cuckoo Hill, which came within Smythe's jurisdiction, much to his annoyance on this particular day. He leaned over the table in the Inspector's Room to speak to the police sergeant who was waiting attendance on him.

‘If you'll hand me that disposal order, I'll sign it now and Mr Laskey can take it to the Registrar before he closes.'

The sergeant, a tall man with a magnificent moustache passed a yellow form across to the coroner.

‘It is burial, not cremation, eh?' asked Mr Smythe, with another penetrating stare over his glasses.

The bereaved, but unmoved, husband nodded emphatically. It costs more to burn 'em, he thought, and for all I know the bitch hasn't left a penny towards it.

He left in a few moments clutching his slip of paper. As soon as the door of the office closed behind him, Sergeant Burrell got up.

‘Not having a post-mortem, sir?' His tone was one of guarded rebuke.

Smythe shook his ancient head.

‘Pointless, quite pointless, Burrell. Your grandmother could tell us the cause of death after a crash like that. We don't need to drag a pathologist over here just to tell us what we know already.'

Burrell suspected that he was thinking of the few guineas he would save on the pathologist's fee, but he kept quiet. No point in arguing with the old codger, he thought. Even in this rural neck of the woods, the ancient power of the coroner was still absolute and Smythe was as pig-headed as they come.

The little solicitor-cum-coroner jammed on his bowler and made for the door.

‘Must rush, Burrell, got a client coming at twelve. I've adjourned until Friday week.'

The sergeant nodded.

‘Yes, sir. We should have all the statements by then – not that there's likely to be many. The inspector's handling it, but I know he's got next to nothing to go on. No eyewitnesses – can't find the chap she was living with. Only the farmhand who found the wreck and the husband will be able to give any evidence worth hearing.'

Smythe nodded his head like a marionette.

‘Too bad, these London people coming out here to get drunk and litter the place with their bodies and their cars! We'll just have to call it accidental death and leave it at that … look, I must go.'

He looked hurriedly at his watch, grabbed his battered briefcase and scurried out, headed for the more lucrative trade of conveyancing Oldfield's real property.

Some time later, the station inspector bustled in and joined his sergeant over a cup of strong police tea.

‘Sorry I couldn't get back, Burrell. Everything go all right?'

The sergeant described the short inquest for him.

‘That husband seemed a fly sort of bird. Where did they dig him up from?'

‘The Met found him in Luton. They went to the address we found on the woman's driving licence, a place in the West End. Nobody there, apparently, but they found a cleaner who used to have the occasional nip of gin with this Ronalde woman. She said her name was really Laskey and that she was separated from her husband who lived in Luton. So the Bedfordshire police soon unearthed him, with an uncommon name like that.'

The sergeant studied the tea leaves in his clip as if seeking inspiration there.

‘Funny set-up,' he said at last. ‘Are the Met boys going to find this chap she was living with, I wonder?'

The inspector looked dubious.

‘They don't sound very hopeful, and quite frankly, I don't think they're going to strain their gut very hard to look. They say they've got better things to do than look for a coroner's witness, not that he'd be any good if we found him; he wasn't there when the crash occurred.'

‘He's taken a powder, has he?'

‘Looks like it; not a sign of him. No man's stuff in the flat – yet the cleaner woman says that this chap had a couple of suits in the wardrobe last week. He's obviously some sugar daddy who wants to keep his nose clean. He's not likely to come forward and get his name in the paper for his wife to read, is he?'

The inspector poured another cup of tea from the chipped brown pot.

‘Old Smythe has adjourned for ten days, then?'

‘Yes, that should be plenty of time for us. Unless the radio appeal brings in anything, we've got damn-all to do except check on the car.'

‘Where is it now?'

Burrell jerked a thumb over his shoulder.

‘In the station yard. We got it in last night. You saw it before it was moved, didn't you?'

‘Yes, a hell of a mess … must have been a twenty-foot drop from that bridge to the stream. I suppose we'd better get the chap of the Traffic Division to have a look at the wreckage. It'll be one more witness, to swell the band for appearances sake!'

Sergeant Burrell nodded unenthusiastically.

‘Suppose so, though with the smell of booze that was hanging around, I don't think the state of the brakes and steering are going to make much odds. Still, I'll get that chap Johnson over to look at it. Better not get as slap-dash as old Smythe.'

The inspector looked up. ‘What d'you mean?'

‘He isn't going to have a post-mortem on the woman, says it's a waste of time – he really means a waste of money. Anybody would think he had to pay the pathologist out of his own pocket!'

The inspector made wet circles on the tray with the bottom of his cup.

‘It would be nice to find a broken track rod or something like that – though with an almost new Sunbeam like that, it's hardly likely. I suppose she was coming down the hill like the clappers and ran out of road at the bottom.'

Burrell grunted.

‘She stank of brandy. There was a half-empty bottle on the floor. About the only thing that didn't get broken.'

He went out to the charge room to ring up the Traffic Division in headquarters, cursing Londoners who used Oldfield as a graveyard for their cars and corpses.

Conrad Draper stood glowering down at Berwick Street from a third-floor window. An unlit cigar hung loosely from his fleshy lips as he stared down at the crowds of Soho. The floors below belonged to a film company, but this upper storey was given over to the Draper betting shop empire. From behind the door of his ornate office, there came the ceaseless clatter of typewriters and jangle of telephones as his staff worked away at taking money from the ‘mugs'.

His mind was a long way from horse racing at the moment. He had been out of town at a race meeting on the previous day and had only heard about Rita's death that morning. There was nothing in the newspapers; road deaths were no longer news unless more than four people lost their lives at once, but he had got the information from the Soho grapevine within ten minutes of setting foot back in London.

His informant had been ‘Irish' O'Keefe, who was Draper's bodyguard and yes man. It was Irish who had got him the hot tip about Golding's racket and the same man had been waiting that morning to tell him of the death of his latest girlfriend.

After a ten-minute rage, untinged by any sorrow, Conrad had sent Irish out again to scour the district for any more information, especially as to the present whereabouts of Paul Golding. Now Conrad was fuming with impatience, waiting for O'Keefe to come back. He chewed on the end of his cigar as he looked up and down Berwick Street trying to get a glimpse of Irish returning. He detested cigars and could never bear to actually light one, but a cigar was part of the American gangster image that was his idol. Whenever he thought of it, he jammed one between his teeth and suffered it until the desire for a cigarette overcame him.

He could still see no sign of the little Irishman outside and, with a snort of anger, Conrad flung himself down in the great swivel chair behind his mahogany desk.

The top was covered with an array of phones, a Dictaphone and intercoms in the best American tradition. He selected a button and jabbed it viciously with a finger the size of a small banana.

A tinny voice came through a speaker on the desk.

‘Yes, Mr Draper?'

‘Where the hell is Irish?' he barked. ‘Has he been in since lunch?'

‘No, Mr Draper, not since he left you this morning.'

Even through the intercom, the girl's voice sounded scared. This was what Draper wanted: a big man's staff should be frightened of him. He flicked the switch off without replying and stalked back to the window.

Suddenly noticing the big cheroot stuck in his mouth, he tore it out angrily and flung it onto the window ledge. He felt in the pockets of his drape suit for a packet of cigarettes and lit up with shaking hands. Inhaling deeply, he went back to his survey of the pavements below.

Though the office was big, he seemed too large for it. His wrestler's shoulders and big head with its carefully waved hair seemed to fill the window as he glowered down looking for his stooge.

It would be wrong to say that he was grieving after Rita Ronalde – like Paul Jacobs, his philosophy was that ‘skirts' were disposable and easily replaceable. But he was intensely annoyed at the injury to his own pride.

That such a promising bit of stuff should have been snatched from his grasp after only a few weeks' enjoyment was a personal affront. And Conrad Draper, King of the Betting Shops, did not tolerate personal affronts.

He was sure that Rita's death was no accident Though he had only the barest details from Irish, the fact that Golding had vanished, coupled with the fact that he had been ready to spring his blackmail scheme within a matter of days, spelt only one thing to his mind, soaked as it was in the lore of Al Capone: she must have been ‘rubbed out'.

He turned to the empty room and waved his cigarette as if he was addressing a board meeting.

‘If she was busted up in that car on her own account, well fair enough,' he said aloud. ‘Serve the silly bitch right if she can't hold her liquor. But if that bastard Golding has found out about me and croaked her for it – well, he's got me, Conrad Draper, to reckon with.'

He actually tapped himself on the chest as he spoke the last words. As he did so, the door opened, and Irish slipped in. He never walked into a room normally. He always sidled in through a six-inch gap.

O'Keefe caught his boss in the act of tapping himself in the middle of his gaudy brocade waistcoat.

‘Bad chest, boss?'

Conrad hurriedly put his hand down and glared at his sidekick.

‘Where the hell have you been … south of France?'

Irish looked hurt. He was small, skinny, and incredibly ugly.

‘Haven't I just been doing what you asked me,' he whined in the accents of the Dublin back streets. ‘I've been bashing me feet all day round the manor and damn all to show for it.'

The big bookie glowered down at him.

‘You must have got something – you can't be as bloody dim as you look.'

Irish shrugged. Draper's abuse was like water off a duck's back to him.

‘The Golding feller has taken a powder all right. I've been talking with Minnie, the cleaner. She let me in with her pass key. The dicks have been there already, but only routine. They ain't had no buzz about it being a killing.'

‘What d'you find?'

‘Sweet Fanny Adams. Some of her clothes there, but none of the gent's. Minnie says that a couple of her pussies had gone – one of 'em a mink.'

Conrad paced back to the window and stared out.

‘Anybody know when she left the place?'

‘Minnie was there Saturday morning – she was there then – so was Golding.'

‘Find anything else there – papers or anything?'

‘Nope. I'm telling you, boss, he must have been through that place with a bleeding microscope before he scarpered.'

‘Minnie know anything about him?'

‘No, and she don't miss much. Cost me a fiver to get in too, she's a sharp old crone, is Minnie,' he added hopefully, chinking some coins in his pocket.

Conrad ignored the hint.

‘What about the rozzers –they been poking about?'

Irish nodded.

‘Only a PC from the nick – no tecs. Something about the inquest, Minnie said. She told 'em where to find Rita's old man – up Luton way.'

Conrad turned his back on O'Keefe for a moment and the little man covertly pocketed a couple of cigars from the box on the desk. He just made it in time, as Draper swung round and ground his cigarette butt into the floor with a heel.

Conrad slumped back in his chair.

‘This Minnie, she doesn't know any other place that Golding might hole up in, does she?'

‘Nope. As far as I was after making out, he's a real will-o'-the-wisp. Just vanished the minute he put his foot outside the dame's flat.'

‘She must know something,' snapped Conrad angrily digging the point of a paper knife into his desk.

‘He came and went like the bleeding wind itself,' said Irish firmly. ‘Minnie said that Rita complained to her once that Golding didn't trust her – wouldn't tell her anything about his affairs.'

This squared with what Conrad had heard from Rita and he accepted it with an angry snort.

‘What d'you think, Irish, you reckon he done for her?'

Without waiting for an answer, he plunged on.

‘Why's he shoved off so fast? He couldn't have known she was dead by the Monday morning; there was nothing in the papers. Damn, he must have croaked her, the bastard!'

Irish turned his hands palms up, expressively.

‘Search me, guv'nor. He's been over the flat rubbing off his dabs from the door handles. I looked 'specially for that. I know when a joint's been gone over, having bin in the trade, like.'

Draper looked up at him sharply.

‘Are you sure?'

Irish nodded emphatically.

‘Sure I'm sure. Not that it proves that he knocked her off. If he was in the dope racket, he wouldn't leave his dabs about, killing or no killing.'

Conrad threw the knife down violently and stalked back to the window.