Текст книги "A Spider in the Cup"

“The pocket-sized magazine for pocket-sized minds, my Ma reckons.” Orford commented dismissively.

“Well, at least it’s not Shakespeare,” Joe said. “We’re all thankful for that! And it shows we’re looking at someone who could read and write at least. There are some stimulating articles by up-and-coming writers in there, I’m told. And what’s this? Chalk?”

Orford picked up the white chunk. “Chalk. That’s right. It’s the stub end of one of those squares they use on the ends of snooker cues.” He looked at it more closely. “It’s a bit worn on one of its corners. Been written with? You don’t do that in snooker. They don’t use them for writing. Anyone got a magnifying glass?… Thanks, doc. There’s a piece of something … a splinter of wood embedded. Black wood.” He looked at Joe. “His boat’s black. You know—tarred—but a long while ago.”

Joe smiled. “I’m thinking what you’re thinking, Inspector. Beggars and gypsies, men on the move, often write warning messages for each other in code. On gateposts and the like. You know: ‘Vicious dog at large … Soft touch here—good for a bob …’ Perhaps he thought to scribble a name for the postman? Could save us some time. Got a heavy-duty torch? Run it over that hulk, will you? Before it starts to rain.”

A calmer Kingstone had been drinking in all the information and speculation that flowed back and forth over the marble slab. Joe saw a man whose initial relief that the body was not that of his lover was stifled by genuine concern. “Poor fellow!” he said. “Are you thinking, as I am, that he saw something he was never intended to see—like a foreshore burial? And was eliminated? Another pawn sacrificed with complete disregard for human life?”

“That’s a professional neck break,” said Armitage. “Army style. No other sign of injury. Quick, clean and deadly. Not as easy as it looks. Yup! Trained killer, I’d say.”

Joe’s thought was: Takes one to know one? His next move was going to be tricky and involved clearing the sergeant away from his scene of operation. Julia sighed a ragged sigh and he suddenly saw his way through.

“Julia! I’m so sorry! I forget my manners.” His voice was full of urgent apology. “Why don’t you go back into the study while I dish out a few orders? No need for you, in the circumstances, to stay here suffering all this discomfort. We won’t keep you long.”

When she had hurried out, smiling her relief, Joe turned to Armitage, drew him aside and spoke to him quietly. “That girl’s on her uppers—emotionally speaking—wouldn’t you say? Poor lass, she’s had quite a day one way or another. Look, Bill, why don’t we split our forces and use them to better advantage? I’ll take Kingstone under my wing for a bit. You grab a cab and take Julia back to the hotel where you can keep an eye on her. Order up a sandwich or something—we never did get our Dover sole. And I know where you can find a bottle of champagne going begging. Might as well make the most of it and—who knows?—perhaps she’ll fall for your rugged charms and confide all? But, Bill—the spider’s still out there. And Julia is the weakest of us. I don’t want her caught up in the web. Take care of her.”

“It’s the senator’s back I’m paid to watch,” Armitage said, though with less truculence than Joe had anticipated.

“Same here,” said Joe with a placatory smile. “Broad back but too much weight on it. And possibly too many watching it. Some through gun-sights. I fear he’s not exaggerating when he says he’s expendable.” He turned to address everyone. “There’s a document I want the senator to see in my office—an identification I think he can make. I can bundle him out of the labs straight into Scotland Yard without venturing out of the building and when we’ve done I can pop him into a flying squad car with a police helmet on his head, an armed officer riding shotgun, and deliver him to the hotel by midnight. If anyone’s lurking out there they won’t even get a sight of him.”

“Sounds exciting,” drawled the senator. “What are you offering me? A starring part in the Kingstone Kops? How do you check out on that, doctor? Can my heart stand it?”

“Your heart and every other bit of you is safe with Sandilands,” said Rippon stoutly.

“THAT RIPPON IS an asshole!” Kingstone yelled as Joe’s old Morris squealed round a corner on two wheels. “He guaranteed I’d be safe with you. That’s the third brush with death I’ve had since you took the wheel of this contraption and we’re not even out of London yet. Are you sure you’re not working for the other side? When I mentioned a car accident I was only joking!”

Snorting with irritation, Joe pulled to the side of the road and got out, leaving the engine running. “You drive then,” he said. “I’m not the best driver in the world. I don’t actually care for cars very much. Better with horses. But if you’re going to complain every inch of the way …” He despised the tone of petulance that crept in but he’d learned that this was the best way to reduce his passengers to silence. They invariably apologised and bit their lips or shut their eyes for what remained of the journey. To Joe’s amusement, Kingstone got out, sauntered around the car, shouldered him aside and put a proprietorial foot on the running board.

“Now that’s the most sensible thing you’ve said all night. Introduce me to the gear shift, will you?”

Joe barely needed to make the introduction. His slut of a car uttered a sigh of relief, purred with pleasure at the confident new hands on the wheel and moved up silkily through the gears.

“Started on tractors when I was a boy,” Kingstone explained. “Always had a sympathy with engines.”

“I won’t hold it against you,” said Joe equably. “And what do you run at home?” he thought to ask, feeling it was the manly thing to show an interest. He rather despised a man who judged another by the motorcar he owned but they had an hour’s run out into the country before them and at least, if he was hearing his companion talking engine size and cylinder number he could stave off sleep. Kingstone seemed to be enjoying himself now that he’d resigned himself to being kidnapped and was showing real pleasure in speeding down the A road.

“Oh, one or two. My favourite’s a little eight-cylinder two-seater Auburn Speedster. Dark red. Automatic starter. That one. And for more serious motoring around New York, I’ve got a Lincoln. One twenty horsepower V8 engine. Model K—the police chief’s car, they call them.” He grinned. “In fact it is just that! I got my hands on one of the Police Flyers—touring sedans—they come with four-wheel brakes, bullet-proof windshield, spots, whistles, gun-rack on the roof. I had that removed. A little showy, I thought, and people would keep taking pot shots at it. For going to visit the president I have a stately Hispano Suiza with more cylinders than you could count. Can’t tell you how that handles—my chauffeur won’t let me near the wheel. Say—am I boring you? Stay awake now! I don’t know where the hell we’re going … Surrey, did you say when you bundled me out of the Yard with my head in a bag? Is that near Suffolk? Are you taking me back to call on my ancestors?”

Joe shook himself. “Nowhere near, I’m afraid. It’s south of the Thames and over to the west a bit. I’m taking you to the country for the weekend—doctor’s orders, remember. We’re taking the Brighton road. I’ll tell you when to turn off. So far, so good. No one knows we’ve done a bunk yet, let alone where we’re headed. There’s certainly no one following us.”

“I hadn’t missed all that pulling off the road and do-si-doing about in back alleys! But shouldn’t you have told Armiger? He might start sounding the alarm when I don’t turn up.”

“I made one or two phone calls before we set off. The first was to book us in for our weekend. The second was a rather urgent one to my Special Branch head, the third a message for Bill. I left it with the desk at Claridge’s. He doesn’t know our whereabouts either. I simply told him that if you weren’t back by midnight, he wasn’t to worry.”

“You don’t trust that guy much, do you?”

“No. But then I trust no one. Nor should you, Kingstone. Someone very close to you is going about metaphorically fouling your drinking cups with spiders. Whoever it is has watched your every move since you arrived in London. They have the muscle-power—the hired thugs—to kill and are unconcerned—even happy—that we should find the bodies of two people, two complete innocents, who’ve been murdered on your account. ‘Why should they want to?’ do I hear you ask?”

“You asked me that already. And you heard my answer: gold standard. Manipulation of. There are fortunes at stake.” The reply was terse.

“That’s what you’re still telling us? We’ll accept that for the moment. Just listen while I muse on. And do feel free to correct any misapprehensions, will you? They’ve put your mind in a torture chamber. Your body is at liberty to walk about annoying people, attending meetings, rubbing shoulders with the power brokers of the world. You smile, slap their backs and shake their hands and one of these men who looks you in the eye and calls you by your name is tightening the screws on your emotions. I think you know who he is.”

“I can think of five … no, make that four … men who’d like to see me bite the dust. Sure, we shake each other’s hands. I ask after their wives and daughters. I like their wives and daughters! So would you. But they’re all back home, not here in London. I’m a soldier, Sandilands, like you. I know a soldier’s fears. I don’t deny them. I know how to deal with them. I’ll have no truck with all this spider nonsense.”

Joe was pleased to hear Kingstone had calmed himself sufficiently to disown his recent crisis of the mind. Whatever it was, it had not proved crippling, he was glad to note. He smiled to himself. The feel of a leather-clad steering wheel between the palms, the growl of an engine responding to the pressure of the right foot and an unknown destination below a dark horizon were all having their—not uncalculated—effect. Kingstone was a man who was used to being in charge, instigating action on his own territory and on his own terms. The doctor had seen the need to restore his power and balance and was modern enough in his views to conclude, with Joe, that a simple “Brace up, old chap—worse things happen at sea!” was never going to do the trick.

Joe had decided not to play the game. He’d overturned the board and made off with the king piece in his pocket. A good night’s sleep, a large English breakfast followed by a brisk walk on the Downs with a hound or two running ahead and skylarks spiralling up into the heavens and Joe would be ready to restart the game.

“Stay on the Brighton road for half an hour. After we turn off it gets a bit tricky. It’s all bosky beech woods sighing in the breeze and ancient tracks winding between high earth banks. Mysterious, lovely and hellish driving.”

Kingstone put his foot down and the modest six-cylinder engine did its gallant best to please.

“COD AND SIX-PENNORTH o’ chips and a glass of lemonade! Blimey! You know how to treat a girl.” Julia Ivanova’s voice held a note of flirtatious challenge but her smile was wide as a child’s with delight at the sight of the steaming plate Armitage was putting in front of her. She sniffed. “And how did you know I liked it with vinegar?”

“No choice! When Sam’s at the fryer everyone gets vinegar.”

Julia looked enquiringly at the man directing operations behind the counter in the small fish bar on the corner of Brewer Street. He returned her gaze, his large, sweating, moustached face taking in every detail of her appearance with more than polite scrutiny. Finally, the face broke into a beaming smile of welcome. He winked at her in appreciation. Julia laughed and winked back.

Armitage relaxed. He’d done the right thing after all. He’d wondered about bringing her here. He’d stayed down below in the vestibule at Claridge’s, re-reading Sandiland’s message—which he’d summarised for Julia: “Don’t wait up!”—while she went to change. “To get the smell of death out of my clothes,” she’d said, “and give my hair a good brushing.”

She hadn’t kept him waiting long. She’d emerged from the lift wearing something in dark blue silk that he thought he recognised. It clung flatteringly to her slender shape and reached half way down her calves. He’d last seen it at the front of Natalia’s wardrobe, being held up to Sandiland’s inquisitive nose. Sandilands had even clocked the label: VIONNET or some such. French anyway. Must have cost a bomb. Borrowed without the owner’s say-so? None of his business. Perhaps she had blanket permission to help herself to her boss’s possessions? Girls did things like that. Even shared each other’s lipsticks. At least she didn’t smell of that musky scent her boss used. Before the strong chippy atmosphere of frying fat and vinegar hit them, he’d been aware of something flowery and innocent that took him back to kids’ outings in Epping Forest. Bluebells?

It came back to him with a rush, the moment of intense pleasure he’d had as a child when he’d stuck his head into a bunch of fresh-picked bluebells. Some insect had buzzed out and stung him and he’d cried into his ma’s pinny but that first breath of the forest to a kid whose nose and lungs were coked up with the reek of the city was unforgettable. Prattling away, she sat there, not knowing how she risked assault by a man who longed to grab hold of her and sink his nose into the warm place between her neck and shoulder. Bill straightened his back and fixed on an intelligent smile. He knew what his old dad would have said: “Now wait for the bee, my lad! No pleasure in this life, without you paying for it.”

He looked at her with appreciation. He noted her animation, the colour in her cheeks, the mischief in her eye and it struck him that he was out on the town with a real head-turner. However she’d come by her outfit, she wore it with the poise of an actress. And all this for the price of a fish supper. He’d also noticed that, when she wanted to, she could move about, for short distances at least, with a grace of carriage that distracted from the weakness of her left leg. He could swear no one had noticed it when she’d entered the café holding tightly to his arm. For all anyone was aware, she might have sprained an ankle skiing at Chamonix. He’d enjoyed the feel of his arm around her slender waist as he’d lowered her into her seat.

“If that’s Sam—he seems to know you. How come?” she asked.

“It’s seven years since he saw me last but I’ve not changed much. He used to know me well. I worked here Saturdays when I was a lad.”

“What! You’re telling me you’re a Londoner?”

“Born and bred. Over Whitechapel way … Queen Adelaide Court, just off the Mile End Road.”

He gave her a self-flattering version of his departure from his native shores, touching on the ambition which had driven the able young fellow he had been to seek wider horizons, faster promotion, the rewards of a bigger salary and a police-issue revolver.

“Ah! I thought there was something going on between you and that policeman—Sandilands.”

“From way back, Julia. We were recruits together in the trenches. I still think of him as Captain Sandilands. He was a fine young officer in those days. An honour to serve with him.” His eyes shone with patriotic pride.

“He’s pretty impressive now, I’d say. Assistant Commissioner? London doesn’t seem to have held him back.”

Armitage glared. He looked about him and changed the subject. “Sam seems to be doing well for himself too. He’s survived the depression and squeezed in four more tables.”

“Catering for the after-performance theatre crowds? Slumming it in Soho? We’re not even the best-dressed here. The woman at the next table—have you seen her pearls!”

Armitage peered sideways and, informed by experience, declared, “Imitation. And her bust.”

“Well, either one’s better than anything I have to display. Some people still have a bob or two in their pockets. And people always have to eat.” Julia turned her full attention to the fish and chips. “Haven’t eaten since breakfast. You’d think the sight of two corpses would put me off food for a week, but not so.”

When she’d finished, she spent a moment straightening her knife and fork and dabbing her mouth with a lace-edged handkerchief, then said, “That was good. But I do wonder what’s next on the menu for this evening. Back to the hotel for a cup of cocoa? Or something stronger? Are you still on duty?”

“Sort of!” Armitage grinned and relayed Joe’s last-minute instructions on surveillance to him, not leaving out the champagne. A risky tactic but he knew she was aware he was all kinds of a rogue. A touch of honesty added to the mix might just gain her trust. At the least, it would intrigue.

Julia appeared satisfyingly incensed. “Are you sure that’s what he told you to do?” She made him repeat Sandilands’ actual words. “Well! Now I’m asking myself why you would turn down the offer of a midnight feast at Claridge’s for a plate of fish and chips. Let me guess. Sandilands suggested—no, told you—though I’m sure he thought it was delicately done—to feel free to help yourself to a dirty weekend with me. Am I getting this right? Cheeky bugger! And you’d do anything to defy him, wouldn’t you? Even though he’s not present to see you sitting here dripping with chip fat. Here, give us your chin …” He presented his anvil of a jaw and she reached across and whisked her hanky over it. “He’s not here but you still know you’ve gone against his lordship’s wishes and, for you, there’s satisfaction in that.”

He smiled back easily. “Yes, you’re right. Could never stand being told what to do.”

“Must come hard for someone not born into the officer class?”

“I make my own class,” he said briefly. “And one day I’ll be giving the orders. But look here, Julia, I didn’t invite the Assistant Commissioner to join us at our table and I wish you’d leave him out of this. He’s ruined enough of my life. I thought you might like to reconnect yourself with your London roots, see a bit of life outside theatres and hotels. Have a friendly chat with a real man for a change—not a la-di-da fancy-pants who’d just talk down to you—a man who thinks you’re a very special and very attractive lady. But above all—I wouldn’t want you to think I’m the kind who’d fall for a suggestion of an indecent nature.”

“Hang on—isn’t that my line?” She was laughing at his speech. “I hadn’t realised you were such an old sober-sides, William Armiger. How would you know—an indecent suggestion from a good-looking bloke might be just what I’d fancy to round off my day. The Assistant Commissioner might understand me better than you do. I wonder if Sandilands’s date’s having a fun-filled evening. He seemed to be rather eager to get away towards the end, did you notice? As though he’d suddenly realised he was running late for something. He kept looking at his watch and clearly wanted to be rid of the lot of us. Is he married?”

“No idea.”

“He doesn’t behave like a married man. He’s quite flirty. And very good-looking. There’s a whiff of something exciting about him … something very masculine … Danger? Authority?”

“That’ll be his Coal Tar soap.”

“I expect he’s dashed off to a night club with some Admiral’s daughter called Arethusa.”

Her remark was lightly made but Armitage didn’t quite like to hear the yearning in her voice. “Nothing of the sort! Didn’t you catch on? And I thought you were smart! He has got a date for the evening but his date’s not having much fun, I can tell you! Kingstone! Sandilands has shoved him in the back of his car with a rug over him and driven off for the weekend. We won’t be seeing them back at the hotel until Monday morning. He left me a note at the desk telling me not to worry if they didn’t get back tonight.”

“Where’ve they gone, Bill?” He was surprised by the concern in her voice.

“Oh, Brighton would be my guess,” he replied casually.

“Where does everybody go when they’re in trouble? Loose living, London-on-Sea. You can lose anyone there. Half the inhabitants are on the run. The second half are providing cover for the first.”

“Isn’t that going to be a teeny bit awkward?”