She Died Young (29 page)

chapter
41

J
ARRELL WENT BACK TO
the station. As he arrived he encountered Slater and some of his cronies on the way out to the pub. He could have gone with them, but he reckoned the opportunity of searching their offices outweighed the usefulness of listening to them when they let their hair down.

It was an exceptionally quiet evening. Apart from the Sergeant at the front desk, there was only a lonely WPC typing letters. He found an excuse to send her down to the stacks in the basement to look for a file.

‘Yes, sir.’ Annabel was pretty, pert, popular and naive. No question or doubt seemed ever to cross her mind. Life was as plain and smooth as bread and butter.

Of course it was risky. And might prove fruitless. Jarrell himself wrote nothing down. That is to say, he wrote the necessary official notes and records of interviews, but he tried to keep his secret and most useful information nowhere but in his head. He hoped Slater was less careful.

Slater was certainly not meticulous. The Inspector’s desk drawers were in extreme disorder: a whisky flask alongside cough sweets, illegible notes on the backs of old envelopes, loose change, banknotes, newspapers, paper clips, old bills and assorted business cards, pens and pencils, even a screwdriver. Jarrell persisted and in the wide, flat top drawer found something worth looking at.

The manilla folder held notes about the Tony Marx case. Among them were notes about a witness who’d withdrawn his evidence.

He looked at his watch. It was past eight in the evening. The witness worked at a Soho restaurant. This would be their busiest time. He would follow it up in the morning. He slipped back to the main office and by the time Annabel reappeared he was studying a traffic report.

‘I couldn’t find the file you asked for, sir.’

‘Oh – well, never mind.’ Jarrell wasn’t surprised, as the file didn’t actually exist. ‘Sorry I sent you downstairs for nothing.’ He pulled his raincoat off its peg. ‘You’re working late.’

‘I’m supposed to finish typing up this report for Inspector Slater.’

‘He won’t be coming back this evening.’

‘Are you sure?’ The girl spoke doubtfully. ‘He said—’

Jarrell had feared the Inspector might return, but: ‘He won’t come back now.’ He noticed Annabel looked relieved. ‘Were you supposed to finish the report?’

‘Yes … but it’s not that. I didn’t want to be here on my own.’ She flushed and turned away awkwardly.

‘An empty office in the evening can be quite eerie,’ agreed Jarrell encouragingly.

‘I didn’t mind if it was empty.’ The girl laughed, but uncomfortably. Then she spoke in a rush. ‘I didn’t want to be here alone if he came back.’

‘Why was that?’

‘I know it’s stupid, but he makes me nervous. I know it’s silly.’

‘I’ve noticed Mrs Ellis usually sends one of the older women down when he has some typing or dictation.’

‘That’s because he can’t keep his hands to himself.’ Now Annabel was emboldened. ‘Well, it’s not exactly that. Having your bottom slapped is one thing, but he chases you into a corner. Once he pushed me up against the wall. I thought he was going to – I didn’t know what he was going to do.’

‘You should have complained.’

‘Superintendent Gorch said it was all just fun. We shouldn’t take it seriously. Anyway … you know … you have to expect … it’s just that he’s such a big man …’

‘He is a big man. I’d be nervous.’

‘Yes.’ Annabel smiled at him gratefully.

Jarrell hesitated. ‘Well, you don’t want to stick around here any longer. Fancy a coffee on the way home? You can tell me more about it.’

chapter
42

T
HE NEXT MORNING JARRELL
was to investigate a robbery from a souvenir shop near Tottenham Court Road underground station. The case did not interest him. After he’d taken statements, looked over the premises and arranged a visit from the fingerprinting squad, Jarrell left the main street and walked south into Soho. He continued until he came to the alley where Tony Marx had been killed all those months ago. The back doors of cafés and restaurants opened on to it. Dustbins dotted its length. Suspect liquids trickled towards the gutter. He looked up and down and then walked round into Frith Street.

There had always been Italian cafés in Soho, but now they were changing. A monster steel Gaggia machine stood behind the counter of the Palermo. In other respects it remained a traditional Italian café serving simple dishes as well as coffee and snacks. Jarrell seated himself near the back and when the waitress appeared he ordered coffee – cappuccino indeed, barely a novelty any longer – showed his police card and asked if Alfredo Signorelli the cook was around.

The girl looked startled, but did as asked. When she returned she glanced at the three other customers and lowered her voice. ‘He says, do you mind to go round to the back? He will meet you by the back door.’

So Jarrell swallowed his coffee and returned to the alley. A slender young man was already waiting, cigarette in hand. He leaned against the wall and watched Jarrell approach. He had a long, medieval face and a resigned nobility of expression.

‘You’re not the one was here before, then.’ He seemed surprised.

‘That was Inspector Slater, wasn’t it?’

The chef shrugged. ‘Don’t remember the name.’

‘I believe you witnessed the murder of Tony Marx and made a statement, which you later retracted.’

Signorelli stared at the ground.

‘Were you leaned on – threatened?’

‘I made a mistake,’ murmured Signorelli.

‘I’ve seen a copy of the original statement you made. In that statement you said you clearly saw what happened. You stated you were out here, you were smoking a cigarette, just like you are now, you don’t like to smoke in the kitchen, you said, some cooks do, but you don’t approve, so you were out here, having a fag and the fight blew up out of nowhere, two men came pounding round the corner and one of them stabbed the other in front of your eyes.’

Signorelli’s eyes scoured the ground as though looking for escape, as if he might vanish through the asphalt.

‘You said you recognised both men.’

‘I made a mistake. That’s all.’

‘What – you mean you recognised Marx, but not the man who killed him?’

Signorelli was silent.

‘At the time you said you saw him quite clearly. You made no bones about it. So I’m thinking that someone threatened you into withdrawing your statement. Look – fair enough. No-one can force you to give evidence. I’m not trying to persuade you or lean on you in any way. I just want you to confirm to me – off the record – that it was the man you originally said it was. It’s not my case. You won’t be in court. This is about something else.’

Signorelli looked sideways at Jarrell. ‘How do I know—’

‘Look – I’m not taking notes. I’m on my own. No-one to back me up. Like I said, it’s off the record.’ And Jarrell produced a banknote.

‘I know the man. He was always hanging around here and the Ambassadors up the street. He was going with one of the girls, people said. I even knew his name. It was Archie Le Saux.’

‘Archie Le Saux.’ Jarrell drew a deep breath. After a pause: ‘So why did you change your mind?’

‘You’re a policeman. You know the family – I didn’t. I’m a respectable man. I didn’t expect what happened. They waited for me one night. I got beaten up bad. They told me I hadn’t seen nothing. So that’s my story now.’ As soon as he’d spoken, Jarrell could see he regretted it. But it was too late now. He had spoken.

It took Jarrell all afternoon to complete his report on the souvenir shop robbery, to organise the fingerprinting and report to Moules. He then spent half an hour on the telephone trying to track down Blackstone. All efforts having failed, he walked down to the press room at Scotland Yard and there he ran him to ground.

He signalled to him across the room, hoping no-one else would notice, eased his way to the door and into the passage and waited. When Blackstone joined him, he said: ‘Can we talk somewhere? I’ve some new information.’

They walked up the windy sweep of Whitehall away from the bars frequented by their own kind, passed under Admiralty Arch and eventually found a small pub in Duke Street, St James’. This was a different world, a world of fine arts galleries and gentlemen’s clubs. Here they were completely anonymous.

Blackstone listened carefully to Jarrell’s account of his meeting with Alfredo Signorelli.

‘The Le Saux gang are notorious. No surprise there.’

‘The strange thing is, though, we’ve heard nothing about it. Slater never said a word. He’s never mentioned Le Saux.’

‘You think the other suspect is some sort of red herring?’

‘Well – it’s an excuse for him not getting a result.’

‘The waiter was threatened by some of Maurice Le Saux’s lot, though?’

‘He’s a chef, not a waiter. But yes. And more than threatened. Roughed up. Quite badly he said.’

‘That surely doesn’t surprise you.’

‘You’d think Slater would be only too keen to nail Le Saux’s nephew. Open-and-shut case.’

‘And Maurice Le Saux would do anything to stop it. The boy’s the son of Maurice Le Saux’s sister. They say he adores her. She’s ill, an invalid. Maurice Le Saux would never want her upset in any way. Though if I were her I’d be pretty upset to have a son like Archie Le Saux.’

An awful possibility was forcing itself to the forefront of Blackstone’s mind. ‘Valerie was his girlfriend. She
must
have known. She must
surely
have known her boyfriend – what he’d done.’ He simply couldn’t say the word ‘murder’. He couldn’t bear to believe that Valerie knew her lover was a murderer.

He looked round, as if noticing his surroundings for the first time. The place was warmly lit and darkly panelled and its customers were sleek as hell, Jermyn Street types in their coats with velvet collars and their contemptuously perfect vowels. They had lots of inherited money and they married girls like the one who leaned on the bar with her fur coat half off her shoulders and a shining sweep of dark hair against her porcelain face.

While Valerie …

Jarrell nudged him back to the present. ‘You told us Archie Le Saux said Mallory had killed the girl. Or suggested that.’

‘Well—’ Blackstone coughed explosively into his whisky.

‘That cough of yours isn’t getting any better. You need to see a doctor, if you ask me.’

‘I’m all right. I’m not asking you. What Archie Le Saux actually suggested, if I remember right, was that it was Mallory’s
fault
. He didn’t actually accuse him.’

‘Nor did Camenzuli. He just said another man was present and then blew a gasket and refused to say anything more.’

‘He implicated Mrs Mallory, though.’

‘Now that his wife’s disappeared.’

The girl in the fur coat, followed by her escort, passed close by their table so that they caught a whiff of her rich, expensive scent.

‘You can’t believe anything Camenzuli says.’ Jarrell sipped his tonic water. ‘But I’m thinking that once the chef, Signorelli, withdrew his evidence, where else could Slater go? Valerie Jarvis must have known what had happened, what her boyfriend had done. What he was accused of, anyway. She might not have believed it, but she must have been aware – perhaps Mallory was angry about that, wanted her to come forward, talk to the police—’

Blackstone spoke almost under his breath. ‘Yes, Slater must have been desperate for a witness, for evidence. Once Signorelli was frightened off. He’d have naturally thought of the girlfriend. He’d have been desperate to get her to tell him the truth. And Sonia must have known something about that. I have to see Sonia.’ He rose from the table and made a phone call from the phone at the back of the room.

‘I can’t stay long, Gerry.’

‘Nice of you to come – spur of the moment idea.’

Sonia had dressed casually, casually for her, at least. It was just a drink, after all. She had wrapped herself in a voluminous white coat that opened to reveal a simple black skirt and sweater.

‘What did you think of the Ambassadors?’ Her legs crossed, cigarette in hand, she made a good job of seeming completely at ease.

‘He’s done very well. Quite the place to be seen. Congratulations in order.’

‘Why did you bring the policeman with you?’

‘He was interested to see the club. Just curiosity.’

Even at this time in the early evening, the cocktail hour – not that people drank cocktails much, these days – the atmosphere in the Cumberland lounge was muted and soothing. You have all the time in the world, the solid fittings and dim lights seemed to say. But Blackstone did not have all the time in the world. He wanted the truth about Valerie.

He smiled at Sonia. ‘I was surprised to see you there. You live pretty much separate lives, or so I thought.’

‘That’s true.’ She spoke languidly. ‘But he wanted me to meet Stanley Coleman. If Coleman’s going to do business with Mallory, he’s the sort of man who’d want it to be all kosher, Mallory the upright married man and all that.’

‘Kosher indeed. But actually it’s not the Ambassadors I wanted to talk about. It’s Valerie.’

‘My poor Gerry! You’re not still eating your heart out over that, are you?’ Her tone was light, but she looked away from him, smoke drifting between them.

‘No, it was never a big thing.’ Blackstone smiled. ‘But the thing is, you see, when I first mentioned it you seemed to know nothing about it, couldn’t even remember when you’d last seen the girl, even her name escaped you, but now I discover your husband employed her and there was some kind of row when she left. It makes it seem as if you might have been less than frank with me, Sonia. And I thought we were good friends.’

It was killing her to smile, but she managed it. ‘We are, Gerry. Of course we are.’

‘Then why didn’t you tell me what happened?’

‘I don’t
know
what happened.’

Her voice was strained. She cleared her throat. Perhaps now she was telling the truth.

Blackstone snapped his fingers at the waiter and asked for another double whisky. He poured Sonia a second cup of tea. ‘Were you afraid of what might have happened? Because Mallory was involved in some way? Wasn’t that why you asked me – that time we had dinner – about keeping things out of the news, or getting them in?’

‘Did I say that?’

‘Maybe Mallory took a fancy to the girl. That would be a bit of a turn-up for the book, but then again perhaps he swings both ways, so maybe he didn’t want her to leave … and when she still tried to, things got nasty and he went a bit too far.’

She shook her head.

‘Or perhaps you were jealous. Valerie was gaining too much influence.’

‘Don’t be silly, darling. She was a stupid little thing. She never – well, I’m sorry, Gerry, I know you were a bit sentimental about her, but honestly …’