A Capital Crime (3 page)

‘If I might have the other case,’ said Stratton, cutting him off. The way the man was toadying was downright creepy.

The second case contained a feeding bottle, napkins and yet more baby clothes – a surprising amount, Stratton thought, for just one infant. Perhaps Backhouse thought so too, because he said, ‘Davies’s mother bought most of Judy’s things. She’s always done a lot for them, hasn’t she, Edna?’

‘Oh yes. She’s very good to them.’

‘Could Mrs Davies be looking after Judy?’ asked Stratton.

‘I suppose so,’ said Mrs Backhouse. ‘I don’t know. Muriel didn’t say anything to me.’

‘She didn’t even tell you they were going, did she, Edna?’

‘No.’

‘Edna was quite upset about it, her not saying goodbye. We’ve always tried to be good neighbours, Inspector. Always looked out for them. They’re very young, you see.’

‘Yes,’ said Stratton, wondering why, if Mrs Davies was looking after Judy, she hadn’t collected her things. Surely the baby couldn’t have even
more
of them? And even if she had, Mrs Davies would certainly need the pram … He lifted up the baby’s stuff to see what was at the bottom of the case, and found what was clearly a woman’s blouse and a cotton dress.

‘Those are Muriel’s,’ said Mrs Backhouse. ‘Summer things.’

That, at least, made sense, thought Stratton. She’d hardly need them at this time of year. ‘Did Mr Davies say anything about picking these up or sending someone for them?’

‘No,’ said Backhouse. ‘I assumed he was waiting until they were settled.’

‘And he left when, exactly?’

‘About a week after Muriel and the baby, wasn’t it?’

Mrs Backhouse nodded.

‘So that would be about a fortnight ago.’

‘That’s right. That’s when he sold the furniture, and he’d given up his job. He came back about a week ago.’

‘And he didn’t say anything about taking these?’ Stratton indicated the contents of the alcove.

Backhouse shook his head. ‘The thing was, you see …’ He tailed off, blinking rapidly.

‘Yes?’

‘I didn’t think I ought to say anything …’ Backhouse’s voice had gone quiet again, ‘but he told Edna that Muriel had walked out on him. Didn’t he, dear?’

‘Yes.’ Mrs Backhouse looked awkward, and when she spoke, her voice, too, was hushed. ‘I asked him how she was, and he said she was all right, but she’d left him.’

‘In Bristol?’

‘Well … I suppose it was. I don’t know.’

Backhouse, who appeared to be staring at Muriel’s clothes, made the strange sucking sound with his mouth again, then cleared his throat and said, ‘To be honest, Inspector, I can’t say we were very surprised.’

‘Oh? Why’s that?’

‘Well, they argued a lot, didn’t they, dear?’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘A lot of shouting,’ said Backhouse. ‘Violence, sometimes. Muriel told my wife about it on several occasions. She told Edna she was afraid of him.’ Mrs Backhouse nodded in confirmation of this. ‘Not that we needed telling,’ Backhouse continued. ‘You could hear it quite clearly. So could the neighbours, I’m afraid. They were known around here for fighting.’

‘Do you know what they fought about?’

‘Debts, I think. It’s hard for a young couple these days, and she wasn’t very good with money, I’m afraid. And there was Davies’s behaviour. He went off with a woman once. A friend of his wife’s,

too – she was stopping with them, you see, upstairs. I told them the tenancy agreement didn’t allow it, but …’ He shook his head. ‘A dreadful business, shouting and screaming … Mrs Davies – his mother – came over to try and keep the peace, but the police were called in the end. Davies and the girl left, but he came back – the next day, I think it was. The girl had thrown him out, and he was in a terrible temper. Threatened to run her over in his van – he’s a driver, you see, deliveries. He worked in the goods yard, just the other side of the wall here. You don’t like to interfere, but …’ He shook his head again. ‘“I’ll smash her up.” That was what he said. “I’ll smash her up.” The whole thing was most regrettable.’

‘When did it happen?’

‘Sometime in August. There was a lot of rowing. I heard him threaten to throw Muriel out of the window on one occasion. And then there was the drinking. He was always in public houses. And I’m afraid he got a name as something of a liar. Telling stories. In fact, we’ve sometimes wondered if he isn’t a bit mental.’

‘I see.’ Stratton rose, dusting his trouser legs.

‘As I said,’ concluded Backhouse, ‘we weren’t surprised when he said she’d left him.’

‘Thank you,’ said Stratton. ‘You’ve been most helpful. Just one more thing – Mrs Davies’ address. Do you know it?’

‘It’s nearby – twenty-two, Garton Road.’

As Stratton was taking his leave, Mrs Backhouse laid a hand on his arm. ‘You will …’ she began timidly and then, seeing her husband’s frown, she stopped.

‘Yes?’ prompted Stratton.

‘Just … you will tell us, won’t you? About the baby, I mean. I – we – were very fond of her.’

The street was empty but for Ballard, who was waiting for him. ‘Arliss says he remembers Backhouse being a special,’ he said. ‘I think I do, too.’

‘Do you? I don’t.’

‘Well, you didn’t really have much to do with them, sir. If he is the chap I remember, and I’m pretty sure he is, he was good, but a bit officious. Overdid it.’

‘The power of the uniform, you mean?’

‘Something like that, sir,’ said Ballard wryly. ‘And he
was
commended. Did you get much in there?’

‘Well, there’s no indication that any crime’s been committed, but Davies did leave some baby things with the Backhouses, which tends to back up his story that Judy – that’s the kid’s name – was going to be looked after by somebody other than his wife. The Backhouses say they don’t know anything about it. They also said that Davies and his wife rowed a lot, and that he told them she’d upped and left him.’

‘Odd that she didn’t take the baby, sir, if that’s the case.’

‘That’s what I thought. But she might be with Davies’s mother, so we’d better go round there and see.’

‘Righty-ho, sir.’

‘I’ll fill you in about the rest on the way. Backhouse said that Davies had a bit of a reputation for telling stories, so I suppose it’s not impossible that this is one of them. Seems a bit drastic, though.’

Ballard raised his eyebrows and gave a silent whistle. ‘You can say that again, sir.’

Chapter Four

‘I don’t know what’s going on.’ Mrs Davies, neat and upright, with tight grey curls like steel wool, looked baffled. ‘Muriel and Judy were supposed to be stopping with her father in Brighton, that’s all I know about it.’ Her voice was a Welsh sing-song, and as she spoke she rubbed her hands down the sides of her overalled hips. ‘John told me, but I know that’s not right because I wrote to Mr Binney – that’s Muriel’s father – and he says she’s never been near the place. I’ve hardly slept since I had his telegram, I can tell you. I’ve no idea where Muriel is, or the baby – and she could write to me, even if John can’t.’

‘He can’t write?’

Mrs Davies shook her head. ‘Not much more than his signature. Missed a lot of school, you see – he was poorly when he was a boy, in and out of hospital. I can’t understand why Muriel’s not been in touch. I’ve always been good to her …’ Seeing that her eyes were wet, Stratton hastily averted his own, looking around her neat, comfortable front room – the perfectly squared antimacassars, the symmetry of ornaments and photographs on the mantelZpiece – while she collected herself. Her matronly dignity and obvious pride in her home reminded him of his mother-in-law Nellie – dead now, like Jenny his wife. He’d been deliberately circumspect about what he’d told Mrs Davies, with no mention of bodies put down drains, but it was obvious that she was already both desperately worried and very angry.

‘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.