A Capital Crime Read online

  ‘I’ve done my best to help them both, but I’m at the end of my tether. Why would John say that Mr Backhouse had taken Judy off somewhere? It doesn’t make any sense, and I don’t know anything about these people John says are looking after her. I had a letter from my sister saying he’s been stopping with them in Wales since the fourteenth. I wrote and told her she’s welcome to him. It’s like I told her, I’ve no idea where Muriel and Judy have gone to. If she’s left him and taken the baby, nobody’s told me about it. And I’ve had all sorts of people coming up here, saying John owes them money. I put my name down, guarantee for the furniture, and this is what I get … His name stinks round here, I can tell you, and I’m sick of his nonsense. I’m sorry, Inspector, but that’s the truth.’

  ‘When you say “nonsense”, Mrs Davies,’ said Stratton, ‘what do you mean?’

  ‘Making up stories – like this business about Mr Backhouse and the baby. He’s always doing it. Telling people his father was an Italian count and he’s going to have a Rolls-Royce and an aeroplane and heaven knows what else. All lies and boasting. You don’t want to believe a word of it. Never had the education, see? We’ve done our best for him. And as for saying that about Judy, even if Muriel has gone off and left him …’ Mrs Davies spread her hands in a gesture of hopelessness.

  ‘When was the last time you saw Muriel, Mrs Davies?’

  ‘A Saturday, it was. The beginning of November. We went shopping with John. I bought a little chair for Judy and a pram for the new baby.’

  ‘Muriel is expecting, is she?’

  ‘Yes, she is, so I don’t know what she thinks she’s playing at, going off like that.’ Mouth pursed in condemnation, Mrs Davies shook her head.

  ‘And she didn’t say anything to you about getting rid of the baby?’

  ‘Oh, no.’ Mrs Davies looked shocked. ‘Nothing like that. I really don’t know what to say, Inspector. I’m ashamed of John, and that’s the truth. I’d have looked after Judy if he and Muriel were having difficulties, he knows I would. It’s been nothing but arguments between them for I don’t know how long. John’s got a temper on him all right, ever since he was a boy, but the fault’s not all on his side, mind – Muriel’s a nice girl, but she’s terrible with the housekeeping. Always asking John for more … I’m not saying she was spending the money on new things for herself, but she never seemed to have enough. She’s very young, of course, and not having had a mother so long I suppose she never had anyone to set an example. John should have been more patient with her. You don’t like to speak ill of your own, but …’

  ‘Poor woman,’ said Stratton as, having secured a photograph of Muriel – pretty and delicate, with brown hair and doe eyes – they clattered down the stairs and into the street. ‘Obviously at the end of her tether.’

  ‘I don’t blame her, sir. Sounds as if Davies isn’t quite right in the head.’

  ‘I don’t know about that, but he certainly seems to have trouble telling the truth … We need to find that baby. I’ll make another call to Merthyr Tydfil – perhaps they’ll be able to shed a bit more light on the situation.’

  ‘How’s your nipper?’ asked Stratton, as the car took them back to West End Central. ‘Still giving you sleepless nights?’ Ballard, married two years before to Policewoman – now former-Policewoman – Gaines, had a six-month-old daughter.

  The sergeant’s face lit up. ‘You should see her, sir. She’s a smasher. And she’s sleeping a lot better now.’

  ‘Bet that’s a relief,’ said Stratton.

  ‘You can say that again … How are yours, sir? Your boy’ll be called up for National Service any day, won’t he?’

  Always a good working partnership, their relationship had, since Jenny’s death at the hands of a madwoman, included regular enquiries about each other’s families. Stratton, who had never before shared any information about his home life with a colleague, rather liked it – or some of it, anyway. He thought that Ballard did too, or at least pretended he did. At any rate, he always seemed to remember what Stratton told him about Monica and Pete.

  ‘Went last week,’ said Stratton. ‘And Monica’s just got herself a new job. At a film studio, of all things. Make-up and so forth – they’re going to train her up a bit.’

  ‘You don’t sound very sure about it, sir.’

  ‘Well … All those arty types … Mind you, she says I think the worst of everyone.’

  ‘You’ve always said she was very sensible, sir.’

  ‘She is. Takes after her mother.’ That, he told himself, was no more than the truth. Every day, it seemed that something about Monica – her common sense, her kindness, even the way she laughed with her hand in front of her mouth – reminded him of Jenny. She looked like Jenny, too, the same curvaceous figure and creamy skin. The only thing that was different was her black hair, inherited from him. And, unlike Pete, he could talk about Monica, and think about her, without feeling guilty. The problem was his failure to engage with the boy – not that Pete ever seemed to want to be engaged with – or even, really, to ‘get on’ with him, in the six years since Jenny died.

  Feeling that some of this might somehow have communicated itself to Ballard, he hastily changed the subject.

  ‘Nothing?’ echoed DC Williams, on the line from Merthyr Tydfil.

  ‘Not a thing. And what’s more,’ added Stratton, ‘it took four of us to lift the manhole cover.’

  ‘Well, this one couldn’t do much by himself. I’d say he’s no more than five feet five inches high, and puny with it.’

  ‘Obviously makes up in imagination for what he lacks in height, then.’

  ‘Arglwydd Mawr …’

  Stratton, taking this to be the Welsh equivalent of ‘Good God’, sympathised entirely with the man’s heartfelt tone. There followed some further exasperated muttering, and then Williams said, ‘Well, I’d better see what he’s got to say for himself. The strange thing is, he was desperate to talk to me. Said he couldn’t sleep and wanted to get it off his chest. Tell you the truth, I’m not sure he’s all there … Seems a bit of a simpleton to me.’

  Satisfied that there was nothing further he could do for the present, Stratton spent the next few hours writing up reports on, variously, a receiver who’d been found in possession of knocked-off goods ranging from whisky to tinned salmon; an inside job on a warehouse which had resulted in the theft of 20,000 pairs of nylons; and a disturbance at a Wardour Street club during which a Maltese pimp had been stabbed.

  At five o’clock, Ballard put his head round the door of the office. ‘Williams is on the line,’ he said, ‘from Wales. Says Davies has changed his story.’

  Chapter Five

  Stratton hung up the telephone receiver. ‘Well,’ he said to Ballard, ‘Miss Harris will take down the full statement, but now the gist is that Davies is claiming he lied to protect Backhouse. He says Backhouse volunteered to abort Muriel but it went wrong, and when he got back from work Backhouse told him she’d died. He says she was bleeding from the mouth when he saw her, which makes bugger-all sense. And he says Backhouse showed him some sort of medical book beforehand and said he’d had some training as a doctor so he knew how to get rid of the pregnancy …’ Stratton paused to consult his notes. ‘Says he helped Backhouse carry the body downstairs to the first-floor flat, which was empty, and Backhouse told him he was going to put the body in the drain, and that he’d take the baby to some people in Euston who’d look after her … Claims that Backhouse told him to sell all his furniture, get rid of Muriel’s clothes to a rag dealer, and bugger off back home to the valleys, so that’s what he did. Williams is going to have a word with the relatives he’s been staying with – it’s his aunt and her husband, a Mr and Mrs Howells – to see if they can shed any light on things. Williams is of the opinion – and I can’t say I blame him – that Davies is off his head.’

  ‘Sounds very much like it, sir.’

  ‘Either that or he’s buggering us about for some reason. Williams said when he f
irst spoke to Davies and told him the body wasn’t in the drain, Davies couldn’t believe it. Kept insisting it must be

  because he’d put it there. Then he said he’d lied about the lorry driver in the café giving him the stuff for Muriel and he wanted to make another statement. Not that this one sounds any more plausible … Oh, and Williams says he seems to be illiterate, apart from signing his name. Had to have his statement read back to him because he couldn’t manage it himself.’

  ‘His mother said that too, sir.’

  ‘She did, didn’t she? Perhaps Muriel’s run off with another chap and it’s sent Davies round the bend. Stranger things have happened, after all.’

  ‘Then why not leave the baby with his mother, sir?’

  ‘She’d have asked questions, wouldn’t she? “Where’s Muriel? Why isn’t she here?” And if he didn’t want to admit that she’d left him … Mind you, Williams also said that Davies wanted us to ask Backhouse the name of the people who’d taken Judy, so that doesn’t really add up.’ Stratton sighed. ‘So, we still don’t actually know if any crime’s been committed, but we’ve got to find that child.’

  ‘That seems about the size of it, sir. Back to Paradise Street, is it?’

  There were only two lamps in Paradise Street, but faint yellow gaslight could be seen through the thin curtains hanging in the windows. All the children had gone indoors. Apart from the trains, any noise now was coming from the goods yard on the other side of the wall at the end. Revving and bawled instructions – ‘Go on, right hand down, straighten ‘er up … Whoa!’ – as the twelve-ton lorries were parked, and heavy thumps as goods – Stratton imagined rows of unidentifiable lumps shrouded in canvas – were loaded up for the night’s run.

  Backhouse poked his head round the door of number ten in the manner of a tortoise expecting attack. Seeing Stratton and Ballard he gave a weak cough and said, in a voice barely above a whisper, ‘Inspector?’

  ‘If we might come in for a moment, sir? This is my sergeant, Ballard.’

  ‘Of course. Always glad to help.’

  ‘We’d like to have a look at the Davies’s flat, if you don’t mind, and then we’ve got a few questions.’

  Backhouse frowned. ‘Well, I don’t know … I don’t mean to be obstructive, but there’s the matter of—’

  ‘It is rather urgent, Mr Backhouse,’ said Stratton. ‘I’m sure that, having served in the police force yourself, you’ll understand that Judy’s safety is paramount.’

  As Stratton had hoped, this comradely appeal to Backhouse’s vanity did the trick, and he stood back to let them enter. ‘On this occasion, I don’t suppose … It’s the top floor. The flats aren’t separated – no front doors – so you’ll have no trouble.’

  ‘Who lives on the first floor?’ asked Stratton.

  ‘Mr Gardiner. An elderly gentleman. He’s in hospital at present – been there for the past two months.’

  ‘Has the flat been empty during that time?’

  ‘That’s right. I shan’t accompany you, Inspector.’ He rubbed his back. ‘I think I may have mentioned – I suffer with fibrositis.’

  At least, thought Stratton, as they went up the stairs, what Davies had said about the first-floor flat being empty was true – the first thing, as far as he could see, that actually was. ‘It’s a bit bloody dark up here,’ he said, as they got to the top landing. Seeing the shape of a gas bracket protruding from the wall, he pulled his matches out of his pocket and felt for the tap. He turned it, but there was no hiss of escaping gas. ‘Looks like we’ll have to put a shilling in the meter.’

  He opened the door to the room at the front of the house. The curtains were open, and, even by the faint glow that reached them from the street lamp, they could see that the room was entirely empty. The back room was the kitchen. Stratton located the meter and dropped a coin in the slot, and Ballard put a match to the gas mantle. They saw a sink, an Ascot water heater, a gas stove, and a few shelves, which were bare of everything except a couple of saucepans, a vase and a clock. On the other side of the room was a fireplace. Whatever else had been in the room – table, chairs – had been removed. Dusty, battered wooden boards covered the floor and a thin patterned paper, greyish, torn in places or sagging, lined the walls. It was darkened in the cooking area by spots of grease, but Stratton could see its original cream colour from a lighter rectangle over the mantelpiece, where a mirror or picture had been removed. The bottom half of the single sash window at the back was covered by a grimy net curtain. Raising it, Stratton made out the backs of the terrace beyond, and was staring down into the garden below when Ballard said, ‘There’s a briefcase here, sir, and there’s some newspaper cuttings on the mantelpiece.’

  ‘Oh?’ Stratton lowered the curtain.

  Ballard opened the briefcase and rummaged inside. ‘Just a few bits of paper in here. Looks as if it belongs to a Mr G. Parker … there’s an address. Nicked, would you say?’

  ‘Possibly. I can’t imagine why a van driver would need a briefcase. We’ll find out if it’s been reported as stolen. What about the cuttings?’

  ‘Four of them, all about Setty. You know, the torso murder last year.’

  ‘Let’s just hope we don’t find bits of Mrs Davies all over the Essex marshes, then.’

  ‘It’s a bit odd, though, sir, when Williams said Davies is illiterate. Why would he keep cuttings if he couldn’t read them?’

  ‘Perhaps his wife was interested – or she read them to him. Any dates?’

  ‘Can’t see any, sir, but it happened in October, didn’t it, and if Mrs Davies left here three weeks ago, that would be about the ninth of November—’

  ‘So it’s possible,’ concluded Stratton. ‘Mind you, if he was working as a van driver he must have been able to read labels and road signs and things, mustn’t he?’

  ‘Perhaps he can do individual words but not a whole lot together.’

  ‘Perhaps.’ Stratton sighed. ‘Well, wherever his missus has got to, she’s not here now.’

  ‘And if she’s not here …’ Ballard continued his train of thought, ‘then presumably she’s not lying dead somewhere in this house, sir.’

  ‘I should think the Backhouses would have noticed a body on the premises, wouldn’t you? And he said they’d had builders here, too, remember? No, I think she’s gone off somewhere. Let’s just hope she’s taken the baby with her.’

  Mr and Mrs Backhouse were in the kitchen. Backhouse was sitting in the deckchair – Stratton saw Ballard’s eyes widen slightly when he saw the knotted-rope sling – and beside him, curled up on a rag mat, was a black-and-white mongrel.

  ‘Is it yours?’ asked Stratton.

  ‘Yes,’ said Backhouse, looking fondly at the animal, which thumped its tail on the floor. ‘Dora, her name is.’

  ‘Friendly, is she?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  Stratton crouched down to pat the animal, which responded, delighted, by rolling over so that he could rub her belly.

  ‘We were just about to have a little cup of tea. Would you like one?’

  ‘No, thanks.’ Stratton stood up and smiled at Mrs Backhouse, who was standing in front of the sink, twisting a tea towel in her hands and looking agitated. ‘Just a couple of questions, and we’ll leave you in peace. We found some newspaper cuttings about the torso murder. Do you know why they would be there?’

  ‘He was interested in that sort of thing,’ said Backhouse. ‘He couldn’t read much himself, but his wife used to read them to him, didn’t she, Edna?’ Before Mrs Backhouse could respond, he continued, ‘You’ll excuse me not getting up, but my back’s been playing me up again. We’re both very worried, Inspector. This whole thing is very regrettable—’

  ‘The baby,’ Mrs Backhouse interrupted, with a force that surprised Stratton. ‘Have you found her?’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Stratton. ‘But we’re doing everything we can.’

  ‘Edna’s very upset,’ said Backhouse. ‘We both are.’

  ‘Of c
ourse. Were you aware, Mrs Backhouse, that Muriel was pregnant?’

  Again, Backhouse got in first. ‘There was something – I wondered if I should have mentioned it this morning. Muriel did tell my wife that she was pregnant, and she wasn’t happy about it. With only the two rooms, she couldn’t see how they were going to manage, and she was worried about money. She told Edna she’d been using pills and syringes trying to give herself a miscarriage, didn’t she, dear?’

  Mrs Backhouse, looking more distressed than ever, made a noise that sounded as if a sob was locked in her throat, and nodded.

  ‘We both told her to stop acting so silly,’ said Backhouse. ‘She was making herself a physical wreck.’

  ‘When did she tell you this?’ Stratton asked Mrs Backhouse.

  ‘I think … a couple of days before she left …’ She stopped and looked at her husband for confirmation.

  ‘It’s all right, dear … You can see how upset it’s made her,’ Backhouse reiterated. ‘Muriel was in a bad way. She promised she wouldn’t do anything silly, but I don’t know—’ He broke off, wincing, and bent forward to rub the small of his back.

  ‘Did you suggest to Davies that you could help his wife to get rid of the baby, Mr Backhouse?’

  Backhouse blinked several times before saying, ‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand what you mean.’

  ‘Davies alleges that you showed him a medical book, and said you could help his wife abort her pregnancy.’

  ‘That’s nonsense,’ said Backhouse, firmly. ‘He’s making it up.’ He pursed his lips, then took off his glasses and began to polish them, slowly, with his handkerchief.

  ‘Have you ever trained as a doctor?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you tell Davies you’d trained as a doctor?’

  ‘Certainly not. It’s a lie.’

  ‘Did you show him a medical book?’

  ‘No, Inspector, I did not.’

  ‘Do you have any medical books?’ asked Stratton.