A Capital Crime (42 page)

‘No, really,’ said Diana. ‘I couldn’t.’

‘Well, how are you going to manage?’

‘I need to find out about James. I suppose I ought to go to the police.’

‘Police?’

‘Well, to find out what’s happened about the body, and so on.’

‘Yes …’ murmured Mr Davies, vaguely, and then, with some pride, ‘I could have helped your husband, you know.’

‘Helped him?’

‘Oh, yes. I used to be a doctor, you see. Before the war. That’s why I could look after Edna – my wife – because I know about health matters. Anyone else, of course, and she’d have had to go to hospital, but I know what to do.’

‘Were you really a doctor?’ She must have sounded more sceptical than she intended, because he said seriously, ‘Oh, yes. I trained as a doctor, but I was struck off the Medical Register for helping a friend.’

‘Helping?’

He gave her a knowing look. ‘I’m sure I don’t have to tell you what it was for.’

They’d had tea in a café round the corner from the hostel where she’d spent the night, which was full of workmen having breakfast and indulging in cheerfully crude banter with its slovenly proprietress. ‘Not really the type of person I’m used to associating with,’ murmured Mr Davies, as they took the last available table. ‘Or yourself, I should imagine.’

‘You’ve been very kind,’ said Diana, when she’d drunk her tea, ‘but really, I mustn’t take up any more of your time.’

Mr Davies looked flustered. ‘Where are you going?’

‘Well, the police. I—’

‘Police?’ he said, sharply.

‘About James. I was hoping they could tell me where—’

‘Oh, there’s no need to do that yet. They won’t be able to find out anything about your husband until all the tests have been done.’

‘What tests?’

‘Well,’ he said, professorially, ‘when somebody dies, and it’s not expected, they have to do all sorts of tests … on the body, you see.’

‘But he was hit by a car. That’s what killed him.’

‘All the same, they have to take extra care. Medical negligence, you know – very serious. They’re not allowed to give out information to anyone until it’s all been done.’

‘Not even to the next of kin?’

Mr Davies shook his head. ‘Those are the rules. It’s very strict. When I was in the police—’

‘Police? You said you were a doctor.’

‘Oh, no …’ Mr Davies chuckled. ‘This was later, during the war. We did a lot of that sort of thing with bodies that were found. It was always very thorough.’ He gazed into the middle distance for a moment, caught up in some memory of his own, then said, ‘So there’s no hurry. Why don’t you have something to eat?’

With no breakfast and very little to eat on the previous day, Diana’s stomach had been rumbling ever since they’d entered the place, and, after only a token demurral, she agreed. While she ate, Mr Davies told her stories about his time in the police, about criminals he’d caught and people he’d followed – even, apparently, in his free time – and the commendations he’d been given on two occasions. She was conscious, as he spoke, that there was a lack of focus about his conversation, its clarity and direction coming and going like a faulty wireless signal. Every so often, he would
stop and look round the room as if searching for something. ‘They wanted me to stay on,’ he finished, ‘but I couldn’t because of my health. I was in a car accident myself, you know, before the war. That was why I had to stop training as a doctor. It was a pretty bad injury. Caused a lot of problems for me later on.’

‘But you said you’d been struck off the medical register.’

‘Yes,’ he said, vaguely. ‘Struck off … That’s right.’

‘So …’ Diana gave it up and concentrated on her food. Why did it matter what this strange, creepy little man said? He’d bought her a meal, hadn’t he? The least she could do in return was to listen politely until she could, reasonably and without giving offence, leave. She wasn’t entirely sure that she believed all the business about the police not releasing any information to anyone before the post-mortem was completed – why shouldn’t they be allowed to tell her where his body was, for heaven’s sake? Anyway, she’d soon find out for herself whether it was true.

Now, he was pushing an item cut from a newspaper across the table. ‘I was a witness in that case,’ he said. ‘For the prosecution. Three, four years ago. Perhaps you remember?’ Diana read the headline:
BODIES ON HIS HANDS
.

‘I don’t think so,’ said Diana. ‘What happened?’ She put out a hand to take the scrap of paper, but Mr Davies jerked it away from her in the manner of someone teasing a dog and tucked it back into his jacket pocket.

‘It was all a long time ago,’ he said. ‘Mind you, it was quite a thing at the time. Yes …’ He glanced round the café, repeating, ‘quite a thing …’ and then, with startling suddenness, reached out and took hold of her hand, so that she dropped her fork on the plate with a clatter.

Odd, Diana thought. He looks the type to have clammy hands, but his touch was warm and dry – not unpleasant, in fact, save for the fact that she didn’t want him holding her hand in the first place. ‘I’ve got other things,’ he said in an urgent tone. ‘Clothes and shoes. Jewellery … All a bit old-fashioned, I suppose, but good
quality. You could have it. And you could come and stay with me. I’d have to lock the doors because I wouldn’t want the coloureds upstairs to know I had a lady living with me … Dirty lot, always making a noise, and I’m afraid,’ here, he lowered his whispery voice so that it became almost inaudible and Diana had to lean forward to hear him, ‘there’s the matter of sharing a lavatory. I’ve written to the council to try and get them out. Edna – my wife – was terrified of them. But you could come …’

‘It’s very kind of you,’ said Diana, gently withdrawing her hand, ‘but I couldn’t possibly impose. I’ll go back to the hostel.’

Mr Davies contemplated her, his head on one side, making the strange movement with his mouth that she’d noticed when she’d first seen him. He really is creepy, she thought, with an inward shudder. ‘They won’t miss you, you know.’

‘Miss me? What do you mean?’

‘If you don’t go back. It won’t matter.’

‘I know that, but—’

‘I’m going to Birmingham soon. You could come with me.’

‘Really, I don’t think … I mean …’

‘We could live together.’

Diana stared at him, asking herself, with a sort of miserable wonder, why on earth she was having this ridiculous conversation. It was, she supposed, just another measure of how out of kilter her life had become.

‘I’ve got a job. They’re putting me in charge of a firm of long-distance lorry drivers.’

‘I thought you were waiting for your cards.’

‘Oh …’ He gave her a tight smile. ‘That’s just a formality. They’ve been wanting me to work for them for a long time. With my sort of expertise, you know …’

‘I’m sure you’ll be wonderful,’ said Diana. ‘Now I really must—’

He caught her wrist as she began to stand up, making her sit back down with a bump. ‘Where are you going? I told you, the police won’t be able to help.’

‘Yes, you said. Please let go of me.’

‘Oh …’ Mr Davies looked down at his hand as if it had taken on a life of its own, and removed it from Diana’s arm.

‘Thank you very much,’ she said pleasantly, rising again. ‘Now, I really must go.’ In the last few minutes, something had seemed to click in her brain and she felt a new impetus: survival. A host of possibilities raced through her mind. If she pawned some of the clothes in her suitcase she’d be able to get enough money for another night at the hostel and a meal, and then she’d leave the case at Victoria Station and find a library so that she could read the papers and see if there was any more about James. That would help her when she went to the police, and she could have a look for a job at the same time. She’d find out the address of the assistance board or whatever it was called – the librarian was bound to know – and surely they’d be able to help her when she explained her situation.

‘Why don’t we meet again this evening?’ said Mr Davies. ‘We could have a meal. There’s a nice place down there,’ he waved a hand in the direction of the station. ‘Much better than this.’

With no intention of showing up, Diana agreed in order to be able to leave without more fuss, and they fixed on eight o’clock at a café nearby.

Dismayed at the small amount given her by the dismissive pawnshop owner in exchange for her silk blouses and dressing gown, and exhausted after her poor night’s sleep, Diana dropped off over the newspapers in the library. The surprisingly kindly librarian let her be – ‘I thought you looked all in, dear’ – and she awoke over an hour later, her face streaked with tears. The librarian had been very helpful about the assistance board, but when Diana got there she discovered that she could not be seen without an appointment, and the soonest she could speak to anyone was in two days’ time.

Hungry once more, and realising that the pawnshop money would not, after all, cover a meal as well as the night’s lodging,
Diana resigned herself to another dose of Mr Davies’s company. Although, she said to herself, if he thinks he’s getting anything else out of me than a dining companion, he’s got another think coming … And she could go to the police station first thing in the morning.

Chapter Sixty-Five

Monica stared at the flaking paint of the front door of number three. Tregarth Row was a narrow, poorly lit alley with slippery cobblestones and four or five meagre houses huddled abjectly together, as if for warmth.

It had taken all her courage to get this far. Now she had to steel herself to knock on the door. You have to do this, she told herself. You have no choice.

She turned and looked back towards the main road. No-one must see her going in … Not that anyone would know who she was, but if they lived nearby, they would surely guess why she was there. And the longer she stood outside, the greater her risk of being seen.

Resolved, and closing her mind as best she could to all thoughts of what was going to happen to her, she raised her hand and rapped on the door.

For a moment, there was no sound. Perhaps Mrs Lisle wasn’t there. Perhaps she’d moved away, or died … or been arrested. Perhaps the police were waiting and it was a trap and she, too, would be arrested, and Dad would—

Hearing footsteps – only one set – from within, Monica told herself not to be stupid. It was bound to be unpleasant, but then it would be over. It occurred to her then, as she listened to the bolts being slid back, that she had no idea of what the procedure was.

The door opened a fraction and a woman with a beetroot
complexion surrounded by tight rolls of greasy hair stuck her head through the gap and eyed Monica suspiciously. ‘Yes?’

‘Are you Mrs Lisle?’

‘Who wants to know?’

Taken aback by the woman’s aggression, but determined to stand her ground, Monica said, ‘I do.’

‘Why’s that, then?’

‘I understand that you might be able to … help me.’

‘Help you?’

‘Yes. I’m in trouble. I’ve got some money, and—’

In a flash the door opened and before Monica could think or act, Mrs Lisle had bundled her inside and shut the door. Under the gas in the hallway, she could see that the woman’s face wasn’t beetroot-coloured at all, but a fairly normal sort of dull pink, and that her clothes and apron looked quite clean.

‘Sorry, dear,’ she said briskly, ushering Monica into a small back room which was empty but for a chair and a ratty-looking chaise longue with stuffing hanging out of the bottom, ‘but I can’t have you telling my business to all and sundry. Now then …’ Her face softened. ‘Been a silly girl, have you?’

‘Yes,’ said Monica. ‘I’m afraid I have.’

‘Well,’ said Mrs Lisle, quite kindly, ‘you’re not the first and I daresay you won’t be the last. Got the money, have you?’

Monica nodded.

‘You sit down there, then,’ said Mrs Lisle, pointing to the chaise longue. ‘Take off your knickers and make yourself comfy. Don’t you worry, I always have a good old boil up first so it’s all clean.’

Left alone, Monica did as instructed. She lay down gingerly on the lumpy, saggy cushions and stared up at the ceiling wondering how many women and girls had done the same thing before her. She must find something to concentrate on while it was happening. Unlike the spotless linoleum on the floor – a good sign, she thought, like Mrs Lisle’s clean apron – the ceiling offered any number of possibilities. There were the brown clouds of damp stains in various
shapes, an area by the door that was leopard-flecked with mould spores, and a cluster of frilly-edged mushrooms in one of the corners. Monica chose a damp patch that looked like a dog’s face, or a shadow puppet of one, anyway, with a long nose and pricked ears. It looked like a friendly dog, with its mouth slightly open as though it were panting and smiling at the same time. She could imagine that it was real, an ally, guarding her … Keep looking at it, she told herself. Whatever happens, no matter how much it hurts, just keep looking.

Chapter Sixty-Six

‘You’re in luck, Inspector,’ said the desk sergeant at Victoria station. ‘He’s just brought someone in. If you wouldn’t mind waiting …’