‘
‘Who do you mean?’
‘I’m talking about whoever painted those things on Cyril’s wall.’
‘Yes,’ said Hambridge, ‘they were vile.’
‘He’ll be gloating when he hears the news.’
‘Think of those names he called Cyril.’
‘I don’t know why they were left there. If it was my house, I’d have hidden them beneath a coat or two of whitewash. I’d love to meet the man responsible,’ growled Price through gritted teeth. ‘He deserves to hang alongside the killer — and I’d like to be the bloody executioner!’
With the newspaper rolled up in his hand, the man walked briskly along the street before turning the corner. He looked up at the wall of the Ablatt house and smiled inwardly. The bold lettering he’d painted there took on a new meaning now and it was one that gave him immense pleasure. Without breaking stride, he held the newspaper up as if it were a weapon and fired an imaginary bullet at the wall. Minutes later, he reached his own home and let himself in. The first thing he did was to go into the garden to check how much paint he still had locked away in his shed. The death of a conscientious objector was something to be celebrated. It was time for some more nocturnal art.
The photographer’s studio was in a side street in Finsbury. Several examples of his work were on display in the shop window. Marmion and Keedy looked at three different married couples, standing outside their respective church porches with broad grins and expressions of unassailable hope. Poised over a many-candled iced cake, an elderly couple were marking an anniversary of some kind. There were photographs of young men in uniform and one taken at a children’s party. The youngest person in the exhibition was a baby, cradled in the arms of a doting mother while the proud father looked on. Vernon Nethercott catered for all the family.
Entering the shop, the detectives learnt that Nethercott was busy so they were forced to wait. Childish laughter from the next room suggested that the photographer knew how to amuse his customers. The young woman who acted as receptionist had only been with Nethercott for six months and she was unable to identify the woman in the photograph that Marmion showed her. But she boasted that her employer had a remarkable memory and that he’d certainly recall her name. It was some time before Nethercott eventually appeared, shepherding a mother and her two little children out of the shop. All three of them had clearly enjoyed their visit.
Nethercott was taken aback to hear that two detectives had descended upon him. He was a short, slight man with a gleaming bald head and bushy eyebrows.
‘Dear me!’ he exclaimed. ‘I’m not in trouble, am I?’
‘No, Mr Nethercott,’ said Marmion. ‘We simply need your help. Not all that far from here, a murder occurred last night.’ The photographer and his receptionist reacted with alarm. ‘When we called at the victim’s house, we found this.’ He handed the photograph to Nethercott. ‘Your name and address are franked on it.’
‘It’s standard practice, Inspector. I do it with all my photographs.’
‘Do you recognise the lady?’
‘I recognise her very well — though I can’t give you an exact date when this was taken. Some months ago — that much is certain. If you want me to be more specific, I’ll have to consult my appointments book.’
‘That won’t be necessary, sir. I just need the lady’s name and, if possible, her address. I’m told that you have a wonderful memory.’
‘What I remember are faces, Inspector. I treasure people’s expressions as they stare at a camera. Each one is unique to a particular individual. Take this lady, for instance,’ he said, tapping the photograph. ‘When she first came into my studio that day, she was rather uneasy, not to say furtive. The moment I told her to smile, however, she came alive. You can see the delight in her eyes.’
‘What was her name?’
‘Mrs Skene — Caroline Skene.’
‘Does she live locally?’
‘No,’ said Nethercott, ‘that’s what surprised me a little. She lives in Lambeth. Why come all the way here when there must be dozens of other photographers nearer to her home? I’m quite well known in Finsbury but I didn’t think that my reputation would stretch south of the river.’
‘Do you have the lady’s address?’ asked Keedy.
‘I’m afraid not. When she came in to book the appointment, all she told me was that she lived in Lambeth. To be honest, she was a bit secretive.’ He gave the photograph back to Marmion. ‘I’m sorry that I can’t be more helpful.’
‘You’ve pointed me in the right direction, sir,’ said Marmion, ‘and I’m grateful for that. I’d be even more grateful if you’d tell nobody about our visit.’ He turned to the receptionist. ‘That goes for you as well, young lady. Mrs Skene is not a suspect in this inquiry. I don’t want her name to be spread abroad.’
‘We understand, Inspector,’ said Nethercott.
Marmion and Keedy left the shop in a flurry of farewells. As they did so, they saw a young couple approaching. The man was in army uniform and the woman was clutching his arm with the desperation of someone holding onto a lifebelt. The detectives stood aside to let them enter the premises.
‘I feel sorry for her,’ said Keedy. ‘She wants something to remember him by in case he doesn’t come back from the front.’
‘It works both ways, Joe,’ said Marmion. ‘When he’s shipped overseas, I can guarantee that he’ll have a photo of that pretty face in his pocket.’
‘What did you make of this Mrs Skene?’
‘The description of her behaviour fits with what we know. She was furtive because she felt guilty about what she was doing.’
‘Why did she choose Nethercott?’
‘I believe that Cyril Ablatt might have been involved in that. He told her where she could have a photo discreetly taken. Living where he does, Finsbury is the sort of place you’d expect him to know.’
‘So what do we do now — track the lady down?’
‘It doesn’t take two of us to do that. I’ll try to pick up Mrs Skene’s trail, starting at the library in Lambeth. The name is not all that common. If it’s listed there, I should be able to get the correct address.’
‘What about me?’
‘I suggest that you call in at the police station in Shoreditch to see if Mansel Price has made an appearance yet. Hambridge told you that he comes off duty this afternoon. I’ll need the car but I’ll drop you off on the way to Lambeth.’
‘You’re assuming that she actually lives there.’
‘What’s wrong with that?’
‘Well,’ said Keedy, ‘she may have lied about Lambeth and given a false name into the bargain. You could be on a wild goose chase, Harv.’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Marmion, taking out the photograph again. ‘What I see here is an honest, self- respecting woman. When she’s embarrassed to go into a photographer’s studio, she must be troubled by guilt. She’s unlikely to be a seasoned liar. Mrs Skene gave her real name. You can bank on that. I’ll find her — and it will definitely be somewhere in Lambeth.’
He put the photograph back into his pocket. They walked towards the car.
‘How many more of them are there?’ asked Keedy.
‘I’m not with you, Joe.’
‘How many other mystery women will come out of the woodwork?’
Marmion grinned. ‘I’d have thought you liked mystery women.’
‘Oh, it’s not a complaint — just an observation. First, we have Ablatt’s secret lady, then up pops Waldron’s unlikely friend, Maud Crowther.’
‘Men and women are attracted to each other — nothing unusual about that.’
‘There is in both these cases,’ argued Keedy. ‘They’re highly dangerous friendships. Ablatt and Waldron had to hide what was going on because they were afraid of the consequences. Ablatt was deceiving Mrs Skene’s husband, who may yet turn out to be a suspect. For his part, Waldron was terrified that Maud’s son would find out what his mother had been up to.’
