Текст книги "A Spider in the Cup"

Автор книги: Barbara Cleverly

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Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

“Too late for some, I think, Captain.” His expression was hard to read.

“Seven years too late, Sarge? Perhaps that’s the answer—leave it to Time. Was that your antidote? Time? And distance?” He put the question carefully, conscious that this was his first reference to the tragedy he suspected lay behind the sergeant’s flight.

He needn’t have worried about being misunderstood. Armitage replied at once, “No. But—La vengeance se mange très bien froide. I’ve learned to appreciate cold dishes since I emigrated.”

So that was what had brought him back. Could it be so simple?

Revenge. The notion had crossed Joe’s mind but he’d questioned it. He’d told Bacchus that he, Joe, might expect a bullet in the head from the formidable sergeant but there was someone else, he knew, who was a much more deserving target for Armitage’s wrath. The woman responsible for making him flee the country with a capital charge of murder on his head. And a broken heart.

“Watch it, Bill! There’s a much older saying that I’ve learned to put great store by. Confucius. ‘Before you embark on a journey of revenge,’ the wise man advised, ‘dig two graves.’ ”

CHAPTER 5

The telephone shrilled as Armitage was giving this his silent consideration. He stepped forward to lift the receiver. “Yes, he’s here … It’s for you, sir. Cottingham.”

Joe took the phone. “Ralph? Still here, yes. Message from the Yard? Yes, go ahead … Where? Dug up in Chelsea? A few yards from my own front door, you’re saying … I think I may have an alibi. Tell them to look elsewhere …

“What! Say that again … I see. And they say they want you? Must be important … but—no.”

He looked directly at Armitage, implying that he was speaking for his benefit also. “No. I’m countermanding that order. I want you to remain on duty here, overseeing things. The senator is well guarded—he has his own eminently capable guard dog at his side. I’ll deal with this other matter myself. Tell them I have it in hand and I’ll be at the Yard in ten minutes.”

“You’re walking out on us?” Armitage asked. “I have other duties. And a dead body perhaps should take precedence over one that is not likely to become so in the immediate future. Law enforcement before politicking, Armitage. I decided my priorities a long time ago. And I’m senior enough to be able to indulge myself. Something very puzzling and very sinister has come—all too literally—to the surface in the middle of my patch and I’m going to cast an eye over it.” He took a step towards the door. “You know Cottingham, I think? Now Chief Superintendent Cottingham.”

Armitage nodded and confirmed: “Good bloke. We can work together. I’ll make your apologies to the senator. Don’t you worry about him—I’ve got his back.” A smile broke through, showing, Joe was sure, a gleam of envy, a reminder of the keen young detective Joe had known. “A body, eh? You’re still lead hound in this kennel, then?”

Joe knew for certain that the sergeant would have liked nothing better than to be running alongside, nose to the ground, following a trail.

THERE WAS AN indignant detective inspector waiting to brief him in his office.

The man, to whom Joe was relieved he could give a name—Orford, that was it, Orford—was red-faced and breathing heavily. He was standing about, tense, and giving off a smell of river water and sweat. In his agitation, he ignored Joe’s invitation to take a seat. Calmly, Joe took the bowler hat from the twitching fingers and put it firmly on the hat stand. The command to sit down was accepted when Joe repeated it more forcefully. It was followed by a friendly request for an account of the inspector’s adventures on the riverbank.

Joe listened, fascinated, to his account of the discovery a short time ago. Inspector Orford knew a good deal about the case since, while in the area on police business, he’d been diverted from an early morning stakeout by the sound of police whistles and shouting. He’d been very quickly on the scene. Joe was invited to figure the inspector’s horror when he’d come upon seven members of the public digging up and making off with a corpse with the apparent collusion of two uniformed beat bobbies. A pair of strapping blokes in red neckerchiefs were helping the officers to load the body onto a sling hurriedly fashioned from their police capes and carry it up to the Chelsea embankment.

“But the scene of crime!” the inspector revealed that he’d yelled. “You’ve pounded it to pieces! Nothing should be disturbed! You know the procedures!”

Joe had nodded, understanding that the man was carefully covering his back. “Quite a proper response,” he’d said encouragingly. “Do go on.”

A different view had prevailed when one of the bobbies had pointed to the river. The desperately struggling officer had informed the inspector in blunt terms that in three minutes time he’d have lost the scene of crime under six foot of water. He’d remarked that they were lucky they’d got the manpower on hand to get her out before worse occurred and muttered that he didn’t believe even a Met inspector had the power to command the Thames to retreat. Orford had lost no time in getting his Oxfords wet. He’d declared himself, in accordance with the latest practice: Scene of Crime Officer. As such, all decisions were his to take and not even the Commissioner, if he’d come strolling by, would have had the authority to say him nay. A bold move and the inspector’s subsequent instructions showed a calm and decisive mind, Joe concluded. He further concluded that the officer had assumed—and who should blame him?—that he would be given responsibility for the follow-up police work.

“So there you have it, sir,” Orford finished resentfully. “A corpse preserved in the nick of time, and waiting on the slab. The case taken out of my hands and handed over to a superior officer. Handed over, what’s more, at the suggestion of a member of the public.” His tone grew steely. “But a well-connected member of the public. Makes a difference. If that will be all, sir, I will surrender my notes to you. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have other things waiting for my attention.” He rose slightly in his seat, awaiting dismissal.

Joe had been impressed by the man’s speed of reaction, his workman-like methods, his sure-footed control throughout the whole difficult and unusual recovery of the body. He’d spotted with a flash of sympathy the tide line of oily Thames water reaching up over the knees of the inspector’s smart grey trousers, the soggy state of the black Oxfords on his feet. And, lastly, Joe had appreciated the man’s pluck in speaking up in a tone that bordered on mutiny to his Assistant Commissioner.

“No, that won’t be all, inspector. Remain seated, will you?” Joe said pleasantly. “This is your case. I’m handing it straight back to you.” He reached down and opened the murder bag he always kept to hand by his desk. “Look, I can’t offer much in the way of fresh trousering and clean shoes, but these might help.” He found and handed over a pair of black woollen socks. “Always keep a spare pair by me.”

Guardedly, the officer tugged off his shoes and squelching socks and pulled on the fresh pair. His face melted into an expression of bliss as he eased the soft fabric up to his knees. “Cor! That’s a good moment! Nothing like the feel of dry socks sliding up your shins. My old Ma used to send me a pair every month. I think you must have been in the trenches, too, sir?”

“Long enough to appreciate dry feet. As good for the spirits as a cease-fire.”

Joe picked up the shoes and, talking as he went, strolled over to park them on the sunny window sill where they sat, steaming gently. “You ought to know, Orford, that there are things going on in London even I have no knowledge of. The city’s full of important foreigners, some here with evil intent. There’s clearly something about this body that someone …” he stabbed a forefinger upwards at the ceiling, “wants kept quiet. If I were you, I’d be grateful that some other bugger with more gold frogging on his uniform has been shoved in to carry the can, which may well turn out to be full of worms.”

The inspector stared in surprise and sat back more easily in his chair.

“I’ll look into it. Think of me as advisor and can carrier, will you? Now fill me in on a few more details in the car. We’ll go straight there. Which hospital have they taken her to? St. Mary’s? St. Bartholomew’s?”

“Neither. She’s on the premises, so to speak. A few yards down the embankment in the police lab.” Orford paused, noted Joe’s raised eyebrow and answered his unspoken question. “Dunno, sir. It’s all a bit hush-hush. I’d guess somebody at the end of the line decided that until identity is established it might be more discreet to keep this one under wraps on our own premises. Even though conditions aren’t perfect.”

Joe nodded. “Hospitals being rather soft targets for the gentlemen of the press … easy of access and bribable informants behind every screen?”

“And this body being one as would be likely to get the flash bulbs popping and the headlines shrieking … Just wait till you’ve seen her, sir, you’ll start composing headlines yourself. I did!” Orford sighed. “The only reason the press hasn’t got wind of it is this group of witnesses knows how to keep their mouths shut. They’re not the sort who’d go blabbing. Members of some society or other … dowsers—that’s it. And the female in charge is a lady you’d not disobey if she told you to keep shtum. The Home Office has appointed a pathologist and he’s at it right now …” He put up a hand to ward off Joe’s objection. “No, no! Preliminary inspection only. He’s awaiting the arrival of the appointed case officer at the slab side before he gets down to any serious slicing. You don’t need to spell out the rules to a St. Bartholomew’s man.”

Joe grunted. “He probably wrote them. Name?”

“He’s one of the best. Dr. Rippon. Professor Sir Bernard Spilsbury’s department.” The inspector mentioned the name of the Home Office Pathologist in chief with reverence. “Sir Bernard’s student, now his colleague.” The inspector grinned wickedly. “Our demanding witness claims an acquaintance with the good professor and insisted he be fetched to officiate in person. Unfortunately, the person of Sir Bernard was not available to us on this occasion. He’s taking a well-earned break in Cornwall at the moment so we were unable to oblige. They agreed to accept Dr. Rippon when I clobbered them with his credentials.”

“Ah yes—these so-helpful witnesses? You say you have a list?”

Joe looked at the sheet of paper Orford produced from his file and burst out laughing. “Colonel This, Professor That, the Honorable The Other … Good God, man! You’ve got the English establishment on your back! What a lineup! I shall enjoy hearing them perform. Shall we take a minute to arrange an audition with this Greek Chorus? Back here at the Yard? Where’ve you confined them? I’ll ask my secretary to summon them here.”

“Well, tell her to ring up the Savoy Grill. They’ve gone off there, the whole group, all squeezed into a taxi, to have an early lunch. Keeping themselves available, so to speak. I, er, judged the presence of so many assertive characters on the premises counterproductive, sir, and made the luncheon suggestion myself. Though I believe I recommended the nearest Joe Lyons Tea Room. Ask for Colonel Swinton—he’s footing the bill. I mean—playing host.”

“Right. I’ll tell my Miss Snow to fix up a meeting for, say, two o’clock. That suit you? It’ll give you and me a few minutes for a sandwich at the Red Lion in Scotland Court.”

“If we still have the stomach for corned beef and tomato ketchup after a two-hour autopsy, sir.”

Joe grinned. “I think I shall give the slice off the joint a miss for once. Get your shoes and hat, Orford. You’re Scene of Crime officer. It won’t do to keep Dr. Rippon standing about.”

The inspector shot to his feet, eager to be off. He seemed prepared to join in Joe’s malicious amusement. “Glad to have you aboard, sir!” he commented.

CHAPTER 6

The rooms that passed for a police laboratory were a few yards downstream in a building of ornate layer-cake architecture matching the rest of Norman Shaw’s New Scotland Yard headquarters. Lined with filing cabinets and shelves of dusty bottles and cluttered with piles of decaying gear that seemed to have been around since Victorian times, the rooms always struck Joe as dim and dank. They lacked the sleek modernity of St. Mary’s or St. Bartholmew’s, where pathology was normally performed. No tiled walls here. No easily sluiced-down mosaic flooring. No Matron to insist on the level of cleanliness that the great hospitals had to offer.

Joe felt obliged to apologise to the pathologist who was standing at the ready in the middle of the postmortem room. “Dr. Rippon! Sorry to find you still working in this rathole. Would you believe me if I told you the gleaming new forensic medicine facilities at Hendon College are even as we speak being dusted off ready for use?”

“No. I wouldn’t. And I didn’t believe you when you fed me the same line on ten previous occasions. Sandilands! How d’ye do?”

The handsome young man was managing to smile politely while conveying his disapproval. Though he could admire the facial contortions, Joe read the warning signs and hurried on with his business. He drew forward to the inspector. “And I believe you’ve met our Detective Inspector Orford in whose hands the case has been placed. He remains your contact—your Scene of Crime bloke. I’m here to hover about smoothing feathers and offering a reassuring flash of gold braid to a demanding public if I read it aright.”

The pathologist smiled more broadly. “Ah, yes. The modern policing. Like justice, it has to be seen to be done. You’re going to have your work cut out to get to the bottom of this one, I think,” he warned. “I’ll say straight away that this is, as the inspector concluded, a case of murder. I am discounting suicide or mischance for a very spectacular reason which I will reveal as we go along.”

Joe watched as, greetings over, the men plunged straight into their task. He was content to stand back and observe.

Dr. Rippon was a tall man with a pink and white complexion, sharp grey eyes and immaculately cut fair hair. He had a pair of stout rubber boots on his feet and rubber gloves on his hands. A pure white starched pinafore reached down to his ankles. Well-muscled arms were bare below the short-sleeves of his cotton shirt. He glowed with health and cleanliness, lighting up his dilapidated surroundings.

Rippon leapt straight into a professional briefing with the inspector, giving assurances that he had not started on the autopsy but had used his time to perform an eyes-only inspection of the corpse. With a gesture, he invited Joe to move forward and join them at the table on which the remains were lying and tactfully allowed the two policemen a moment to take in the pitiful sight.

They looked silently at the spotlit offering laid out on the marble table. Joe could only imagine the effect this small creature would have had on what, oddly, he was ready to think of as her rescuers as she emerged from the Thames mud. Her well-shaped body was outlined by the clinging folds of a still-damp garment, which looked very like an ancient Greek chiton. Joe had seen her brothers and sisters in the British Museum on carvings taken from the Parthenon by the enterprising Lord Elgin in the last century. The short pleated skirt reached to her knees, revealing muscled calves and a pair of sturdy bare feet which seemed to have slipped out of their sandals no more than a moment ago.

Even in death, the face was lovely, the profile so pure that Joe again recalled the carved features of the young men and maidens of Athens walking and riding in triumphant procession, marble noses tilted at an angle of challenge to the world, worthy images of their gods. Her hair reinforced his theory that the girl was foreign. It was beginning to dry out into a thick curling mop that reached her shoulders. Very dark, in shade. Almost black. The eyes were closed.

Following his gaze, the doctor murmured, “Eyes dark brown. That strange chestnut colour you only seem to encounter in the south of France. Come and take a look. There, don’t you agree? I’d say she’s probably not English. Like most Londoners these days,” he added with a smile. “She could be French or Italian.”

Joe was too preoccupied with his own turbulent thoughts to give an answer. He was feeling sick with foreboding.

“Any identification yet?” The doctor broke the silence.

They shook their heads.

“I’ve requested a list of missing girls from records and asked for it to be delivered to me here,” Orford supplied.

“Then you’ll have to listen to what the girl herself is telling us,” said Rippon. “It’s not much. In fact, I’ve never had to deal with a subject that was so successfully cleaned of any clues as to her death—or life. Here she is, exactly as she was brought in. Female. Mid-twenties? No jewellery, no wristwatch, no laundry marks on her clothing as far as I can see. Well nourished, no broken bones in evidence. Good teeth. Her limbs are graceful but well developed. She has the body of a circus performer or an athlete. What else can I tell you? She’s wearing something—not much—but it’s rather distinctive. A tennis dress? Wimbledon on yet, is it? Whatever it is it must be very nearly new. And the matching undergarments are, equally, of good quality. They bear the label of an Italian manufacturer.”

Joe was staring at the body in growing horror. Keeping his voice casual he asked: “Can you tell at this stage how long she’s been dead, doctor?”

Rippon reacted to his concern with a brisk reply: “Between two and three days. I can tell you more precisely when I’ve examined the stomach contents. Briefly: rigor had passed but putrefaction has not yet set in. The temperature of the Thames will have to be taken into calculation of course and I’ll give you my best estimate later. The cold water will have affected decomposition and washed away any tell-tale foam at the mouth and effluvia from all orifices.”

The inspector quivered with rage. “Those darned witnesses … the diggers … the dowsers … they were actually pouring buckets of river water over her!”

He was silenced at once by the grave tone of the doctor. “No one’s blaming them. Anything of use to us would have disappeared in the one, two, however many tides that had already swept over the spot before they found her. If it weren’t for their efforts this morning, the body would have been lost to us—possibly for eternity. Had it been subsequently scoured to the surface it would have been swept away miles down river and out to sea by any current strong enough to dislodge it in the first place. And we owe them thanks for their fast reactions in summoning your help and then digging up and transporting the body. The scene of crime—or deposition, rather; the assumed crime most probably did not occur on that spot—was rendered unusable but they took the only action they could to preserve the corpse. Stout chaps,” he concluded.

Joe was intrigued sufficiently by the unexpected warmth of the doctor’s accolade to ask, “You met them? The dowsers?”

“I had that privilege. We all arrived on the premises at the same moment.” He flinched. “Quite a circus! Couldn’t swat them away! They gave me my instructions.” He smiled at the well-meaning presumption. “They clearly saw themselves as responsible for the dead girl. Her guardians in death. Anyway, they weren’t about to surrender her to any uncaring or unqualified hands.”

Orford pulled a face. “They liked the doc’s credentials but didn’t reckon much to mine!”

“There was a military man there whom you should interview. He seemed to be their spokesman. Colonel something …”

“Swinton,” Orford supplied.

“He had made safe an important piece of evidence—our only piece of evidence—and he handed it to me wrapped in his pocket handkerchief. I’ll show you in a minute.”

He sighed. “But apart from that stroke of luck, what we have on our slab is tabula rasa, I’m afraid—at least on the outside. We’re going to have to rely on internal evidence, gentlemen. Will you be staying?” he asked, selecting a scalpel.

The two policemen nodded.

He used his knife to cut the skimpy tunic at the shoulders and slip it off the body. Orford was ready with a bag to receive the garment. “Beige silk and not a lot of it,” the inspector mumbled. “Now what do we make of that? And, as you say, a foreign label. Reminds me of those saucy things showgirls wear on stage … ‘fleshings,’ they call them. Meant to hide their attributes from the audience so as not to upset the censors.” He coloured and added quickly, “I did a stint with Victoria Vice, sir, some years ago. Checking the girls weren’t moving about on stage. This looks like the same clinging stuff they used to wear but it’s not for the same purpose I’d say. I mean—it’s hardly titillating is it? Bunched pleats like a Greek tunic.”

“Whoever she was, she wasn’t auditioning for Rudolpho’s Revue in Soho,” the doctor agreed, surprisingly.

“No. This is more like the strange outfits those keep-fit-and-healthy types dance around maypoles in. It’s June again. What’s that woman’s name? Isadora Duncan! She’s got a lot to answer for! Are we looking at one of her handmaidens?”

The remaining underwear was bagged likewise and Orford scribbled an identifying note.

“The foot, doctor? Have you taken a look?”

“I have. It would seem to be important. And the most distinctive piece of physical evidence we have so far. The digitus primus pedis on her right is missing. Severed at the time of death or immediately after by a sharp implement. Deliberately severed, I’d conclude. No sign that it was torn off or shot off or crushed in machinery, which is how most toes are lost. And the missing digit was not found at the site. Not much time to search, of course.”

“My men will be going in again when the tide’s gone down,” said the inspector. “But we aren’t hopeful.”

“It is the occasional habit of the murdering fraternity to hang on to personal items taken from the bodies of their victims,” the doctor suggested. “Usually it’s a lock of hair or a piece of underwear but none of us will ever forget Jack the Ripper’s little collection of memorabilia.”

They stared at the feet until Orford, echoing all their thoughts remarked. “Can’t say I’m much of a lady’s man and perhaps I shouldn’t judge but … wouldn’t you say these feet were … um … remarkably unattractive? I mean, they could belong to a man’s body.”

“Indeed,” the doctor agreed. “More goat-herd than nymph. They are calloused and rough on the underside and the toes are thickened and deformed.”

Joe decided that he could keep the lid on his simmering suspicions no longer. “I think I can account for that,” he said miserably. “And for the dress. You fellows clearly don’t have sisters or daughters, do you?”

They looked at him in surprise and shook their heads.

“I have. My sister had three of these tunic things when she was a girl. Lydia has feet very like these ones. She can still use them as blunt instruments. She was a keen ballet dancer. What we’re looking at is a practice tunic. Dancers don’t float about in tutus all the time. They put these garments on when they’re exercising or rehearsing.”

Orford sighed in satisfaction. “Then we’ve as good as got her! There’s a big ballet company in town at the moment and it’s jam-packed with foreign girls.”

“The Ballets Russes de Monte Carlo,” Joe supplied. “At the Alhambra, Leicester Square. So that reduces our search to—in the region of—oh, about fifty girls? Counting soloists, corps de ballet, reserve troupe and hangers on. A large number but they all know each other well. Easy enough to get someone to come along and do an ID. If we have no luck there, we can try the rival company appearing at Covent Garden—Lydia Lopokova’s lot. Failing there, we’ll have to spread our net wider into the local ballet schools.”

“One of our ballerinas is missing,” muttered the inspector. “Three days? You’d have thought someone would have noticed swan number six in the lineup had gone AWOL, wouldn’t you?”

“Perhaps someone has,” Joe said quietly, in a voice heavy with premonition and chill with fear.

The two policemen could not repress a startled reaction to the peremptory knock on the door.