Instrument of Slaughter

mortem results soon and, with luck, we might get a response to our appeal for witnesses.’

‘It hasn’t happened so far.’

‘That was because the details in the Evening News were very sketchy. It’s different with this morning’s editions. The papers will carry a photograph of the victim and description of the route he would have taken home from that meeting. It will also tell them much more about Cyril Ablatt. And another thing,’ he said, folding the map up. ‘The killer will read the reports. He’ll start to panic.’

‘I beg leave to doubt that, Superintendent. I think he’s a cold-hearted swine who might enjoy the publicity he’s aroused.’

‘That’s arrant nonsense.’

‘Is it?’ retorted Marmion. ‘He deliberately left the body where it could be found. Doesn’t that tell you something about him? Many killers go out of their way to conceal their handiwork in order to delay discovery. Why dump the corpse in a lane when he could have hidden it in the woods or buried it somewhere?’ He remembered Horrie Waldron. ‘He might have buried it in a cemetery, perhaps. Who would think of looking for it there?’

‘You’re being fanciful, Inspector.’

‘I don’t think so, sir. When he put the victim there, the killer was making a statement. He wanted us to know.’

‘What I want to know is how we catch the devil.’

‘We stick to procedure, sir. We gather evidence, sift it, follow every lead and maintain relentless pursuit. If we get help from witnesses, all well and good, but we shouldn’t rely on anyone coming forward. My men went from house to house in the area yesterday and they didn’t pick up a snippet of useful information. Shoreditch was asleep when the corpse was moved. Nobody saw or heard a thing.’

‘I remain more sanguine.’

‘Then I hope your optimism is justified. Coverage will be extensive. We gave them plenty to bite on at the press conference.’

‘Yes,’ said Chatfield, offering a rare compliment. ‘I thought you handled them very well.’ He added a caveat. ‘Though there was no need to be quite so friendly towards them.’

‘We need the press on our side, sir. We should never antagonise them.’

Chatfield bridled. ‘Are you suggesting that that’s what I did?’

‘Of course not — you’ve had far too much experience.’

‘I certainly have.’

He inflated his chest and pulled himself upright. Marmion waited while the superintendent struck a pose, lost in thought about what he considered to be the triumphs in his career, the latest of which was his promotion to a higher rank. He seemed to have forgotten that anyone else was there. When he finally noticed Marmion, he snapped his fingers.

‘I’ve been remiss,’ he confessed. ‘Do forgive me. Not long before you came, there was a telephone call for you.’

‘Did anyone leave a message?’

‘It was Sergeant Keedy.’

‘Then he probably yawned down the line at you,’ said Marmion.

‘On the contrary, Inspector — he sounded almost chirpy. As a result of an incident during the night, he’s made an arrest. It’s a man who was caught trying to paint something on a wall.’

‘Why did you do it?’

‘Somebody had to, Sergeant.’

‘Did you know Cyril Ablatt?’

‘I knew of him — that was enough.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘My wife uses the library. She saw him there lots of times and heard him arguing with people about why he didn’t join the army.’

‘How did you know where he lived?’

‘I followed him one evening.’

‘And is that all you did, Mr Gill?’

‘You know it isn’t. I let everyone know what sort of person he was.’

‘Forget your antics with the paintbrush,’ said Keedy. ‘I’m wondering if you followed him when he came back from a meeting in Bishopsgate. I’m wondering if you decided that calling him names on a brick wall wasn’t enough so you killed him out of hatred for his beliefs.’

‘No!’ exclaimed Gill. ‘I never touched him. I swear it.’

‘What were you doing on the evening before last?’

‘I was at home with my wife and my son. You can ask them.’

‘I’ll make a point of doing that.’

‘I never went anywhere near Ablatt,’ said Gill, squirming.

‘Did you go out at any stage during the evening?’

‘Only for an hour — I went out for a drink.’

‘Which pub would that be?’

‘The Weavers.’

‘That’s very close to where the body was found.’

‘So?’

‘Are you sure that you didn’t go into the pub to get some Dutch courage to commit murder?’ asked Keedy. ‘You don’t look like the sort of person who’d have the nerve to do it otherwise.’

Gill was desperate. ‘All I did was to have a pint of beer,’ he said, shifting uneasily in his chair. ‘Talk to Stan Crowther, the landlord at the Weavers. He’ll tell you how long I was there. I had a drink, played a game of darts with Horrie Waldron, then left. I was back home by nine. My wife will confirm that.’

Keedy could see that he was telling the truth. Robbie Gill was not the killer. Since the body was dumped in the lane much later than nine o’clock, he could not have put it there. On the other hand, the fact that he knew the gravedigger raised the possibility that he might somehow have been party to the murder. Gill could not be removed entirely from the list of suspects.

They were in a cold, featureless room at Shoreditch police station. Gill sat on the opposite side of the table from Keedy. When he greeted the sergeant at his front door, he was almost pugnacious, but the arrest had sobered him. A plumber by trade, Gill had the shifty look of someone who never expected to be caught. He saw what he was doing as a public duty, exposing a conscientious objector who had the gall to try to justify his position. Every time he heard about Ablatt pontificating at the library, he felt a simmering disgust and felt impelled to strike at him somehow.

‘What were you going to paint?’ asked Keedy.

Gill glared at him. ‘Does it matter now?’

‘I’d like to know.’

‘I was going to add two words — “good riddance”.’

‘Was that a kind thing to do, Mr Gill?’

‘That yellow-bellied conchie deserved it!’

‘Did his father deserve it?’ asked Keedy. ‘He didn’t agree with what his son was doing. Did his aunt deserve it? She’s not a conscientious objector. Mrs Dalley is simply a heartbroken woman who’s lost someone she loved. Then there’s Cyril Ablatt’s uncle. When we picked him up at his forge yesterday, he told us quite openly that his nephew should have gone into the army. All three of them were in that house yesterday, mourning the death of a murder victim. Did you think it would help them in their bereavement if you taunted them with your jibe?’

‘If you’re trying to make me feel sorry,’ said Gill, recovering something of his confidence, ‘then you’re wasting your time. I’d do the same thing again.’

‘You won’t get the chance.’

‘Everyone in the Weavers thinks the same as me — conchies are scum.’

‘But they don’t all sneak out at night and deface someone else’s property, do they? That’s a criminal offence, Mr Gill.’ Keedy sat back and appraised him. ‘Do you know what I think?’

‘What?’