Authors: Barbara Cleverly
‘Could have …’ Bacchus’s voice was dismissive. ‘Speculation. We prefer to deal in certainties – established facts. You may not have been aware that the older one of this pair of charmers – whose identity seems at last to have been established – has been in our sights for some weeks now, his activities monitored. We rather regarded him as one of our targets. Two of his drinking cronies report straight back to us – on the books, you might say. Money changes hands occasionally. If we’d gained access to this villain at once we’d have known what to ask him and how to ask it.’ He shrugged. ‘We could have passed one of the inside blokes off as a prisoner and stuck them in a cell together … listened in to the conversations … for starters. But here we are, left playing guessing games.’ He tapped his neatly trimmed fingernails on the table to underline his irritation.
‘Would the super care to indulge in a little more speculation? The provenance of the weapons used?’ Rupert Fanshawe took over the polite grilling. ‘How did two Irish lads get their hands on service Webleys?’
‘No clues about the weapons,’ Hopkirk muttered. ‘Nothing unexpected from fingerprinting. But, as I’m sure the captain knows, London’s awash with Webleys. They could have been provided by whoever commissioned the hit. No reason to suppose the instigator ever laid hand on the guns.’
‘No indeed. These deals are arranged anonymously, by telephone. Which brings us to the third shot. The one to the heart that finished him. Browning or the like, you say?’
Hopkirk nodded and passed a copy of Spilsbury’s postmortem report over the table. The Branch men fell on it and spent some minutes absorbing it while the CID maintained an anxious silence.
‘At this distance it looks as though we’re contemplating a fatal shot fired by the taxi driver, his lady passenger or a third hand hiding in the shrubbery,’ Fanshawe commented.
Hopkirk nodded again.
‘No mention of such a shot in the evidence given by the passenger?’
‘No. She was too hysterical to be able to distinguish one calibre from another. In fact, I couldn’t be certain she understood what I meant by “calibre”. Pistol, revolver, Gatling, Big Bertha – all just guns to her. Nasty, noisy things. And she was sensibly cowering down in the back of the cab with her hands over her ears while all this was going on. Poor girl – if she hadn’t rolled herself into a ball like a hedgehog, she could have been a third victim. In every respect her statement echoes all that we now know to have happened. The cab driver’s actions; the shooting of the police patrolman; the bashing on the head of the cabby when the killers ran out of ammunition. We’ve now accounted for all the bullets. They each started with a full magazine, it seems, and would indeed have run out by the time they thought of silencing the cabby. Bit of luck for
him
.’ He fell silent for a moment, then added,
‘
Her every statement adds up.’
His tone was a shade too firm.
Bacchus picked up on it at once. ‘Tell us more about this passenger, Hopkirk. Unusual, don’t you think to come across an unaccompanied young woman out and about at that time? Did you discover what she was doing there?’
‘She said she was visiting a friend.’
‘A friend who, we presume, backed up her assertion?’
‘Um … no. We knocked on all doors in the vicinity, in the pursuit of our inquiries. No one claimed to know her. Including the local Lothario at number thirty-nine. His man denied all knowledge.’
‘But you have established her bona fides? I’m assuming she has been re-interviewed?’ Bacchus said.
Hopkirk hesitated for a moment. ‘We sent men to the address in Park Lane next morning … the one she gave us for the record and the one to which we returned her after interview at Gerard Street police station. No trace of her. She’s disappeared. Done a runner.’
Under the glare of the Branch men he referred to his notes. ‘Smart address. Upper-class rooming house. It took us a while to get past the major domo and the maid to the owner. A Mrs Throckmorton eventually deigned to give me her card.’ Hopkirk leafed through his notes again and unclipped a small, white, gilt-edged card. He passed it over the table.
Bacchus took it eagerly. ‘No idea this place existed,’ he said. ‘Is it kosher?’ He scanned the card again.
Mrs Adela Throckmorton.
Choice accommodation for single ladies visiting the city.
A home from home in Mayfair.
Congenial chaperonage arranged.
‘Chaperonage?’ he questioned.
‘They run a service escorting young ladies to concerts and exhibitions, the theatre, even shopping trips. They do pick-ups and deliveries to railway stations. You know – a sort of “Universal Aunts”.’
‘Mmm … no suggestion of an Uncles Unlimited facility, I suppose?’ Bacchus asked.
‘You’re not the only one with a dirty mind, Bacchus,’ said Hopkirk. ‘Thought did occur to Inspector Chappel here. This
is
Park Lane we’re talking about, within a stride or two of Pinks.’
‘And this
is
Inspector Chappel, late of Victoria Vice?’ Bacchus acknowledged with a raised eyebrow.
‘Sir. Confirm nothing untoward known on this establishment. I personally watched the place for an hour or two,’ said Chappel. ‘Lady guests coming and going. Some dropped off by Daddy and Mummy – or should I say Papa and Mama? Some being picked up by a succession of old boots in tweed skirts and sensible shoes. The Aunts, doubtless.’
‘Chappel, I want you to dig deeper and more energetically in this area. The girl was very keen on returning to Park Lane. You still have contacts?’ Sandilands asked.
‘How deep should I dig? That’s the question, sir. It’s posh round there. I could end up revealing cabinet ministers in their socks, military gents out of uniform, police chiefs in considerable embarrassment …’
‘All right, we get the picture, Chappel. Be discreet – but dig! Grease a few palms if you have to. I want this particular trail followed.’
‘Well, I’m taking Mrs Throckmorton’s for a dead end.’ Hopkirk took up the tale again, reddening. ‘Nothing known at the address she gave us.’
‘My fault.’ Joe broke in swiftly to stem his super’s embarrassment. ‘It was I who authorized her return to what she claimed as home. I was present for the last act of her performance. And what a turn she gave us. We should perhaps be combing the cast lists at the Old Vic to find her.’ He gave a rueful smile and admitted: ‘I even gave her my handkerchief!’
‘She’d already got through mine,’ Hopkirk grumbled.
‘Yes, I must say – and perhaps the superintendent will agree? – she was the perfect Mayfair gadabout. I still can’t picture her in the role of cold-blooded killer who turns up to witness an execution she has organized and paid for. And who coolly proceeds to deliver the
coup de grâce
herself when she sees that her minions have bungled it.’
Bacchus sighed with annoyance. ‘Never mind the character assessment. Can we stick to the facts? The gun? Was she searched?’
‘No. She could have put it into her bag. She had one of those little velvet dolly bags hanging on her wrist. A Browning’s not small but she could have got it in there.’ Hopkirk’s voice was leaden. ‘But – a Browning in a dolly bag? I ask you! Let’s be reasonable, shall we? This isn’t a woman’s crime. They don’t like guns. She probably had some perfectly acceptable female reason for being in the vicinity. It might not have been one she chose to share with the Old Bill but reasonable by her lights. Adultery … fornication … the usual.’ His voice was tight with distaste.
‘Takes two, Hopkirk, old chap … very often one of each sex … but in Melton Square?’ Joe laughed and pulled a face.
Bacchus and Fanshawe exchanged looks. After a moment, coming to a decision, Bacchus spoke for the Branch. ‘You’d be wrong to dismiss a female input,’ he said carefully. ‘Look here, gentlemen – we know there are Irish
women
heavily involved with the Fenian movement. And they are every bit as fanatical as the men.’ With a further glance of consultation with Fanshawe, he added: ‘Anyone who reads
The Times
will be aware of that much.’ He continued to speak slowly, weighing his words. ‘These are women who are adept with gun and bomb and doubtless dolly bag. We’ve been fortunate enough to extract … to come by … information from the inside regarding these recruitments.’
No one considered embarrassing the Branch by asking for further elaboration.
‘It’s what we feared. It begins to look as though we could have got one of those harridans over here,’ Captain Fanshawe commented, voicing everyone’s worst suspicions. ‘Fresh off the ferry? A sleeper recently activated? MI5 got anything useful?’
Joe shook his head. ‘Nothing they’re confiding to us, at any rate,’ he said, sidestepping the question. He was remembering the disturbing report by the head of Irish Intelligence delivered to the assembled group in Devon. Two or three women with links to the IRA had unaccountably gone missing. It was feared that one of them might be bringing her destructive rage to the capital.
‘I’m wondering if CID have scared her off. Did she have any idea that you had suspicions of her?’ Fanshawe asked.
‘How could she? We didn’t!’ Inspector Chappel voiced his exasperation. ‘As far as she knows, she’s got clean away. Damn it! All the hankies she could use and a lift out of there!’
‘Followed by the sympathies of the crowd.’ Bacchus voiced his derision. ‘And she will therefore be feeling quite at liberty to take the next step in this escalating series of political murders.’ He made an effort not to sound triumphant. ‘Well, we are where we are. Snakes and ladders is a mighty good training for this sort of exercise. Welcome back to square one, gents!’
‘No. Welcome to the start of a fresh game,’ said Joe. ‘But this time we play with loaded dice. We look on this as a chance to move forward and up. Before we leave this room we’ll have exact plans in place for the next throw.’
Everyone nodded. Spines straightened, not unfriendly glances were exchanged across the table. The Branch men managed an easy smile.
‘And the scenario we have in mind? The list of targets we’ve supplied?’ Bacchus’s voice took on a chill drawl as he added: ‘I wouldn’t like to think our information was going to waste. A good deal of trouble – ours – and pain – others’ – went into the acquisition of that list. MI5, to whom we handed it, gave it very careful attention. The Home Secretary has commented.’
Joe spoke firmly. ‘It’s not being ignored by us either. The prime minister has had a copy, of course. But I’m not convinced that it was presented to Lloyd George with the right degree of urgency by our emissary. He was allowed space to dismiss it with a merry quip and a flourish of his usual Welsh panache. Rather preoccupied with the Russian menace, I’m afraid. I shall catch him myself at breakfast first thing tomorrow morning and draw his attention with some emphasis to the three names remaining. This calls for a degree of drama. Perhaps you could supply me with a fresh copy, James? A neat one. With heavy crossings out and asterisks by the last three?’
‘A little blood spatter with that, sir?’ Bacchus asked. ‘We can supply.’
‘No need.’ Joe didn’t hide his amusement. ‘One of those three names at least should give him pause. Might even make him choke on his toast and marmalade.’
He turned to the superintendent. ‘Hopkirk, I want your squad to continue to handle the admiral’s death as a civil case. Revisit the scene. Liaise with the press. Keep them on side. Make frequent mention of the Met’s involvement. This may be the moment to adopt the French style of crime reporting. The Branch has to hide itself from the public eye but there’s no reason why the CID shouldn’t show its face. Everyone loves a hero. Next time the flash bulbs pop, present your handsome features to the camera lens instead of the palm of your hand, Hopkirk.’
Bacchus peered across the table at the superintendent, affecting an interest. ‘Full face or side on, sir? In view of the idiosyncratic nose-line, I wonder if you have a preference?’
Joe chose to take the question seriously. ‘Full face. And take your hat off, Hopkirk. One look at your leonine head and the country will see a battered Beowulf. And feel itself in safe hands. Didn’t he promise to return to his people in their hour of need?’
‘That was King Arthur, sir.’
‘That was Sir Francis Drake, sir.’
Bacchus and Fanshawe offered simultaneous information.
‘Never short of a hero at any rate, this country of ours,’ said Joe comfortably. ‘Someone always steps forward. And just think, Hopkirk, what one compelling image did for Lord Kitchener!’
‘Sir!’ Buoyed by Joe’s tongue-in-cheek flattery, Hopkirk felt cheerful enough to offer the table his version of the famous Kitchener glare and a parody of the Kitchener gesture. ‘And
I’ll
remember not to give ’em the finger.’
‘Oh – and better to convey the clear impression we are looking no further. Stress that we have the villains under lock and key. We have their confessions. The next man to deliver judgement on the matter will be Sir Archibald Bodkin.’
‘Wearing his little black cap,’ said Fanshawe with relish.