Trouble Brewing (26 page)

Jack smiled. ‘That's exactly what I'd have said you were fit for, myself.'

Lahone gave him a puzzled look. ‘What d'you mean, old boy?'

‘I mean, old boy,' said Jack, still smiling, ‘that you've rotted yourself with drink and, if that wasn't enough, you're lousy with dope.' He waved Lahone's protest aside. ‘Dry up, man. If I couldn't guess from your looks, I could tell from the marks on your arm. If you don't want people to know, pull your shirt cuff down. What d'you use?'

‘What the hell's it to you?'

Jack blew out a smoke ring. ‘Nothing, my dear old scream. If you want to go to perdition faster than your maker intended, be my guest. However, what
is
something to me, and what I could really get quite upset about, is the idea that you've been feeding coke or some other foul thing to Pat Tyrell. Now that is naughty. There's a good stiff sentence for dope traffickers and they wouldn't put you in Bow Street, either.'

There was a thread of menace behind Jack's light tone that made Lahone pause and swallow. ‘Look, old man, you've got this all wrong. I don't dope . . .' He was brought up sharply by Jack's look. ‘All right, I admit it. I do occasionally, but it's only a bit of fun. Livens things up, don't you know? But I haven't given any to Pat. I offered her some – just as a friend, you understand – but she wouldn't have it. I've gone off Pat, anyhow. It was fun trying to get her away from that stuffed shirt, Jaggard, but Tyrell warned me off and . . . Well, there's other fish in the sea.'

‘So why did you inflict yourself on us last night? If Tyrell had warned you off, that is.'

‘He . . .' Lahone paused and looked round for an escape. Jack, lounging beside the fireplace, was in the direct line of the door. ‘We just happened to see you, that's all.'

Jack shook his head. ‘Try again.' Lahone swallowed and remained silent. Jack crushed out his cigarette. ‘As your memory obviously isn't all it could be, let me help you out. Tyrell asked you, didn't he?'

‘So what if he did? There's no law against it, is there?'

‘And did Tyrell suggest you climb on the bridge?'

Lahone stood up. ‘I've had enough of this. I don't have to answer questions from you or anyone else. I'm off.'

He tried to walk to the door, but his way was blocked by Jack. Infuriated, Lahone aimed a punch but Jack caught the flailing fist easily and sent him sprawling to the floor.

Lahone half rose and hit out again, and this time he found himself face down on the rug with his arm twisted up behind his back in an agonizing grip. ‘Let go, damn you! That hurts.'

Jack, on one knee beside Lahone, relaxed the pressure. ‘Did Tyrell ask you?'

Lahone writhed and Jack tightened his grip.

‘Well?'

‘Yes, damnit!' The grip slackened. ‘Keep your bloody hands to yourself. Tyrell told me to meet him at the Savoy.'

‘When did he ask you?'

‘Yesterday afternoon.'

‘What else did he tell you to do?'

‘Nothing . . . Ouch!' The grip tightened. ‘He wanted me to make up to Pat. Be friendly to her . . . For Christ's sake!' The grip eased off. ‘Once in the Savoy I had to suggest going on to the Fortune. Bloody dreary place. Then, when we were all outside, he told me to climb up on the bridge and get Pat up there too. I never meant any harm. It was only a bit of fun.'

‘What did he give you for your bit of fun?'

‘Nothing . . . Ow! Fifty quid. I need it. I get snow from Eve but she's been keeping me short, the cow, because I haven't paid her for the last lot.'

‘Did Eve or anyone else give Pat any dope?'

‘No. Really, no! They didn't, I tell you. I don't know what happened to Pat. She got bloody drunk. She had to be drunk. Totally canned. She didn't have time to take anything unless it was a pill or something, and Pat wouldn't do that. She wouldn't touch it, honestly. Pat's stuffy about that sort of thing.'

Jack let go and Lahone cautiously sat up. Jack knelt back, his elbow casually draped over his knee. Lahone gave him a frightened glance and nursed his arm. ‘If I'd known what was going to happen I'd have never gone along with it but . . . but . . .' His voice broke. ‘You don't know what it's like. There's times when I'm desperate but Eve won't give me anything like enough. I don't even know Tyrell properly. We've had a drink together a few times, that's all. I can't stand the man, if you want the truth. He gives me the creeps.'

Jack stood up and, dusting off the knees of his trousers, kicked the Persian rug back into place. ‘That shows astonishing good taste on your part. And Lahone . . .'

‘What?' asked Lahone, his hand on the doorknob.

‘Don't mention this conversation to Tyrell, will you? He might be cross.'

‘Don't worry,' said Lahone, with a shudder. ‘That's the last thing I'll do.'

‘Hello, bathing belle,' said Bill with a grin as Jack walked into his office. ‘You'll be glad to know that the river police have been convinced of your innocence. I didn't say as much last night, but it was just as well you followed your hunch and were there. In fact . . .' He coloured slightly and looked down at his blotting pad. ‘It was a brave bit of work, diving in like that.'

‘Oh, drop it,' said Jack easily, pulling up a chair. ‘Have you heard how my fellow swimmers are?'

‘Mrs Tyrell's been kept in hospital, but Laurence Tyrell's been released.'

‘Hmm. It might be as well if it stayed that way, at least until Pat Tyrell's signed her will.'

‘Jack . . .' Bill broke the point of his pencil on the blotter. ‘I know you said Tyrell was trying to drown his wife, but how can you be sure? Don't forget, Tyrell fell in too.'

‘He'd have to if he was going to finish the job, wouldn't he? I know that's what happened. I've just seen Tim Lahone and he spilled the beans good and proper.'

‘Tim Lahone? I interviewed him myself first thing this morning and he didn't say anything.'

‘That's because you asked him nicely. I didn't, I'm afraid. The little swine took a swipe at me and I . . . Well, let's just say I objected.'

Bill's lips twitched. ‘Not something we could do, but that gentleman deserves everything that's coming to him. Is he still in one piece?'

‘Perfectly whole and entire. You know he dopes? Apparently he gets the stuff from his sister. It'd be worth your while keeping an eye on her. Eve Lahone keeps Tim on short commons, and he was anxious to bump up his supply. Tyrell saw Lahone yesterday afternoon and offered him fifty quid, which Our Tim proposes to stick in his arm, to go along with his plans last night. Tyrell asked Tim and his crowd to show up at the Savoy and suggest we all went on to the Fortune. Now, the interesting thing about the Fortune, as far as the Lahones and their ilk are concerned, is that it must be one of the dullest clubs going. So why did Tyrell want us to go there? The answer, for which I get no marks because it's too easy, is that all the other clubs mentioned lie to the west, round Piccadilly, whereas the Fortune is off Surrey Street. To get to it we walked along the Embankment past Waterloo Bridge. Now the sight of the bridge apparently inflamed Lahone to become an extra in an acrobatic act, but he tells me that's what Tyrell told him to do and to get Pat up there as well.'

‘Couldn't he be making that bit up? He might be feeling guilty and want to shove the blame onto Tyrell.'

Jack grinned and took a cigarette. ‘Not ruddy likely. I had to be pretty persuasive to get him to own up to that. It's clever, isn't it? Tyrell can't be blamed. Even the choice of partners was done through Lahone. Tyrell skipped up there taking with him a girl called Binky, who really should know better, so Lahone turned to his companion, Pat Tyrell. It all seemed like the impulse of the moment.'

‘Pat Tyrell was pretty far gone, by all accounts. Did Tyrell get her drunk? I heard she was half-seas over. Apparently she climbed up on the bridge off her own bat.'

Jack shook his head. ‘I can't work that out. She was perfectly sober when the Lahones joined us, but then Tyrell contrived to spill her drink and offered her his own instead. Now, before she drank it, she was sober. After she drank it, she was tanked. Obviously there was something not as mother makes in that champagne, but what it was defeats me. I can't think of anything that works that fast.'

‘So what's behind it?' asked Bill again. ‘I know you think it's an attempt to stop Pat Tyrell signing her will, but will or no will, if she dies, Tyrell's out of pocket.'

‘He gets nothing at the moment, true. But wait seven years until Helston's death can be legally presumed and he'll be in a strong position to argue that, as Pat Tyrell's next of kin, the money which should have gone to her should come to him.'

Bill clicked his tongue in dissatisfaction. ‘He'd probably have to slug it out in the courts. He couldn't bank on it.'

‘He could bank on losing the lot if that will was signed.'

‘What can I do?' Bill put his hands wide. ‘I can't arrest Tyrell. I've got nothing to arrest him for.'

‘What I'm concerned about is Pat Tyrell's safety. Why don't we get hold of Mr Stafford, the solicitor, and take him to the hospital?'

‘It'd be a waste of time. Mrs Tyrell was very distressed when they pulled her out of the river. She was given a dose of morphine in hospital. She'll be fast asleep for hours yet.'

‘Damn!' Jack got up and, hands in pockets, walked moodily to the open window. Below him, past the Embankment, lay the barges on the river. An occasional cry and the faraway chug of an engine drifted up, mixed with the faded music of a great city. On the Embankment a motor horn sounded and he thought of the poor wretches lying so quietly last night, curled up against the wall, while his own drama played out on the bridge. It was extraordinary the difference light made. Now, with the hazy sun catching the water, London was London again, noisy, jostling, smoky, alive. Last night it had been like a city of the living dead . . .

The living dead. His stomach turned over.
That's
where this had started. Find Mark Helston, living or dead.

Forcing his voice to be level, he turned and looked at Bill. ‘I say, you remember we were looking for Mark Helston? I've an idea where he might be.'

Jack waited impatiently. How long did it take to get a file? Once again he read the description of Mark Helston, but without taking in the words; he knew them too well to concentrate. Bill, sensing his restlessness, laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘Steady, old lad. These things take time, you know.'

Then – thank God! – there was a respectful knock at the door. ‘The file you requested, sir.'

Bill took the folder and spreading it on the desk, opened it. ‘This is a record of pauper and vagrant deaths for January. If you're right, it should be here. Let's have a look at the tenth . . .'

Jack craned forward eagerly. ‘There's three on the tenth. It was a lousy night. Albert Hope . . . he's no good. He's too old. Mary Davenport . . . it's not her, of course. What about this chap? Richard Wainstall, age twenty-seven. Died of exposure, Blackfriars Bridge, Victoria Embankment, during the night of January the ninth. Found by P.C. Brewer, number . . .'

Rackham read the brief entry rapidly. ‘The description could easily be Helston's, if that's any comfort to you. There's no dental record noted. There wouldn't be, of course, but that's the only way we'll prove it now. Let's see if there's anyone else who turned up later in the month.'

They read through the descriptions of vagrants together but Jack returned to the entry for Richard Wainstall. He tapped the file with his finger. ‘If I'm right, the man buried as Richard Wainstall is Mark Helston. We'll have to dig him up. How soon can we do it?'

‘It'll need permission from the coroner,' said Bill doubtfully. ‘If I hurry it through then we might be lucky and get it done tomorrow. Are you certain this is Mark Helston?'

Jack hesitated. ‘I
was
certain when I first thought of it. It seemed to explain such a devil of a lot. All I can say is that I thought there might be a suitable body and, as there is a suitable body, it seems silly not to take a shufti at it.'

‘Exhumation isn't something we do lightly, you know,' said Bill doubtfully. ‘If we are going to apply to dig this poor chap up, I'd like something a bit more definite than your inspired guess.'

Jack shook his head. ‘I'm sorry. At the moment that's all I've got.'

Bill sighed in irritation. ‘Whatever gave you the idea?'

‘It was seeing those men on the embankment last night; so many men who had slipped out of normal life. It struck me when I looked out of the window that if you died on the street, then your body would be tidied away and no more questions asked. We asked ourselves right at the start where you would hide a body. I think the answer is that you don't. You leave it in full view.' His mouth twisted. ‘It's the old proverb. If you want to hide a thing, put it under the light. I think when light dawned on the tenth of January, Mark Helston was on the embankment.' He reached for a cigarette. ‘But there's only one way to find out.'

‘Oh hell,' said Bill unhappily. ‘I'll apply to the coroner.'

T
he coroner was applied to, the body interred in a pauper's grave in Brookwood cemetery exhumed, and a comparison of Mark Helston's dental records with the corpse showed that the man buried as Richard Wainstall was, indeed, Mark Helston.

‘The Chief thinks you've taken to black magic,' said Rackham over the telephone to Jack. ‘He was very dubious about applying to the coroner but when we found it was Mark Helston, he was stunned. “Brilliant” was the word he used.'

There was silence on the other end of the line.