A Capital Crime (34 page)

‘So you saw quite a lot of her?’ asked Stratton.

‘A fair bit, yes, up until she went away a few months ago.’

‘Did she tell you she was going?’

Mrs Anson thought for a moment, then said, ‘No, it was Mr Backhouse who told me. To be honest, I was a bit surprised she didn’t pop in to say goodbye. Of course
now
, with all those bodies … ‘ Eyes widening, she added, ‘She wasn’t in there, was she?’

‘We don’t know yet,’ said Stratton. ‘We’re still making inquiries.’ They hadn’t heard anything from McNally, but a telephone call to Edna Backhouse’s relatives in Sheffield had revealed that the family hadn’t seen hide nor hair of her for at least six months, although
they had had a card from Backhouse saying he was writing on Edna’s behalf because she had rheumatism in her fingers. As it seemed increasingly likely that the poor woman
was
their fourth body, her brother was coming down to see if he could identify her. ‘So,’ he continued, ‘she said nothing about going away the last time you saw her?’

Mrs Anson shook her head. ‘She was on her way to the laundry, I remember that. Just passing the time of day. I thought she seemed quite cheerful – more than usual, in fact.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Well, she was always a nervy sort, and the last few months she’d got a lot worse. Said the darkies upstairs were getting on her nerves. They seem nice enough to me – always very friendly, and you never hear any noise – but she was quite frightened of them. Mr Backhouse told me she was terrified of him going out and leaving her alone in the house with them.’

‘I see.’ Stratton hadn’t actually ‘seen’ anything all morning, and feared he wasn’t doing a very good job of hiding this fact from Ballard. Pete had gone straight up to bed after the previous night’s revelation, refusing to discuss it any further. Unable to sleep, his son’s words in all their vicious triumph echoing over and over again in his head, he’d woken late to find that Monica had already left for the day so he’d not been able to find out whether or not they were true.

In the absence of any definite information, the torrent of speculation that had been flowing through his mind for the last twelve hours continued to torment him, fuelling his sense of frustration and helplessness. Why had Monica chosen to confide in her brother and not him? Or why not Doris or Madeleine, or even
Lilian
? Unless, of course, they knew and were deliberately keeping it from him … And who was the father? Was he going to marry her? Or was he – God forbid – married already? Visions of a cravatted Lothario from the film studio, all suede shoes and glib sophistication, seducing his innocent child with false promises,
goaded him to an inward, impotent fury, all the worse for being inexpressible. Monica had never really talked about any boyfriends apart from that chap a couple of years ago. If only Jenny were here now, none of this would have happened. He’d assumed that she – or Doris or even Lilian – must have explained the facts of life to Monica, but he’d never asked. But he shouldn’t have
needed
to ask about a thing like that – it was women’s business, not his.

Pete’s behaviour the previous night was troubling, too. The circumstances of the war had made his fathering a passive, rather than an active affair, removing his power to shape his children’s lives. But it was no good casting around for excuses. The brutal fact was that he’d failed both his children. And they weren’t the only ones: Muriel, little Judy, Davies himself and all those poor women, who’d still be alive if he’d got the right man …

‘Sir?’ Ballard’s anxious tone cut across his thoughts, and he wrenched himself back to the present. Mrs Anson was looking at him askance, and, realising he was glaring at her, he hastily adjusted his features to an expression of professional concern.

‘I said, he told me he’d had letters from her,’ repeated Mrs Anson.

‘Mr Backhouse said that?’ asked Stratton.

‘That’s right. He said she was getting along well now she wasn’t being bothered by the negroes. I told him I was surprised they’d taken the upstairs flat in the first place, after what happened – who’d want to live in a place like that? – but I suppose they don’t get a lot of choice, poor things, all those notices you see saying they won’t let rooms to coloured people … Mr Backhouse didn’t like them, either. Said he was going to write to the council to see if he could get them put out. Said they’d been pestering him to use the garden and it wasn’t part of the tenancy agreement. I thought it was just prejudice, but now we know why, don’t we? Mind you, he was always on about that garden. Poor Muriel told me she’d asked if she could put the baby out there to get a bit of air, and he’d said it was against the regulations.’

‘Did you see the dog out there much?’

‘Not often. I suppose it must have done its business there sometimes, although he did take it for walks. Twice a day, more often than not. Whatever’s in that garden,’ she added, narrowing her eyes, ‘he didn’t want it disturbing. And I’ll tell you something else, too – several times I’ve seen him going about with Jeyes Fluid, sprinkling it in the hall. He told my husband it was because of the blacks and their dirty habits. We thought that was a bit strange at the time – I mean, you can see they’re not dirty from the way they’re both turned out – but of course
now
,
well
. . .’

‘When was the last time you saw Mr Backhouse?’

‘Four days ago. I know that, because Mr Anson always goes to the British Legion on a Monday, and I remember telling him about it when he came back. Mr Backhouse had had a van come for his furniture, and when I saw that I asked him if he was leaving and he told me he was going to live in Sheffield with Edna. Said he’d got a job up there. I saw a suitcase in the hall, so I thought that must be his clothes.’

‘Did you go into the house when you spoke to him?’

‘No, we were just outside.’

‘Do you remember what he was wearing?’

‘Let me think …’ Mrs Anson’s forehead crenulated in a frown. ‘Well, he had his overcoat on, and his hat … I remember that because it made me think he must be leaving at once, but when I asked him he was a bit foggy about it. You know, vague … but he must have been going somewhere, otherwise he wouldn’t have had the coat on.’

‘What colour was it?’

‘Dark blue. A double-breasted one, with a belt. And the hat was a trilby, dark brown. He’d got a tie on, so I suppose he must have been wearing a suit. Suit trousers, anyway. Grey, I think.’

‘And this van – was it from a removal company, do you know?’

‘No, it was the second-hand place, Lorrimer’s. I don’t suppose they paid much. I wouldn’t have given you tuppence for any of it.
That mattress! Absolutely filthy, it was – and crawling, I shouldn’t be surprised. Probably blamed those poor darkies for that, as well. Mrs Backhouse always did her best to keep things nice …’ She paused for a moment, hitching up her bosom for emphasis, then said, ‘I’m surprised at him. He seemed such an
educated
man. A cut above most people round here. Used to give people advice, you know.’

‘What sort of advice?’

‘Well, if they needed help with anything – a legal matter, or something like that. With him having been in the police during the war – not that he ever let you forget it. He was always telling people, anybody new … And about the St John’s Ambulance. Had the certificates up on the wall, all framed. Just goes to show you can’t judge by appearances. And,’ she added shrewdly, ‘he fooled you lot, didn’t he?’ Before Stratton could say anything, she nodded, sagely. ‘Yes, he did. And now we’ve got all sorts coming here gawping, newspaper men poking their noses where they’re not wanted. My husband went out this morning and got this to read about Queen Mary’s funeral, and look what’s there, right next to it on the front page!’ She brandished a copy of the
Daily Mail
and Stratton saw the headline,
FOUR WOMEN DIE IN MURDER HOUSE
, and, in smaller type underneath,
Police Dig in Garden
, illustrated by a photograph. Mrs Anson stabbed at it with a chunky finger. ‘You know how they got that picture, don’t you? Mr Pyle upstairs. He’s been renting his back room out to the photographers from the papers. He had two pounds off them yesterday, and he told me they’ll be coming back later for more. I don’t think it’s right, making money out of those poor women like that, and I’m certainly not reading
this
,’ here, she gave the paper a little shake, like a terrier with a rat, ‘thank you very much.’

Stratton and Ballard interviewed Backhouse’s upstairs neighbours, Mr and Mrs McAndrew, who, as Mrs Anson suspected, had only taken the flat because they couldn’t get anything else and were
now embarking, in horrified bewilderment, on what was very likely to be a fruitless search for a different place to live. They confirmed the business about the Jeyes Fluid, but had little else to add.

‘Poor sods,’ said Stratton, when they’d left the house and were out of earshot of the clutch of reporters stationed outside who were watching the procession of men ferrying out boxes of debris from the garden. ‘Imagine coming to a country where you stand out like a sore thumb and the reception’s as cold as the bloody weather.’

‘It seems to me,’ said Ballard thoughtfully, ‘that you’re always reading stuff in the papers about whether there ought to be a colour bar, but from the way they get treated, there might as well be one already. As far as I can see, they’re no dirtier or worse behaved than anyone else.’

Policewoman Harris was waiting for them in the corridor outside the Middlesex Hospital mortuary. ‘Positive identification of Mary Dwyer by Mr Fleet,’ she said briskly. ‘He was the man friend who reported her as missing – and Iris Manning’s been identified by her sister Mrs Cartwright. DI Grove’s taken their statements, and DS Porter’s gone to fetch Joan Carter to see if the other one is Kathleen McKinnon. Mr Foulds – that’s Mrs Backhouse’s brother – is due here this afternoon.’ Still she wouldn’t look him in the eye.

‘That’s some progress, anyway,’ said Stratton, writing notes. ‘And I’ve got a spot of information that might help with the description of Backhouse, if you wouldn’t mind relaying it to the station …’ He passed on what Mrs Anson had said about the clothing and they went to find McNally, who was in his office dictating a letter to his secretary, Miss Lynn. ‘Do have a seat. This is for the lab at New Scotland Yard,’ he explained. ‘Blood samples and stomach contents and so on. There’s also the matter of the pubic hair. Our initial analysis tells us it’s from four different women, so we’re sending samples from each of the bodies so that the lab can try to match … I take it they’re aware of the urgency.’

‘I imagine my superior’s had a word with them,’ said Stratton,
adding, wryly, ‘And if he hasn’t they’ll have read all about it in the papers. What can you tell us?’

‘Well,’ McNally pushed his spectacles up his nose, ‘from the tests we’ve been able to do here, I can tell you that spermatozoa were present in the vaginas of the three women in the cupboard, but not in the one under the floorboards. None at all in the swabs taken from the rectum …’ Pulling a sheaf of typewritten notes towards him, he continued, ‘The body under the floorboards is of a well-nourished woman, height five feet, three and a half inches, between fifty and sixty years old, death caused by asphyxia due to obstruction of the air passages … No pregnancies – ovaries quite atrophic, in fact, so I don’t suppose that was ever on the cards. Certainly no sign of any disease that could have caused her death.’

‘How long?’

‘Twelve to fifteen weeks.’

Stratton made a note. ‘What about the others?’

‘Well, asphyxia was the cause of death in every case. Number one – that’s the first one we removed – she’s now been identified as …’

‘Mary Dwyer,’ supplied Stratton.

‘Yes … Twenty years old, I gather. Never been pregnant. She was the only one who wasn’t covered up, and she didn’t have a diaper, either. Number two – not identified yet – was between twenty-five and twenty-seven years of age and had had at least one pregnancy at some stage, but not at the time of death. She’d been dead for between seven and eight days. Number three—’

‘Iris Manning.’

‘Yes. Thirty-two years old – I’d estimated slightly older, but that was the sort of life she’d led, I’m afraid. Approximately six months pregnant – a male foetus, not interfered with in any way that I can see—’ Stratton, who was staring intently at the floor at this point, heard Ballard catch his breath. ‘Dead for around three weeks.’

‘Do you think they were put into that alcove immediately after death?’

McNally considered this for a moment and then said, ‘I can’t say “yes”, because I don’t know, but I can see nothing to indicate any other sequence of behaviour. Now, about the findings from the garden … What we do know for certain is that there are two of them, and they’re both women, but at this point I’m afraid we know precious little else. I’ve enlisted the help of a colleague from the department of anatomy and our professor of dental surgery – he’s getting rather excited about an unusual type of crown … Perhaps you’d like to come and have a look?’

In one of the mortuary’s side rooms, two partial skeletons, one with a skull, were being painstakingly assembled on slabs side by side, with other bones scattered randomly on a third slab, and all of it surrounded by wooden boxes full of bits and pieces from the garden at Paradise Street. An intense young man with a pale face and a forelock of black hair who Stratton thought looked more like a poet – or a certain type of artist’s idea of a poet, anyway – than a doctor, was standing between them, weighing what looked like a kneecap in one slender hand. Higgs was behind him, scrabbling around in one of the boxes.

‘Dr Gilpin – Inspector Stratton – DS Ballard.’

Gilpin put down the patella and held out his hand. ‘Pleased to meet you. I’m sure you know Higgs, Dr McNally’s extremely capable assistant. He’s quite something – better at anatomy than most of my students.’

Higgs grinned. ‘Learnt it in the war, Dr Gilpin. Always doing these sorts of jigsaws, we was – only the pieces mostly had flesh on ‘em.’ Seemingly embarrassed by his outburst, he ducked his head and applied himself once more to the contents of the box.