A Bespoke Murder (9 page)

Marmion gathered up the pages. ‘I promised to have these sent back at once to the War Office. They’ve fulfilled their purpose.’

‘What’s the next step, Inspector?’

‘The commissioner will have to go into battle for us.’

‘Do you think there’ll be opposition?’

‘I’m certain of it, Joe. The army won’t want any of its men subject to a police investigation. They need every soldier they can get. Sir Edward will have to use his full weight,’ said Marmion. ‘We must have warrants for the arrest of those men and documents that give us access to them. Apart from the rape, they may have also been guilty of looting the shop.’ His jaw tightened. ‘Gatliffe and Cochran are in for a big surprise.’

They had never been abroad before and the sheer novelty of France diverted their minds from the uncertainties that lay ahead. Private John Gatliffe and Private Oliver Cochran of the East Surrey Regiment were amazed by the long straight roads lined with trees and by the quaint villages through which they were driven to the cheers of the locals. When the procession stopped for refreshment and everyone hopped out of their respective lorries, the friends were able to have a quiet chat together. Gatliffe lit a cigarette then used its tip to light the one he’d just given to Cochran. After inhaling deeply, they blew out smoke in unison.

‘It’s so
different
, Ol, isn’t it?’ said Gatliffe.

‘Yes,’ said Cochran, gloomily. ‘We’re heading for a war zone.’

‘I was talking about the countryside and the people.’

‘The countryside is all right but I don’t like the look of the people. All we’ve seen so far are scrawny old men and ugly peasant women. I loathe the French.’

‘But they’re our allies.’

‘That doesn’t mean I have to like them.’

‘I’m hoping to learn some French while I’m here.’

Cochran was mystified. ‘Whatever for?’

‘So I can talk to them in their own language.’

‘That’s stupid, Gatty. If they want to talk to us, let them learn English. The only time we might need French is if we go on leave and find a brothel. Two words will do – “How much?” That’s unless we can get it free, of course.’

Gatliffe was uncomfortably reminded of the incident on their final night in England but he did not bring it up again. Cochran had told him to forget all about it and that was what his friend was trying and failing to do. After another pull on his cigarette, Gatliffe looked ahead.

‘What do you think it will be like, Ol?’

‘Where?’

‘At the front.’

‘I’ve got no idea.’

‘You hear such terrible stories.’

‘I just ignore them,’ said Cochran, airily.

‘Aren’t you afraid of the Germans?’

‘No, Gatty, I’m more afraid of the bloody Frenchies. They’ll let us down. They can’t even defend their own borders. If it wasn’t for us, the Germans would have occupied Paris by now.’

‘Why did you join up?’

‘You know why.’

‘I know you got that white feather – so did I. But was that the real reason? I enlisted because my cousin was badly wounded at Mons. They shipped back what was left of him and he hung on until this year before he died.’ Gatliffe hunched his shoulders. ‘Pete was just nineteen. When he first came home, I couldn’t bear to look at him. He’d lost both legs and an eye. I wanted to hit back at the Germans who’d done that to him.’ He went off into a reverie for a few minutes. When he jerked himself out of it, he turned to Cochran. ‘What about you, Ol?’

His friend blew out a smoke ring. ‘I was bored, Gatty.’

‘What – bored with living in Ewell?’

‘I was bored with everything. I was bored with my job, for a start. Mending roofs all day is no fun, I can tell you. I was bored with living at home and arguing with Dad time and time again. Most of all, I was bored with being asked by people why I hadn’t joined the army and gone off to fight for my country. In the end, I just wanted a bit of adventure so, when you decided to enlist, I did so as well.’

‘Weren’t you scared of the danger?’

‘No,’ said Cochran, emphatically. ‘You’re used to danger if you work as a roofer. I’ve seen two men badly injured after falling from a ladder and one killed when he slipped off a church roof. It can’t be much more dangerous than that at the front.’

‘Nothing ever seems to frighten you, does it?’ said Gatliffe, enviously. ‘I wish I was like that.’ A memory stabbed him like the thrust of a bayonet and he winced. ‘I also wish that we hadn’t bumped into that girl in London.’

‘Are you still worrying about that?’

‘I keep seeing her face, Ol.’

Cochran laughed. ‘I keep feeling her body and tasting her lips and remembering how I shot my spunk into her. It was terrific, Gatty, every second of it. You don’t know what you missed.’

Ruth Stein sat on the edge of the bath with the box of tablets in her hand. In her febrile mind, they seemed to offer an escape from the ruins of her life. She opened the packet, put a tablet in the palm of her hand and stared at it.

CHAPTER EIGHT

David Cohen was on the verge of tears as he stood outside what had once been his place of work. All that was left of the shop now was an empty smoke-blackened shell. A waist-high fence had been erected to keep anyone from actually entering the premises but, since there was nothing left to steal, it was largely redundant. Acting as a second line of defence was a solitary policeman. Cohen was bound to wonder why he and his colleagues had not been on duty there the day before to safeguard the premises.

Harvey Marmion had agreed to meet him in Jermyn Street rather than at Scotland Yard because he wanted to view the full extent of the damage in daylight. The two men stood side by side on the opposite pavement.

‘Mr Stein didn’t stand a chance,’ said Cohen, sorrowfully. ‘He was trapped upstairs by the fire.’

‘That’s not what happened,’ said Marmion, gently. ‘According to the pathologist conducting the post-mortem, your employer might have
been dead before the fire even reached him. I’ve issued a statement to the press to the effect that Jacob Stein was murdered.’

Cohen was horror-struck. ‘Murdered – but
how
?’

‘He was stabbed through the heart, sir.’

The news was like a hammer blow to Cohen. He needed minutes to recover from the shock. Dabbing at his eyes with a handkerchief he plucked from the sleeve of his jacket, he looked up to heaven in supplication. Cohen was the manager of the shop, the person entrusted to run it and handle any initial enquiries for the high-quality bespoke tailoring on offer. Since the man had worked there for well over fifteen years, Marmion deduced that he was good at his job. Otherwise Stein would not have kept him. Cohen was a slim, sinewy man of medium height in a superbly cut suit. Marmion put him somewhere in his early fifties.

‘What sort of an employer was he?’ asked Marmion.

‘You couldn’t wish to work for a better man,’ said Cohen, loyally. ‘It was a pleasure to be a member of his staff. He expected us to work hard, of course, but he set us all a perfect example.’

‘Did Mr Stein follow a set routine?’

‘Yes, Inspector – he was always the first to arrive and the last to leave. When the shop was closed, he’d take any cash and cheques from the till and put them in the safe upstairs. He was very conscious of security. That’s why all the doors had special locks.’

‘So when he went upstairs yesterday evening, he would have locked the door to the shop behind him.’

‘There’s no question about that.’

‘What about his other employees? I gather that apart from you, there were three full-time tailors and one man who worked part-time. Would they have had keys to all the doors?’

‘Oh, no,’ said Cohen, anxious to stress his seniority. ‘Only Mr Stein and I had a full set.’

‘What about the key to the safe?’

‘Mr Stein had that, Inspector. He kept a duplicate at home in case of loss. However, the key alone wouldn’t have opened the safe. You’d need to know the combination as well.’

‘Did anyone apart from Mr Stein know the combination?’

‘Nobody on the staff was told.’

‘What happened to the day’s takings if Mr Stein was not there and you had no access to his safe?’

‘It was only very rarely that he was absent during business hours. On such occasions,’ said Cohen, ‘I’d put everything in the night safe at the bank. He was such a kind man,’ he continued, wiping away a last tear, ‘and generous to a fault. Who could possibly have wanted to kill him?’

‘I’m hoping that
you
might point us in the right direction, sir.’

Cohen was nonplussed. ‘How can I do that?’

‘By providing more detail about him,’ said Marmion. ‘Mr Stein was clearly well known but success usually breeds envy. Is there anyone who might have nursed resentment against him?’

‘I can’t think of anybody.’

‘What about his business rivals?’

‘Well, yes, there were one or two people who felt overshadowed by him. That’s in the nature of things. But surely none of them would go to the length of killing him,’ argued Cohen. ‘When the shop was burnt down, we’d effectively have been put out of business for a long time. Wasn’t that enough?’

‘I’d like the names of any particular rivals.’

Cohen was circumspect. ‘I’m not accusing anyone, Inspector.’

‘That’s not what I’m asking you to do, sir,’ said Marmion. ‘I just want an insight into the closed world of gentlemen’s tailoring. Nobody is universally admired and none of us look benevolently upon all our fellow human beings. We tend to like or loathe. Is there anyone about whom Mr Stein spoke harshly?’

‘Yes,’ admitted the other, ‘there were a few people whom he regarded with …’ He searched for the right word. ‘Well, let’s call it suspicion rather than contempt.’

‘I’d appreciate their names, Mr Cohen.’

‘Very well – but you’re looking in the wrong direction.’

‘I’d also like the names of any employees who might have left under a cloud. Have any been dismissed in the last year?’

‘There was one,’ said Cohen, uneasily, ‘and another left of his own accord shortly afterwards. Not because of any bad treatment from Mr Stein, I hasten to add. They were simply … not suitable employees.’

‘Yet he must have thought so when he took them on.’

‘We all make errors of judgement, Inspector.’

‘So Mr Stein was not the paragon you portray him as,’ observed Marmion, taking out a pad and pencil. ‘Before I have those names from you, answer me this, if you will. I take it that you know Mr Stein’s brother quite well.’

‘Yes, I do,’ said the other, guardedly.

‘How did the two of them get on?’

David Cohen was too honest a man to tell a direct lie. At the same time, he did not wish to divulge confidential information and so he retreated into silence and gave an expressive shrug.

Marmion read the message in his eyes.

‘Very well,’ he said, ‘let’s have those names, shall we?’

* * *

Detective Sergeant Joe Keedy had conducted countless interviews during his time as a policeman but none had resembled the one in which he took part that evening. Visiting the pub where members of the destructive mob had reportedly been drinking before they made for Jermyn Street, Keedy sought out Douglas Emmott, who worked there behind the bar. Emmott was a short, slender, ebullient man in his thirties with a swarthy complexion and shiny dark hair that gave him an almost Mediterranean look. When Keedy explained who he was and why he was there, Emmott took a combative stance.

‘Yes, I was there,’ he confessed, freely, ‘and, if you want the truth, I’m damned glad that I was.’

Anticipating lies and evasion, Keedy was taken aback by the man’s defiant honesty. Emmott put his hands on his hips.

‘Given the chance,’ he said, ‘I’d do the same thing again.’

‘Oh – so you feel proud that you broke the law?’

‘I feel proud that I struck a blow for the downtrodden masses. I belong to them, see?’ He pointed an accusatory finger. ‘Have you ever seen the prices of the suits in that shop?’

‘I have, as a matter of fact,’ said Keedy.

‘They cost more than I earn in a whole year. That’s
indecent
, Sergeant. Why should anyone pay all that money for a suit when there are people starving in this city?’

‘That’s not the point at issue, sir.’

‘It is for me. I believe that society should have a moral basis. Let me explain what I mean,’ said Emmott, warming to his theme. ‘I started work in this pub last January and I got here very early in the morning on my first day. Do you know what I found?’

‘No,’ said Keedy, ‘what was it?’

‘I found an old man, curled up in the doorway, frozen to death.
Imagine it, Sergeant. He’d crawled in there like an unwanted dog and spent his last hours on earth shivering throughout a cold winter’s night. How could that be allowed to happen in a civilised society?’

‘I don’t have the answer to that, sir. What I can tell you is that, unfortunately, the incident is not an isolated case.’

‘He was dressed in rags and wrapped in newspaper,’ said Emmott with vehemence. ‘Compare that poor devil to the overpaid toffs who buy their expensive suits and thick overcoats from people like Jacob Stein. It’s wrong, Sergeant. Why should some prosper while others live and die in absolute penury? It’s all wrong.’

‘I’m inclined to agree with you there.’

‘Then why aren’t you doing something about it?’

‘I don’t accept that looting and destroying someone’s shop is a legitimate way of righting social inequalities,’ said Keedy, forcefully. ‘It’s sheer vandalism and it’s a crime.’

‘Jacob Stein was a symbol of class dominance.’

‘He was a man who made the most of his exceptional abilities. As such, he’s entitled to the respect of the general public and the protection of the law.’

‘Don’t talk to me about the law,’ said Emmott, frothing. ‘It’s been devised by the rich for the benefit of the rich. Our police are nothing but the lackeys of the ruling class. You should be ashamed to be part of them, Sergeant.’

‘We serve people from all ranks of society, Mr Emmott.’

‘That’s rubbish!’