Instrument of Slaughter

CHAPTER FIVE

Some high-ranking officers at Scotland Yard gave those below them a degree of freedom during the conduct of an investigation. Superintendent Claude Chatfield was not one of them. On the contrary, he insisted on being informed of progress at every stage. As he gave his superior an account of the action taken so far, Marmion provided enough detail to show how thorough he and Keedy had been while deliberately failing to mention the photograph discovered in the victim’s Bible. He knew full well that he was courting Chatfield’s fury but felt that discretion was paramount. If the lady in the photograph was, even tangentially, connected to the murder, Marmion could reveal the fact of her existence at a later date. If, however, she had no link whatsoever with the crime, he believed that it would be wrong to drag a secret friendship into the light of day, thereby causing pain and recrimination. It was better to let her retreat into anonymity. Chatfield watched him with the intensity of a cat waiting to pounce on its prey. When the inspector finished his report, the other man flashed his claws.

‘You’re holding something back,’ he challenged.

Marmion shrugged. ‘Why should I do that, sir?’

‘I sense that something is missing.’

‘There’s a great deal that’s missing, sir. Once you let me get on with my work, I’ll be able to fill in some of the blank spaces.’

‘You’ve described the interview you had with Gordon Leach. What about the other close friends of the deceased?’

‘Sergeant Keedy has yet to return, sir. When he does, I hope that he’ll have gleaned something useful from the two young men concerned — Hambridge and Price. They seem to have been part of a close-knit group.’

Chatfield was disdainful. ‘Four cowards banded together for safety.’

‘That’s not the impression I get, sir,’ said Marmion.

‘I’m not interested in your impressions, Inspector. I want facts. I want firm evidence. The press are already hounding me.’

‘I’m sure that you handled them with your usual tact.’

‘I told them as little as possible,’ said Chatfield with a thin smile, ‘but I did ask them to make an appeal on my behalf for any witnesses to come forward. In the course of his journey from that meeting back to Shoreditch, lots of people must have seen Ablatt.’ He picked up the photograph supplied by the victim’s father. ‘I’ll release this to the press. The sight of him may jog someone’s memory.’

‘Will that be all, sir?’ asked Marmion, rising hopefully from his chair.

‘No, it is not.’

‘I think we’ve covered more or less everything.’

‘Sit down again.’ Marmion obeyed him. ‘What is your next step?’

‘To be honest, sir, I was planning to grab a cup of tea and a bite to eat in the canteen. I had no breakfast this morning. After that — or possibly during it — I’ll liaise with Sergeant Keedy.’

‘Let me know what he found out.’

‘You’ll have a full report before we leave.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘Back to Shoreditch,’ replied Marmion. ‘Manpower is severely limited, I know, but I’ll deploy the few detectives at my disposal to make house-to-house enquiries in the area where the body was found. I’ll then visit the library to speak to some of Cyril Ablatt’s colleagues.’

‘What about Sergeant Keedy?’

‘I’m going to suggest that he works the night shift, sir. When word gets out that Ablatt has been murdered, the person who daubed the wall of his house might be tempted to add to his handiwork. I’d like to apprehend him and find out just how deep his hatred goes. It will mean persuading a neighbour to allow the sergeant to spend the night under their roof so that he can keep the Ablatt house under surveillance.’

Chatfield sniffed. ‘That means a claim for overtime.’

‘It can be offset against the hours Sergeant Keedy will need to catch up on lost sleep. Our self-appointed artist works by night. No vigil is required in daylight.’

‘So you’ll be without the services of your right-hand man tomorrow.’

‘Only for a short time,’ said Marmion. ‘The sergeant is very resilient. He manages on far less sleep than the rest of us.’

‘I’m still not convinced that it’s the best use of his time.’

‘It could be, sir.’

‘The man may not even show up.’

‘That’s a possibility we have to allow for.’

‘Do you think he’s in any way associated with the crime?’

‘It remains to be seen, sir. But even if he’s not involved in the murder, he’s guilty of another crime — libel. What he wrote about Cyril Ablatt is both insulting and untrue.’

‘You can’t libel the dead, Inspector.’

‘The young man was alive when those harsh words were painted.’

Chatfield was dismissive. ‘That’s immaterial,’ he said, flicking a hand. ‘Before he acts as a nightwatchman, what will the sergeant be doing?’

‘I’m sending him off to the cemetery to speak to Horrie Waldron.’

‘Is he that gravedigger?’

‘He is indeed, sir.’

‘Good,’ said Chatfield, rubbing his hands together. ‘That’s the one positive lead that you’ve managed to uncover. This fellow fits the picture I envisage of the killer. He knows Ablatt well, he loathes conscientious objectors, he has a record of causing trouble and, I’ll venture, he’s often sufficiently inebriated to throw off all inhibition. There’s no need to send Sergeant Keedy. It’s a job for a uniformed constable. He can arrest Waldron and bring him in for questioning.’

‘I’d strongly advise against that, sir.’

‘Use your eyes, man! He’s a prime suspect.’

‘He’s certainly worthy of investigation,’ said Marmion, coolly, ‘but we have no evidence to arrest him. Besides, we don’t want to alert him to the fact that we harbour suspicions about him or he’s likely to be thrown on the defensive. A heavy-handed approach would be a mistake.’

‘There’s a history of friction between him and Ablatt, leading to that incident at the library. Isn’t that what Leach told you?’

‘Yes, sir, but he also told me that Waldron spends most of his free time in a pub. How would he even know about yesterday’s meeting at Devonshire House or be aware of Ablatt’s movements after he left Bishopsgate? I’ll wager that he’s sometimes too drunk to remember what day of the week it is. This murder involved calculation and I don’t believe that Waldron is capable of that.’

Chatfield was checked. ‘Please yourself,’ he said, patently annoyed at the rebuff. ‘You’re nominally in charge of this investigation. If and when it emerges that this fellow was indeed the killer, I hope that you’ll have the grace to apologise to me.’

‘I’ll do so on bended knee, Superintendent.’

‘Sarcasm ill becomes you.’

‘Put it down to lack of food,’ said Marmion, getting up again. ‘After I’ve had breakfast, I’m sure that I’ll feel much better. As for Waldron,’ he added, ‘I promise you that — if he is guilty — he won’t slip through our fingers.’

Abney Park cemetery was much more than a burial ground. It was also an arboretum, a place of architectural interest and a vital green lung in the urban sprawl of Stoke Newington. Horace Waldron never noticed the vast expanse of trees and shrubs. Nor did he pay any heed to the magnificent gates, the Egyptian lodges and the Gothic chapel. His gaze was fixed solely on the earth he had to shift in order to accommodate a new guest. Waldron was a burly man in his late fifties with an unsightly face, pitted with age and reddened by alcohol. His clothes were grimed beyond reclaim and his cap sat precariously on the back of his head. When he arrived for work that morning, he carried a spade over his shoulder. Putting it aside, he first stepped behind a large gravestone so that he could