Instrument of Slaughter (10 page)

Keedy thought of the corpse on the slab at the police morgue.

Harvey Marmion understood the importance of being prepared. Before he and the superintendent went off to face the press conference, therefore, they agreed on just how much information about the crime they would release. Because of his reluctance to give them all the available facts, Claude Chatfield had always had a somewhat spiky relationship with reporters. He tended to hoard evidence and, to their utter frustration, hand it out in dribs and drabs. Marmion was more accommodating. He accepted that the press had certain rights and was alive to their needs. Over the years, he’d developed the technique of appearing to tell them everything they wanted to know while cleverly suppressing certain crucial facts. It was the reason why he’d been chosen by the commissioner to head the investigation. Whereas Chatfield was almost hostile to the press, Marmion had built up a rapport with them over the years.

They all knew his story. Marmion’s father had been a policeman. Largely because the job entailed shift work and low pay, it never appealed
to his son. Marmion instead joined the civil service as a clerk. Fate intervened to change his mind. In the course of his duties, his father was murdered and the killer fled abroad. Maddened by the inability of the Metropolitan Police Force to catch the man, Marmion had taken action himself, launching a fund dedicated to the search for his father’s killer. When he had enough cash, he’d crossed the Channel by ferry and begun his own private investigation. With no experience of detection and with all the language difficulties to handicap him, he nevertheless picked up a trail that had eluded British police. Showing the tenacity that was to become his hallmark, Marmion pursued, caught and arrested the killer by force. By selling the story of how he did it, he earned enough from a national newspaper to repay everyone who’d contributed so generously to the fund.

His escapade had a significant result. It turned him into a policeman. After the heady excitement of the chase, he could never return to the tedium of the civil service. Marmion started like his father, walking the beat in uniform in all weathers. By dint of hard work, he earned successive promotions and eventually became a detective inspector at Scotland Yard. There were many people who believed that he should hold a higher rank. One of them was among the clutch of reporters at the press conference. When the police statement containing the basic facts of the case had been read out, it fell to him to put the first question.

‘Given your remarkable record of success, Inspector Marmion,’ he asked, ‘can you explain why you were not appointed to the rank of superintendent recently?’

There was muted laughter at the pained expression on Chatfield’s face.

‘That question is not relevant to the investigation,’ said Marmion, smoothly, ‘and, in any case, I believe that the right man got the job.’

Chatfield was mollified. ‘Who’s next?’ he asked, looking round.

They were in the large room reserved for meetings and press conferences. Marmion and Chatfield sat behind a desk and submitted to interrogation. The questions came thick and fast and, for the most part, Marmion was left to answer them. While he named no suspects, he repeated his belief that the killer was a local man who knew both the victim and the area. It was important for press coverage to stress that fact and to ask the inhabitants of Shoreditch if they’d seen anything suspicious on the night in question or if anyone they knew had been behaving strangely in its aftermath. After giving them a description of the life and character of the victim, he asked them to respect the privacy of the Ablatt family and to refrain from harassing them during a time of mourning.

When the questions dried to a trickle, a ginger-haired man with spectacles spoke for the first time. As he learnt more about the murder victim, his sympathy for Cyril Ablatt had waned. There was a note of outrage in his voice.

‘This man is a self-declared conchie,’ he said with vehemence. ‘At a time when police resources are stretched to the limit, why are you devoting so much manpower and effort to a miserable coward who refused to fight for his country?’

‘Cyril Ablatt is the victim of a brutal murder,’ said Marmion, firmly. ‘His death will be investigated with the same vigour as the murder of anybody else.’

‘Many people will find that scandalous.’

‘They’re entitled to their opinion.’

‘Wouldn’t the time and money spent on this investigation be better used in the fight against crime in the capital?’

‘I refute that suggestion,’ said Marmion. ‘Besides, as a man in your job ought to know, the latest statistics show that adult crime in the capital has actually gone down during the war. It’s not difficult to see
why. The young men largely responsible for committing it have joined the army in droves. The pattern of crime has changed so dramatically that we have prisons standing half-empty.’

‘Then they should be filled with conchies like Cyril Ablatt.’

Marmion’s response was tinged with irritation. ‘When he became a murder victim,’ he said, ‘he ceased to be a conscientious objector. I think you should bear that in mind.’

‘One last question,’ said Chatfield, intervening to bring the proceedings to an end. ‘Inspector Marmion and I can’t spare you any more time. When we have more information – and when the results of the post-mortem are known – you will be informed.’ He saw a hand shoot up. ‘Yes?’

‘This concerns yesterday’s meeting of the NCF,’ said a man in a crumpled suit. ‘You told us that Ablatt went there with like-minded friends. Who were they?’

When the three of them met in Mansel Price’s digs, Leach was unwise enough to reveal his plan for bringing forward the date of his marriage. The Welshman was livid. Leaping up from his chair, he pointed an accusatory finger.

‘You’re a bloody traitor, Gordon,’ he yelled. ‘You’d be turning your back on everything you’ve ever believed in.’

‘No, I wouldn’t,’ said Leach.

‘You’ve lost your nerve completely.’

‘I have to consider Ruby.’

‘Why? She’s not liable to be called up. This is between you and the Military Service Act. Fred and I will defy it. All you’re going to do is to dodge it.’

‘That’s what I told him,’ said Hambridge.

Price was shaking with fury. ‘Honestly, Gordon, I’m ashamed of you. I thought you were one of us.’

‘I still am,’ insisted Leach.

‘No – you just want to watch from the safety of the sidelines while we take on the government. You’ve always claimed that you’d rather go to prison than fight in the army. All of a sudden, you’ve gone soft.’

‘It was only an idea, Mansel.’

‘Well,’ said Hambridge, hotly, ‘you know what
we
think of it.’

‘I’d never call you my friend ever again,’ warned Price.

‘Neither would I.’

‘Calm down, both of you,’ said Leach with a failed attempt at a smile of appeasement. ‘Nothing has been decided. If you want to know the truth, Ruby was in two minds about it and I can guarantee that her parents won’t like the idea all that much either. At the time when it occurred to me, it seemed like a … solution. But,’ he added quickly as he saw Price poised for attack, ‘I can see now that it wouldn’t really solve anything. So why don’t we forget all about it? I promise that
I
will.’

‘Will you swear to that?’ asked Price, standing over him. ‘We don’t want you sneaking off behind our backs and getting married. I know you’re keen to get Ruby into bed but you don’t need to be her husband to do that. Anybody else would have pulled her drawers off before now.’

‘Maybe he already has,’ said Hambridge with a grin.

‘I don’t think so, Fred. He wouldn’t look so desperate if he had.’

‘Enough of your sneers, Mansel,’ said Leach, angering. ‘You’re only jealous because you don’t have a girlfriend. Let’s keep Ruby out of this. The point is that I believe in pacifism as much as any of you. When it’s my turn to face a tribunal, I’ll nail my colours to the mast.’

‘They want you to join the army – not the bloody navy!’

The comment eased the tension at once. They traded a laugh and Price flopped back into his chair. He rented the attic room in an old Victorian house. The minimal warmth from the fire in the grate was countered by a series of draughts that blew in. Hurt that his suggestion
had met with such opposition, Leach was consoled by the fact that he’d retained their friendship. Hambridge was pleased that their differences had now been resolved. He hated friction of any sort.

‘Think of Cyril,’ he advised. ‘His death should bring us together, not split us apart. After all, he was the one who showed us what we have in common.’

‘I agree,’ said Leach.

‘We’ve got to ask ourselves what he would have wanted.’

‘There’s an easy answer to that,’ said Price. ‘Cyril would urge us to have the courage of our convictions instead of rushing off to church to get married.’

Leach was upset. ‘Don’t keep on about it, Mansel,’ he complained. ‘I’ve told you that it won’t happen. Anyway, it wouldn’t have been in a church. It would have been in a register office and that wouldn’t have pleased Ruby at all. Instead of thinking about ourselves,’ he went on, ‘we ought to be thinking about Mr Ablatt. He and Cyril were very close. It must be terrible to lose your only child.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Hambridge. ‘I asked Mansel if we ought to call on him but he thought we should wait a bit until the shock wears off a little.’

‘The family will comfort him,’ said Price. ‘Cyril’s aunt and uncle will have been told by now. They’ll rally round. The rest of his relatives live outside London.’

‘Should we send a card or something?’

‘I don’t think so, Fred.’

‘What about you, Gordon? Should we get in touch?’

‘In due course,’ decided Leach after consideration. ‘Mansel is right. This is a family matter. Let them mourn in private.’

Though he lacked his employer’s physique, Percy Fry could work hard for long hours without respite. In the absence of Jack Dalley, he’d done
just that at the forge. Lunch had consisted of the gobbled sandwich and the cup of tea that his wife had made for him. He lost count of the customers who came in need of his services and explained Dalley’s absence so many times that it was like reciting a favourite passage from a book. As the working day drew to a close, he began to put everything back in its place before closing up the forge. When the blacksmith finally returned to Bethnal Green, he was full of apologies for his abrupt departure. Fry made light of the pressure he’d been under.

‘Only too glad to help, Jack,’ he said, ‘though I’m still not sure what it’s all about. When the milkman called in, he said there was something in the paper about a murder in Shoreditch. I hope that was nothing to do with your family.’

‘It was, Perce,’ said Dalley, grimly. ‘The victim was my nephew, Cyril.’

‘Blimey! What happened?’

‘They’re still trying to work that out.’

‘Murdered – that’s terrible! I remember Cyril well – came in here from time to time. He was a cocky young devil and I liked him for that.’

Dalley told him all he knew about the crime and how his wife and his brother-in-law had reacted to the news. He warned Fry that he might have to take time off again in the course of the next few days.

‘Do what needs to be done, Jack,’ said Fry. ‘I can manage here.’

‘You must have been rushed off your feet.’

‘Rather be busy than idle.’

‘So would I,’ said Dalley. ‘But what’s going to keep me busy from now on is trying to console Nancy. This has shaken her up. She loved Cyril. My brother-in-law is in pieces, as you can imagine, but Nancy is far worse.’

‘Anything we can do?’

‘Yes – just hold the fort here.’

‘Thinking of Nancy,’ said Fry. ‘Would it help if my wife went to keep her spirits up? Elaine is good at that.’

‘Thanks all the same, Perce, but we’ll be all right.’

‘Offer stays open.’

Dalley gave a nod of gratitude and looked around the forge. He recalled the many occasions when his nephew had visited the place in his younger days. Ablatt had been eager, fresh-faced and uncomplicated. He’d been in awe of his uncle’s skills and developed a love of horses. Education had lured him away from the forge and put ideas into his head with which Dalley took issue. On the occasions when they’d been alone together, they’d had some lively arguments. The blacksmith had always enjoyed their exchanges even though they’d shown the wide gap that had opened up between uncle and nephew.

‘Who were those men who came here?’ asked Fry, washing his hands in a pail of water. ‘I didn’t catch their names.’

‘One of them was Inspector Marmion, who’s in charge of the case. The other was Sergeant Keedy.’

‘Do they have any idea who killed young Cyril?’

‘
They
don’t, Perce, but I do.’

‘Oh?’

‘It was someone who took against him because he was a conchie. To be honest,’ confessed Dalley, ‘I went off him a bit myself when he started telling me that war was evil and that it was wrong to bear arms. Well, you heard him sounding off in here a couple of times. What are we supposed to do, I asked him – surrender to the Germans and let them take over the country?’

‘Yes, I remember what he said.’

‘He had a clever answer as usual. Cyril had a clever answer for everything. Even though he was my nephew, there were times when I just wanted to punch him on the nose to bring him to his senses.’

‘P’raps you should have done just that.’

‘Nancy would never have forgiven me.’

‘But it might have saved his life.’

‘I don’t know about that.’

Fry dried his hands on an old towel. ‘How do you feel now?’ he asked.

‘What do you mean?’

‘None of my business, of course, but you don’t seem as upset as I’d be if it was my nephew.’ Seeing a flash of anger in the blacksmith’s eyes, he was immediately repentant. ‘Forget I said that, Jack. I take it back.’

Dalley’s ire subsided at once and he became pensive. He thought about the moment when he caught his wife and brother-in-law in a tearful embrace. Grief was visibly devouring them. It troubled Dalley that he could not feel their pain to the same degree and that he remained somewhat detached from it all. In spite of their many disagreements, he liked his nephew and should have been shattered by his death. Because he was not, he was assailed by guilt.