She Died Young (19 page)

chapter
25

J
ARRELL COULD NO LONGER
postpone a visit to Pentonville prison. He disliked prisons. Prisons were places where everyone, including visitors, was guilty: family, lawyers, police, all were subject to the power of the guards. The screw in the lodge behind the vast old-fashioned gate looked at him with resentful suspicion. Jarrell stepped through the door cut in the huge portcullis and stood in a dark cobbled entrance.

The screw glared at Jarrell. His grotesquely exaggerated bunch of keys rattled. ‘We’ve had no notice of this visit.’

There was an argument, but more for form’s sake than anything else and eventually Jarrell was allowed in. He was led across a bleak yard and through echoing halls and passages. The vast cheerlessness and Dickensian ugliness of the place struck him as inefficient and counterproductive. The prison system, like the police, needed to be modernised.

He waited in the legal visit room. When Camenzuli arrived he looked even smaller than he had in his hotel.

‘You gotta cigarette?’

‘I don’t smoke.’

A look of intense disgust darkened Camenzuli’s face. For a second Jarrell thought he was going to leave.

They were up close across the little table. Maltese Mike hadn’t shaved for a while; the black stubble was like a rash all over his face.

‘Where’s my wife? She not been to see me.’

‘That’s a lie. Your wife has been to see you. And after her visit you made a false confession. So what I want to know is why you made that false confession. You know that’s an offence in itself, don’t you? Wasting police time at the very least. Possibly perverting the course of justice.’

Maltese Mike wasn’t impressed. ‘I don’t have to say nothing.’

‘You didn’t push the girl down the stairs, did you?’

‘I tell you what happen. Why you don’t want to think that? Why you don’t believe me?’

‘Because it is not true, Mr Camenzuli. So I want to know who put you up to it in the first place.’

The Maltese glared.

‘I suppose whoever put you up to it told you it was a weak story. Be whittled down. You’ll get bail. Clever brief could persuade a jury it was an accident after all. Probably never come to court anyway.’

Camenzuli squinted suspiciously.

‘That’s all very well,’ continued Jarrell. ‘But the thing is, they could be wrong. It could get worse rather than better. A clever brief could just as easily make it look more like actual murder. You’ve got form, Mr Camenzuli. You’re known to be a violent man. What’s more, a malicious man. And can you prove you didn’t strike that girl down deliberately? No. You can’t.
I
know you didn’t. But a jury might think otherwise.’ He stopped, to let it sink in. Maltese Mike looked unimpressed.

‘How much were you offered? What was your price? A tidy sum, I bet. Well, then, you see, there you’d be sitting in prison and Maria would get that money, wouldn’t she? And who’s to say she won’t just make off with it? You can’t be sure she’ll stick around until you’ve done your time.’

‘You—’ The Maltese half rose. He clenched his hands. His black eyes were pinpoints of hatred. He spat. A blob landed full in Jarrell’s face.

Jarrell fished a handkerchief out of an inner pocket and wiped the spittle away.

‘That’s not really an answer, is it?’ He sat and waited. He could almost see Camenzuli’s thought processes as he stared at the table. But he didn’t speak.

‘Okay. Forget it. It’s your lookout.’

Jarrell returned to the station. Moules seemed satisfied with the confession and as the case hadn’t, after all, revealed wrong-doing on the part of the police, so far as the Superintendent was concerned, that was the end of that. Moules was interested in police malpractice, not in some girl who was no better than she should be getting slapped around by a small-time crook. Certainly, the case was questionable. Why had the police not been involved at all, for example? But Jarrell had looked into that, and it turned out to have been a misunderstanding. That was the official story, at any rate. In addition, there was now a plausible suspect. Jarrell had other work to do, lots of it. Yet while the Superintendent might accept the result, Jarrell did not.

At lunchtime the police station was quiet. A couple of depressed individuals, a man and a woman of indeterminate age, waited listlessly on a bench. Jarrell knew some of his colleagues would be at the pub, but he had no intention of joining them there.

It was a surprise to find Slater in a back office, poring over some papers. This was a piece of luck.

‘Hullo, me old darling.’

‘Where is everyone?’

‘The usual. I ain’t had any dinner, though. Ambushed by bloody Moules. Asking questions about my bloody expenses. Strewth! Look at this.’ And he gestured towards the expenses sheet in front of him. ‘Saying I gotta check the figures. I’ve had enough of it. Why don’t you come for a bite? I’m bloody starving.’ Slater’s face was as flushed as usual, but it was a bit early even for him to have been drinking already.

Jarrell could hardly refuse the surprise invitation. And indeed, while it was unwelcome, it was also an opportunity. He’d hoped for a quiet hour looking over another case, but a chat with Slater over a meal might be more useful.

At the Bloomsbury Dining Rooms Slater ordered roast beef for both of them. ‘This is on me.’ Slater winked and Jarrell understood that this was a free lunch, the result of some arrangement between policeman and proprietor. They sat in a booth surrounded by panels of dark varnished wood. As he ate, Slater leaned forward and stared at his companion. There was something slightly disturbing about him today.

‘I’m in trouble with bloody Moules again. The Tony Marx case. He reckons I got the wrong bloke, but I can’t break his alibi anyway. You’re his blue-eyed boy, ain’t you, you got any idea why he’s got it in for me?’

Here was another surprise, but Jarrell didn’t show it. He sliced a soggy roast potato and carefully placed a piece on his fork. ‘You’re mistaken.’ He chewed and swallowed. ‘I’m no particular favourite of his. And I don’t know why you think he’s against you in any way.’ He knew he sounded pedantic and repressive, perhaps not entirely convincing. He watched Slater surreptitiously, pretending to be more interested in his lunch than he actually was.

‘Don’t tell me he ain’t set on some clean-up campaign. Everyone knows that after what he got up to in Birmingham.’

Jarrell smiled. ‘I think the Superintendent may be exaggerating the extent of his success in Birmingham.’

‘Eh?’ Slater frowned. ‘How d’you know?’

‘Don’t you think it’s human nature for people to boast a bit – to make out their achievements were greater than was actually the case?’

Slater liked that. He laughed. ‘Now
that’s
a policeman speaking. You’re a right one, Professor. I’ve often wondered what brought you into the force, you don’t seem like a proper copper to me, but there you have it – never believe a word anyone says.’

Jarrell looked modestly at his plate.

‘So what’s Moules’ plan?’ persisted Slater. ‘He wants my guts for garters, that’s what I think. Got it in for me, he has.’ And he slammed his knife and fork together, his laughter replaced by brooding resentment.

‘What makes you say that?’

‘Oh don’t come that with me. You know as well as I do.’

‘I’m sure you’re wrong,’ said Jarrell firmly.

‘Then why all this about Tony Marx? It’s one bleeding case, that’s all. Look – time for a pint. Or – I got something better back at the station.’ He laughed again. ‘Oh no, I forgot, you don’t drink, bloody poofter.’

‘I’d like a coffee here, though.’ Jarrell didn’t want to let go of Slater just yet. ‘So, Tony Marx, that’s going nowhere. What makes you so sure it’s the suspect with the alibi?’

Slater shrugged. ‘Got previous. Loads of it. And he knew Marx down Bethnal Green way. He’s a violent man.’

The explanation didn’t impress Jarrell, but he continued: ‘And just remind me. What’s his alibi?’

‘He was at the cinema. Went to the cinema with his brother and brother’s girlfriend.’

‘The film?’

‘
The Ten Commandments
. Cecil B. de Mille.’

‘Thou shalt not kill. How appropriate.’

Slater glared.

‘Seriously. He could describe the plot?’

‘Yes. And the bloke at the box office remembers him. And the usherette.’

‘Isn’t that rather odd?’

‘What’s odd?’

‘Them remembering him. New film. Big crowd. Queues at the box office.’

‘We’ve interviewed them. Can’t be budged.’

Jarrell smiled. ‘And they have the ticket stubs too?’

Slater nodded.

‘The sort of thing you’d normally throw away,’ pointed out Jarrell.

‘Don’t need you to tell me that. Marx was a villain anyway. And it’s not only that. Moules keeps nosing about – expenses, informants, you name it.’

Jarrell listened as Slater continued to grumble and it seemed to him that this was after all the lazy Slater of old. He didn’t seem to have exerted himself excessively in tracking down Tony Marx’s murderer. He’d just picked someone with a record more or less at random, without even bothering to construct a plausible cause for suspicion.

‘What about that girl?’ said Slater, abruptly changing the subject.

‘What girl?’

‘Argyle Street. The girl.’

‘You know what happened. The hotel manager coughed.’ Jarrell didn’t want to discuss it, didn’t want to share his doubts about the case.

‘Don’t see why Moules bloody reopened it in the first place. I heard that it was that bloody
Chronicle
man got hold of McGovern. Started nosing about and digging it all up again. What’s the point? It was a bloody accident. Those bleeding news johnnies. I can’t stand them. Someone ought to tell him to lay off.’

‘It bothers you, does it?’ Jarrell’s green eyes watched his companion covertly from below his sandy lashes.

‘No – course it don’t
bother
me. Just a flipping waste of time, that’s all.
Moules
bothers me.’

‘The victim had worked for Vince Mallory,’ ventured Jarrell.

Slater stared at him. ‘Whoever you charged I reckon Mallory’s behind it somewhere. And they say he don’t like women – he’s in the skin trade, but don’t appreciate the female sex. That’s a laugh.’ And disconcertingly, Slater himself laughed, a laugh that grew, filling the room so that other diners looked up from their food. Then, as suddenly, he fell silent, brooding on dark thoughts of his own.

chapter
26

A
S MCGOVERN WALKED BRISKLY
away from Oxford railway station, crossed a bridge and turned into the quiet streets near the centre, the beauty of the mossy old buildings struck him as it had not done before. Even the dank and misty air was part of the city’s pleasant atmosphere. He passed the New Theatre and the Ashmolean museum. By this time the mist was turning to drizzle. Shoals of cyclists whirred past him, as quiet and purposeful as fish in a stream.

After his meeting with Blackstone he had gone home to Bromley. The more he’d brooded over his argument with Lily, the more it had grown in his mind to a fearful obstacle, a blight on their future life together. Mike and Eveline – particularly Eveline – were turning Lily against him. Their influence was poisonous. They were bent on luring her into an alien artistic world in which he had no place. He allowed his suspicions free rein as he sat on the suburban train to Bromley. He anticipated finding Lily and her friends plotting against him in his own sitting room. He was going to have it out with her once and for all.

Lily was alone. The look of delight on her face at his unexpected return couldn’t be faked. She’d hugged him, brought him a beer and asked about Oxford, pulling him down on the sofa and nestling against him.

There’d been no solution. They’d avoided the subject of children. But there had been a reconciliation, for the moment at least. He’d stayed the night. He woke next morning with new optimism. Things weren’t as bad as he’d made them out to be.

He’d exaggerated. Of course Lily loved him; and she’d come round to the idea of children – of course she would.

He was returning to his work in Oxford with an enthusiasm he hadn’t so far felt. He would talk to the students – it was his ostensible task anyway – and try to discover what the Hungarian billeted at the Grange had been so frightened of. It wasn’t surprising that a boy who’d just experienced an uprising crushed by police and military should be wary of the forces of law and order, and he’d certainly been agitated. More peculiar was his friend’s provocative behaviour and his brazen admission that he’d been rummaging around uninvited in the Professor’s private affairs. There was certainly more than met the eye there.

Simon Holt was waiting for McGovern at the hostel. A firm handshake; spectacles with tortoiseshell frames; a tweed jacket; flannel bags. ‘Sorry we haven’t met sooner. I thought we’d catch up yesterday. Sally Mabledon said you would be here.’

‘I was unexpectedly called back to London.’

‘Well – good to meet you. Better late than never, I suppose. Let’s go into the back office, shall we. You can make yourself at home there. It’s where the files are kept.’

‘I hope I’m not too much of an imposition. My understanding was I’d be stationed with the police.’

‘The Superintendent had other views. He’s not a fan of the probation service. I’m a probation officer, by the way. And very jealous of his position, is Superintendent Carter. He didn’t take kindly to the thought of someone from the Met nosing into his affairs.’ Too late, the probation officer seemed to become aware of how rude he sounded. ‘As he sees it, of course. You’re welcome, so far as we’re concerned. But I think you’ll find everything’s in order.’

‘I’ll try not to get in your way. Mrs Mabledon has already shown me round. Best if I just get on with going through the records to see if—’

‘Reds under the beds, eh. I don’t think you’ll find many of those here. Although there is one group I should draw your attention to. It’s ironic in a way. Some of the first refugees were actually communists, fleeing the revolution. They thought the rebellion was about to succeed. A funny lot, as a matter of fact. You get a feeling some of them were government stooges, offspring of same, something of that kind. I thought you might find them of interest. Now they’re here, though, they show no signs of wanting to go back. I think they’re pleasantly surprised by life in England. They’ve heard terrible stories of capitalist exploitation. Some of them seem to have been told Charles Dickens was writing about the present day. Of course the reality turns out very different. That hasn’t stopped some of them from arguing and picking fights with the others – taunting them sometimes.’

In the back office Holt took a sheaf of files from the cabinet and sat down on one of the easy chairs, with a gesture to suggest McGovern take the other one. ‘Sally’s not here today,’ he explained. ‘And I’ll be on the phone to the Canadian High Commission for most of the time. It seems to have been chaos at the Austrian end. Many of them didn’t have passports. So I suppose it’s not surprising some wrong ’uns got through.’

‘I don’t know if there’s another office I could use. I shall want to talk to them – some of them, anyway – individually and I thought the best way might be for you to let them know I’m here to support them, to hear of anything bothering them.’

‘I don’t think you’ll find they’ll complain about the way they’ve been treated.’

‘I’m sure you’ve done everything possible. There’s no criticism of your arrangements. But if I just call each of them in for interview they might feel a wee bit uncomfortable, coming as they do from a police state. If it comes from them – if they come to me, that creates a better situation. I’m sure you see …’

‘Of course. I’ll put a notice up on the board.’

‘Thanks. That would be helpful.’

‘There’s a little room along the passage – it’s used for storing papers.’

It was bare enough, with just a small table, a couple of bentwood chairs and wooden filing cabinets along one wall.

‘Well – I’ll leave you to get on with it, shall I?’

McGovern decided to look through all the files before concentrating on Meszarov to get a general idea of what to expect. He glanced over the meagre information provided for each refugee. He looked for the home town, education, parents’ work, and how and when exactly they’d arrived in Austria and then Britain. He looked with special care at the group identified as sympathisers of the regime. Then there was a third group, the smallest, who weren’t students. That was probably the group in which petty crooks were to be found; some at least were probably neither sympathetic nor hostile to the Hungarian regime, politically speaking, but had simply seized the opportunity to get away.

Gyorgy Meszarov’s parents were academic mathematicians. He’d quite frankly stated that they were Communist Party members. Gyorgy himself was studying maths. Quinault had described them as committed communists, but it was impossible to know. They might be disillusioned now, but probably Party membership was a necessity for their posts at the University of Budapest.

He put the files aside and decided simply to wait. If no-one came to see him, he could hang about the hostel and surreptitiously watch the comings and goings of the students; and at some point track Meszarov down and have a proper talk with him in order to find out why he’d been billeted with Quinault: a student with communist parents placed with a man suspected (it seemed) of subversive activities or at least of unwelcome meddling.

After an hour he had had no visitors, so he took a break in order to stretch his legs. He paced up and down the hallway, smoking. There was a certain amount of activity; every few minutes another young lad passed through and some had gathered in what seemed to be a day room to the right of the reception area. Eventually he decided to take a look.

There were four men and a girl. The girl, with a thin face, wore a black beret. She was leaning against a young boy in a relaxed way, suggesting intimacy and familiarity. Her stare was not friendly.

A youth nearer the door looked up. ‘You want?’ he said. He stood up. The shabbiness of his clothes surprised McGovern – but of course he shouldn’t have been surprised. The Hungarian’s dark, unsmiling face was not hostile, but shadowed more with a deep watchfulness. It was a look neither of hope nor of expectation, a look of patience, endurance.

‘Is news for us? Canada? You are social worker?’

The girl spoke up. ‘You are the man we can talk to. I saw the notice.’

She stood up. She wore baggy dark blue trousers and a green sweater, but while her clothes were as shabby as those of the boy, she contrived an air of jaunty chic. ‘I am Irén. You can talk to me if you wish.’ It seemed more like a challenge than a friendly offer.

‘With pleasure.’

She said something in Hungarian. The young men laughed.

In his chilly little interviewing room she turned her chair around and sat astride it. ‘So. What should I talk about?’

McGovern smiled. ‘It’s up to you.’ He waited. He looked at her more carefully now. She had very black eyes. Black curls sprouted from beneath her beret and framed her thin, sallow face. Her lips were thin too. She wore no lipstick, no make-up at all, but then she probably had none.

‘You have met Andras. He told me.’

‘Andras? No. Gyorgy Mezsarov. But barely – I hardly spoke to him.’ McGovern concealed his surprise. ‘He’s a friend of yours?’

She shrugged. ‘Well, we are all friends here … well, not all, some of us. I came with others from Austria. With Gyorgy and Andras. Also with David and Ernö. We are all good friends – and Eva. Eva was staying with family, but they were not nice to her and she is back here now. You did not meet Gyorgy. Gyorgy is here. Andras take his place at the house.’

‘Why was that? Do the people here know?’

‘Andras is unhappy boy. He loves Gyorgy very much, perhaps too much. Gyorgy will go soon to Cambridge, he is offered place to study there. Mathematics. But Andras will go to Canada, where he has uncle. He does not want to go.’

‘If he wishes to stay in England he can discuss that with the people here. They might be able to make alternative arrangements.’

Her thin mouth twisted into a little moue of disappointment – with him, with his words, with the hostel set-up? He wasn’t sure.

‘Why did they change places?’

‘Gyorgy does not like being there, because the old man ask about his parents. Knew his parents. It has to do with the war.’ She paused, screwed up her face in a frown. ‘Gyorgy did not like all the questions he asked.’

‘The Professor asked Gyorgy about his parents? What sort of questions?’

Irén stared at him. She disconcerted him. It was her knowing air and the feeling he had that she was playing a game with him. ‘I don’t know. Why? Does that interest you? You must talk to him. But he is not here – he goes out on bike every day. He is not like others here, always worried. He thinks it is great here. Well, is easy for him, he knows he will go soon to Cambridge. He is very happy about that. I love Gyorgy. He is great fun. But he is not interested in the revolution. His family is communist, you know. Many privileges. But Gyorgy thinks it will be better here. And he did not like having to be in youth movement and all those things.’ She leaned forward. ‘Shall I tell you story about this? He find some sunglasses. In old shop or something. These you can’t obtain. So he wore them to a rally. For this he get in trouble, because sunglasses are bourgeois. Sunglasses you wear in Hollywood. Good communists should not wear these things.’ She sat back in her chair again. ‘Can I ask you for cigarette?’

‘Of course. I’m sorry. I should have offered—’

She brushed the apology aside as she accepted the cigarette.

‘So Andras has taken his place at Professor Quinault’s house,’ said McGovern. ‘Officially?’

Irén didn’t answer the question. Instead: ‘Andras thought they could spend more time there together. He thinks Gyorgy will still be there sometimes. At least he wanted this to happen, I think.’

‘And what about you, Irén? What are your plans? Are you destined for North America too?’

She smiled wickedly. ‘Oh no. I should not like that. I have no family there. I shall stay here – I shall live in London. I have place in acting school. But now I think you are going to be very kind and take me for coffee in centre of Oxford. Tea and coffee are horrible here in hostel. And it is boring here too.’

‘Another time perhaps. I need to talk to some of your friends here. Can you persuade one or two of them to have a chat with me? And Gyorgy, when he comes back. If you tell him I shall be here tomorrow morning, can he come and see me then?’

When she smiled she became attractive. ‘If you say he must, then I will see he does.’