Instrument of Slaughter

‘He was just a bobby on the beat in those days. I didn’t like him working shifts but at least I knew when I’d see him again.’

‘Do you regret that you married him?’

Ellen gasped. ‘What a terrible question to ask!’

‘Well — do you?’

‘Don’t be silly. I love your father. I’d just like to see more of him.’

‘It may be better when the war’s over.’

‘That’s what I keep telling myself,’ said Ellen. ‘We live in hope. But I can see why Joe Keedy never married. Working at Scotland Yard is much easier when you don’t have a family to worry about.’

‘Joe does have a family.’

‘Yes, but they’re up in the Midlands somewhere. He has very little to do with them. He can live a bachelor life and do as he pleases.’

‘Not exactly,’ said Alice. ‘He’s in the same boat as Daddy. They’re never off duty. The call can come at any time of day or night.’

‘Don’t remind me.’

The kettle was starting to boil. Ellen turned to reach for the teapot before emptying its contents down the sink and rinsing it out. When steam began to billow out of the kettle, she switched off the gas then poured a little hot water into the pot to warm it up. Spoonfuls of tea followed, then she added the hot water, put the lid back on and slipped the cosy over the pot. When they were side by side, the resemblance between mother and daughter was very clear. The difference was that Ellen was twice Alice’s age and had greying hair, a lined face and a spreading midriff. She struggled hard to master her intense concern for her children. Her son had joined the army and was somewhere in France. Her daughter had left home, ostensibly to join the WEC but, in reality, to spread her wings as well. With her husband absent for long periods, Ellen was bound to feel sad and neglected.

‘What are you doing today?’ she asked.

‘I’ve got to drive to the station to collect another batch of refugees. It’s some more Belgians this time. Just as well I’ve picked up so much French,’ said Alice, cheerfully. ‘Being in the WEC is a real education. I’ve learnt how to drive any kind of vehicle and can get by in French and German. More importantly, I’ve learnt how to look after myself so that I’m not a burden on you and Daddy.’

‘What a ridiculous idea!’ protested Ellen. ‘You never were a burden.’

‘There were times when I felt that I was.’

‘Well, I never felt that. As a matter of fact-’

‘I’m sorry, Mummy,’ interrupted Alice, ‘but I’ll have to go soon. Could you pour that tea now, please?’

‘Yes, yes, of course.’

After putting two teacups on the table, Ellen used a strainer to pour tea into them. They sat either side of the kitchen table, taking it in turns to add milk and sugar to their respective cups before stirring with a teaspoon. Ellen regarded her daughter through troubled eyes.

‘Is this what you really want, Alice?’

‘Yes, it is. I love working for the WEC.’

‘Vera Dowling doesn’t. I spoke to her mother yesterday. She said that

Vera is finding it too demanding and expects her to give it up soon.’

Alice shook her head. ‘Vera would never do that. She has a good moan at times but so does everyone else. We joined the WEC together and we both admire what it’s trying to do. Mrs Dowling is wrong, honestly. Vera’s like me — she’ll see it through to the end.’

Ellen sipped her tea and ventured a smile. ‘It’s so good to see you again,’ she said, ‘if only for a short while. Your father will be so annoyed that he missed you.’

‘Give him my love,’ said Alice, sipping her own tea.

‘You haven’t seen him since Christmas.’

‘We’ve been so madly busy.’

‘We’d hoped that you might at least spend New Year’s Eve with us.’

‘I told you — I was invited to a party.’

‘Well, you’re invited to a party here any time you like,’ said Ellen, beaming hospitably. ‘You can bring Vera Dowling along, if you wish, or any of the new friends you’ve made in the WEC. I’d like to meet them. And if your father is free, I’ll ask him to invite Joe Keedy as well. That would be nice, wouldn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ said Alice, quietly. ‘That would be very nice.’

Keedy was in luck. When the police car dropped him off outside Hambridge’s house, the carpenter was at home. He was startled when the detective introduced himself and shattered when his worst fears were confirmed. Keedy had to offer a steadying hand. Invited into the house, he saw how spotless and uncluttered it was. There were no paintings on the walls and very few ornaments. The simplicity was striking.

Hambridge slumped onto the settee with his head in his hands. Taking a seat opposite him, Keedy had his notebook and pencil ready. He waited until the younger man recovered enough to be able to meet his gaze.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Hambridge, semaphoring an apology. ‘Cyril was my best friend. I feel so guilty about this.’

‘Why should that be?’

‘It’s because I should have stayed. He sent me on home after the meeting but I should have stayed with him. If I’d done that, he’d still be alive.’

‘Not necessarily,’ said Keedy. ‘We could be investigating two deaths.’

Hambridge sat up. ‘Do you think I’m in danger, then?’

‘I don’t know at this stage but it seems doubtful. What I’m hoping to establish is where the murder is likely to have taken place. To do that, I’ll need you to describe the precise route that your friend would have taken to get back home.’

‘He would have been coming here. This is where we arranged to meet.’

‘How would he get back to Shoreditch?’

‘The same way as us,’ replied Hambridge.

‘Would that route take him anywhere near Drysdale Street?’

‘Oh, yes. My boss told me that’s where the murder took place.’

‘It’s where the body was found, I grant you, but we’ve reason to believe that he was set on elsewhere. Let’s go back to the meeting,’ he suggested. ‘Tell me what time you left, when you got back here and when you expected Cyril to join you.’

Hambridge was too disturbed to give an accurate account of his movements. He kept breaking off to wrestle with the horror of what had happened, continuing to blame himself for not being there to offer protection. Keedy had to be patient, teasing out the details one by one until he had a clearer idea of what had occurred on the previous evening. From the way that Hambridge talked about Price and Leach, he gathered that they were close friends who looked to Ablatt for guidance. The bereaved carpenter spread his arms.

‘Who could possibly have wanted to kill him?’ he asked.

‘I was hoping that you might have some ideas on that score.’

‘But I don’t, Sergeant. I can’t think of anyone who hated Cyril. He was so likeable. We’ve all had difficulties, mind you. There’ve been people who yelled nasty things because we haven’t joined up and an old man spat at us in the street one day, but nobody ever threatened to attack us.’

‘What about those slogans painted on the wall of the Ablatt house?’

‘Cyril used to shrug those off.’

‘Well, his father didn’t. They really upset him at first.’

‘I know. He told us. But it didn’t scare Cyril because he was so brave. He always used to quote that saying. You know — “Sticks and stones will break my bones but names will never hurt me.” That was typical of Cyril.’

Keedy was about to point out that someone had broken the victim’s bones but he decided against it. For all his bulk, Hambridge seemed quite fragile. It was better to steer him away from gory details of the crime. Keedy’s pencil was poised.

‘How long have you known him?’

‘We grew up together.’

‘What about Price and Leach?’