Текст книги "A Spider in the Cup"

Автор книги: Barbara Cleverly

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Текущая страница: 20 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

CHAPTER 25

The Matron’s office was equipped in the very latest style. Chrome and glass, black leather and silver, by turns dazzled and soothed the eye. A shining expanse of desk, clear but for three white lilies in a Lalique vase, made Joe sigh with envy. How much more efficiently would his own professional life run, he wondered, if he could exchange his ancient mahogany, worn axminster and overflowing onyx ashtrays for such an uncluttered haven. It would have the same predictable effect on anyone visiting. Reassuring. Comforting. If the medical skills were of the same order as the décor, then all would be well, and worth whatever it cost.

The matron herself was of the same style. Pin neat. Navy silk dress with white pleated trimmings at the neck. Though her head-dress was all that formality required, it had been pared down to essentials, shorn of the over-lavish folds and ruches of the traditional confection. It framed an oval face in which the most striking feature was a large pair of hazel eyes. She was a woman in her forties, Joe guessed, who’d had her training during or before the war. She had about her the stillness and economy of gesture of a nun but her eyes—or was it the laughter lines around them?—spoke of a deeper experience than the walls of a convent. Joe reminded himself that this was the woman who had been meticulous enough to descend to the basement kitchen to check the credentials of two unannounced Health Department inspectors and join them in a discussion on the state of the drains. Orford had thought he’d got away with it but Joe wondered about that.

She smiled and indicated that they should sit down in the chairs on the opposite side of the desk. She kept them waiting while she examined their warrants with care. “Commissioner. Superintendent. I’m so pleased to welcome you to the front office. I’m Ellen Frobisher. I usually have a cup of coffee at this hour, will you join me?”

She rang a bell and a female secretary appeared in the doorway. “Susannah, coffee for three this morning please.” She turned again to her two visitors. “It will be here directly. Susannah makes it in her room across the corridor. We won’t have to wait for it to come up from the kitchens, you’ll be glad to hear. Now, do tell me what I may do for you? We’re not accustomed to helping out gentlemen in our ladies’ clinic, so I’m preparing for a surprise.”

“A surprise, I’m sure, but a sad one,” Joe began. “We’re bearers of news—bad news, I’m afraid. Concerning Miss Natalia Kirilovna who was here as a patient, we have been led to believe. At any rate, on the premises from last Tuesday until Saturday.”

“Was? What has happened to her?”

“She’s dead. She died from a gunshot to the head on Saturday morning. Murder or suicide? The autopsy is at present being done at Scotland Yard and I expect to have further information for you in good time.”

The lady appeared stunned but, quickly establishing control, she asked, “Do you suspect anyone of her murder, Commissioner?”

“One or two suspects come to mind. Perhaps you can help us?” She nodded and Joe pressed on. “She is believed to have driven down to Surrey in a Maybach Zeppelin, registered to this establishment, in the company of two gentlemen named Onslow and Cummings. Are they known to you?”

“Yes. Employees—though on a sporadic and temporary basis. They are chauffeurs. If a client is signing out of our care but feeling a little wobbly and doesn’t wish to travel by taxi or have transport of her own, we ring up Kerry Onslow and ask him to deliver her home in the Maybach. Our other vehicle is a Hispano-Suiza. We do not run an ambulance service for reasons of discretion and anonymity but the two large cars suffice. If, for reasons of delicacy, a woman driver is required, I perform that service myself.”

Noting their silent puzzlement, she went on with a challenge in her tone: “For example—we had a case of rape so serious it required the very best surgery to effect a repair and the young victim could not bear to see a man in her orbit for months after the event.”

Joe knew she was trying to shock them. Test them out.

“Natalia was feeling better and wished for some country air, she told me. She told me she’d be back by tea time. She knows the two drivers well and I trust them. We’ve never had a complaint about them. Not the slightest problem. I think you must look elsewhere for her killer, if indeed, it was not herself. She had been having emotional problems recently. With an overpowering and demanding man who fancied himself her fiançé. He was in the disconcerting habit of trailing after her all over the world. Finally, after an unsuccessful attempt to dissuade him, she fled here for a few days rest. Emotionally distraught. We have supplied her with accommodation in the annexe on several occasions when she’s been in London. She is, after all, a shareholder of some consequence in the business. We give her every consideration.”

“Her emotional balance, naturally, is in the forefront of our minds. It would be of interest to us to know if she had a visitor—perhaps even this man you mention—before she took off. Something clearly triggered the flight by Maybach … or someone. May I see your visitors’ book? That might help.”

Her response was instant. “Of course you may.” She opened a drawer and took out a large red leather notebook. Joe noted two further ones alongside—one blue, the other black.

“The writing is Susannah’s. She keeps the records. She is available to answer any further questions you still have.”

Joe opened the book using the red ribbon page marker provided and turned back to the week beginning the previous Monday.

“May I ask you, gentlemen, to confirm your discretion? This is a private health clinic and we guarantee absolute anonymity for our clients. I would not be showing you this, were the circumstances less disturbing.”

“Of course, Matron.” Joe ran a finger down the list. The patients were discreetly referred to by what Joe presumed to be their room number. The signatures were either illegible or clearly pseudonyms. Florence Nightingale appeared to have visited twice. Annoyed by the smug confidence that accompanied his perusal of the list, Joe raised his eyebrows and chortled. “Aha! Lucky for some! I see the lady occupant of room twenty three enjoyed the attentions of Rudolph Valentino for half an hour last Tuesday!”

Her flare of surprise was replaced with an indulgent grimace at his little joke but the starch in Miss Frobisher’s smile was slightly wilted as she hurried to point out: “Natalia’s number is two-B. It refers to the suite she occupied.”

“A VISIT ON Wednesday evening. Lasting for a half hour. From her maid, Miss Ivanova. And that’s all. That’s all?”

“That is a complete record. Her maid was delivering a small case containing personal possessions.”

“No visits after Wednesday …”

“That is the whole point, Commissioner. She needed privacy and rest. No one but her maid knew her whereabouts and, having seen her mistress settled, no further attention from the outside world was required or advised.”

“Do you have a record of people arriving at the clinic for purposes other than visiting?”

“Of course. If you wish to see when exactly our groceries were delivered, when our drains were last inspected, you may see the blue book.”

The blue book joined the red one on the desk and Joe made a cursory inspection, noting that no traffic was logged for the time Julia had rung the bell. One courier arriving at nine that evening was listed. Apart from that—an uneventful Friday evening.

“What other record of arrivals do you keep apart from this?”

“Only the record of our clinical clients. Established patients or ladies seeking appointments and that I will not let you see.”

Joe knew that she was within her rights. It would take a good deal of time and argy-bargy to get a search warrant in the circumstances. With their connections, he acknowledged it might never be forthcoming. He was never going to be allowed to open the black book.

The two men expressed appreciation for the excellent coffee they were served and made polite conversation with Matron over the Worcester china cups. Ellen Frobisher showed no sign that she was eager to be rid of them. She even refrained from consulting the large watch that dangled distractingly on a red ribbon over her left breast.

As they stood and shook hands, Joe held her long cool fingers and asked one last question. “Could you tell me his name? The father of Natalia’s baby? I should like to speak to him.”

She snatched her hand away and took a pace back from him. “What on earth are you talking about, man? Miss Kirilovna was not even pregnant.”

“WELL SO MUCH for turning the clinic upside down,” Bacchus commented grumpily as they retreated to the squad car. “Not the slightest touch of pregnancy, eh? That rather wrecks your theories, doesn’t it? You’re absolutely sure of the day and time of the maid’s second visit?” Bacchus asked grumpily as they retreated to their car.

“Armitage and I both noted it. She rang the bell and we watched her go into the reception hall. We waited for a quarter of an hour. She was back at the hotel two hours later.”

“Well, she wasn’t there to visit or make a delivery so—if they recorded it at all, and that must be a big ‘if’—she has to have been there in the capacity of patient herself. Or making an appointment. Your Julia was a black book entry.”

“Why would she do that? Women’s problems? She appears perfectly healthy.”

“No, she’s not, Joe! Even I noticed she’s had infantile paralysis and she’s coping with the effects of it still. It can’t be easy for her. She makes the best of it when she knows there’s someone watching but I’ve spotted moments when that pretty face shows she’s going through agony. Massage required? Painkillers? Drugs of some sort? A place like that—they could probably prescribe and supply just about anything, legal or illegal.”

“Telephone. Let’s get back to my office. That annoying woman may have held back on her clients but I had a good look at her blue supplies and deliveries book. There’s a laboratory whose name appeared two or three times last week. I’ll look up their address. They sent a courier to St. Catherine’s a couple of hours after Julia called by. I’ll see if I can trick some information out of them.”

JOE WAS GLAD Bacchus was driving an unmarked police car. No taxi driver would have agreed to venture out here. A squad car would have been stoned. He was down in the dark and dirt among the roots here all right.

“Well, this is it, Joe. Tower Bridge and civilisation behind us, the Highway and two miles of derelict port facilities in front. Half way between Wapping and Whitechapel. A stride or two away from the Thames. I bet Miss Frobisher hasn’t ventured out this far to check the credentials of her suppliers.”

“Not the back of beyond you might think. It’s minutes from the centre of London, access to the river and all the space you might need for little outlay. Number One, Waterman’s Reach, is what we’re looking for. This place was badly bombed in Zeppelin raids during the war. But I see signs of rebuilding. There! That’s it. That new place. Huge. Warehouse size. High windows, barred. I expect security’s a problem in these parts.”

Bacchus grunted. “Are they keeping crime out or crime in? That’s what we need to know. How are you going to find out?”

“I’ll think of something.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Keep your hand in your pocket and look sinister.”

Joe banged heartily on the door.

The single man who greeted them claimed to be the manager, Mr. Kent. Joe noted he affected a flapping white surgical coat over his everyday clothes. He was young, too young to have been in the war, and brash with it. A Londoner. Unimpressed by Joe’s uniform or Bacchus’s expression, he asked cheerily how he might help them.

“We’re here to help you, Mr. Kent.” Joe gave him a dark smile. “We’re here to make sure you keep this business a going concern. Were you aware that your building is sited on the boundary line between Wapping and Whitechapel? It was redrawn after the bombings and there’s been some dispute. Upshot is—it’s been discovered that you’ve been paying local business taxes to one council when it should have been going to the other.”

“Naw! We’re in Wapping here. Always have been.”

“The Mayor’s office thinks otherwise. And Whitechapel is about to claim back ten years of unpaid rates. If you aren’t able to come up with the sum in question, I’m instructed to close you down until it can be sorted out. That could take six months. Plenty of time to become an ex-business.”

Kent’s hatchet features sharpened further. His eyes narrowed in understanding and disdain. “Aw! I get it! What’s your price? It’s the upper ranks running the protection rings now is it? Don’t you know the Fuzz have tried already? The Bow Street Boys? My boss saw them off right sharp. What the hell are you after?”

“Cooperation. First of all, a little information. Describe your business to me will you?”

They listened to a deliberately dull account of the world of pharmacological supplying, its successes and pitfalls, delivered in a high-pitched voice trying for a classy accent. An effort to impress? No. Joe decided: to belittle and annoy.

“And when I send a crew in to the rear part of these very large premises, they’ll find no substances I couldn’t with safety prescribe to my aunty?” Joe asked with mock innocence.

“Oh! That’s it! Now we’ve got there! That’s drug squad business. They turned us over last month. Don’t you talk to each other? Clean as a whistle. The kind of people we work with have no truck with that sort of nonsense.”

Joe improvised. “It’s the other sort of nonsense I’m interested in.”

“Not that again! The animals are perfectly happy. Until their moment comes, of course. But it’s in a good cause, I reckon. People see that.”

“What kind of animals?”

“Rabbits mainly. Used to be rats. No shortage of those round here.” He grinned. “But our clients are very picky—they require something more delicate, fluffier, less … rodent-like.” Into the astonished silence that greeted this, he went on, enjoying his moment: “The kind of ladies we deal with would run a mile at the thought that Thames rats were involved in the process. Though with supplies the way they are, when push comes to shove …”

“What is the time lag these days?” Joe broke in feeling his way through to the light that was dawning for him.

“That’s the thing! Everybody wants it instant. Used to be four, five days to develop an A-Z sample but these German blokes at St. Catherine’s have got it down to two days. They know their stuff! It’s all in the ears—the veins in the ears. Much easier to process. Our staff were never keen on doing the entrails. You ever looked inside a rat?”

“More times than you’ve had hot dinners, mate!” Joe tapped the ugly scar on his forehead, his memento of the trenches. “Sometimes they were our hot dinners. Now then—if you had a request for such a procedure on, say, this last Friday evening …?”

“Results Sunday night. We’re open all hours.”

“The request from St. Catherine’s last Friday. The one you picked’ up at nine o’clock. Do you have the results?”

“ ’Course. We phoned it through as instructed last night.”

“Result?”

Kent looked at him with truculence and suspicion. “Oh, no! Sorry. No can do. Can’t risk it. More than my job’s worth.”

Joe pushed a pile of papers from the desk onto the floor and dumped his briefcase in the space he’d created. He began to unbuckle the fastenings. “Then I must ask you to sign a few papers for the Mayor’s office and prepare to close down by … tomorrow. That’ll give you time to make arrangements for the livestock and we’ll be round with the blue and white tapes at midday. Pen, please, Superintendent?”

Bacchus offered his Mont Blanc with a flourish and began to dust down a square foot of desk top with his sleeve.

“Oh, bugger you! Positive. It was positive!” Struck by a sudden thought, Kent leered. “ ’Ere—are you the father? Is that what this is all about? It’s personal, innit? Well, sod you—you’ve no right coming down here bothering us. We never do personal. We’d get shut down. I’m going to report this to your superior!”

“Oh, yes?”

Kent at last began to count Joe’s stripes. He took a long assessing look at his gold braid, his war wound and his barely contained amusement, and shrugged. “Gawn! I’ll see you out, Guv.” And with an evil grin: “If I had a bleedin’ cigar, I’d treat you.”

“WELL, ARE YOU …?” Bacchus asked as they climbed back into the car.

“The father? Lord no!”

“Glad to hear it. I was going to say: are you ever going to tell me what the hell’s going on? What do the veins in the ears of some rabbit in the hands of that ghastly little tick have to do with affairs of state?”

“I begin to think—less and less. I wonder if there’s a personal aspect to all this that we’re missing, so blinded are we by the limelight of international conspiracy. Julia pregnant? That’s a thought to conjure with! But, according to Mr. Kent, the nine o’clock sample collected on Friday night gave a positive result thanks to their advanced testing procedures and that result has been duly reported. She knows.”

“I don’t believe it! That sweet little thing?” Bacchus was stunned.

“Have we been watching the same girl?”

THE TELEPHONE ON Joe’s desk rang at exactly eleven o’clock. Professor Reginald Stone declared himself and gave Joe five minutes to say his piece. He was not pleased to be caught between lectures. He listened to Joe’s request to recall once again the sequence of events between the finding of the gold coin and the stowing away in the colonel’s handkerchief, sighed and tutted in irritation.

“Thank you, sir. Commendably succinct,” Joe said, when he’d finished.

“Brevis esse laboro,” came the predictable reply.

“Indeed. I will try to be equally brief. I’ve got two minutes left,” Joe said. “To set your mind at rest—I’m sure you’ve been worrying—the coin in the girl’s mouth was, as you warned us it might be, a copy. A very good one and one with a high gold content but—a facsimile. So convincing a specimen must have been moulded from an original, according to our expert with a microscope. I’d like you to give me the names of the London owners of such a coin. Including such as have sold them on or reported them stolen.”

The professor listed five names.

“Thank you for that. You’ve been a considerable help, Professor.”

Five names. One recurring.

He’d got him.

The man he’d begun to think of as the mad choreographer. The identity of the person behind these unpleasant crimes: the mistreatment of a body, the murder of a seaman, the terrorising and threat to the life of a good-hearted American senator for reasons Joe did not yet understand, was clear. Joe’s only problem was that he simply did not accept it. All he could do was arrange an interview and see how far he could push the evidence. He picked up the telephone again and made a careful call.

A knock on the door announced Inspector Orford.

“Orford! Come in and have a cup of coffee. You look as though you need one. Tell me how it went.”

Joe listened to the no-frills, professional account, guessing only from the occasional pause and use of a telling adjective that the announcement of death had been its usual gruelling experience.

“Well done. Good decision to let the story finish at the hospital. No need to burden the old girl with all those muddy riverbank theatricals and the disfigurement. That generation has a certain reverence for the dead which we are losing. We’re not in the business of piling pain on pain. Speaking of which … Orford, I know now who is responsible for that pain. The toe-chopping, the neck-breaking, the alarming notes and all the rest of the terrors. I’m not clear as to the motive that’s behind all the brutality and the madness and I doubt I ever shall be. But I have the identity. I’ve traced it back to a directorship of that clinic you charmed your way into: St. Catherine’s Clinic.”

Orford opened his eyes wide and whistled. “No! Sir, you’ll never get near! Untouchable, I’d say.”

“On the contrary,” Joe said with more cheerfulness than he felt. “I’ve issued an invitation to come up and see us. We have an appointment here in my office in half an hour. In preparation for which—pass me that envelope of prints from the lab, will you? I must study it again. And remind me … how many matches do we require these days to establish an absolute identity? Is it still twelve?”

“That’s right—twelve. Between eight and twelve, the judge will listen but take it only in conjunction with other elements of the evidence. Whatever that means! Fewer than eight—forget it.”

“Hmm …” Joe traced the photographs of smudgy prints with the end of his pencil, frowning. “We’re on thin ice here then. We have five. Decidedly dodgy. I’ll see what I can do. I shall just have to make a little go a long way. It convinces me but then—that’s why we have judges and juries. Look, Orford, I want you to be present to back me up. Don’t worry—I shan’t tell any whoppers but I may make an odd emphasis or two. All deniable. If I’ve got the wrong man it will soon be evident. I shall make a grovelling apology and off he’ll go, cursing me for a time-waster and ringing up his uncle in the Home Office. But I don’t think that’s how it’s going to turn out. You were in on this right from the beginning. It’s still your case. I’d like you to make the arrest. Can you buzz off and organise two uniformed coppers to stand by and … yes … a Black Maria, I think would be a fitting conveyance to the local nick. Vine Street, I suggest.”