Instrument of Slaughter

‘We’re going to release a few details about the post-mortem.’

‘Not too many of them, I hope. I saw the corpse, remember. We both know the effect it had on Mr Ablatt. When’s the inquest, by the way?’

‘No date has been set for it yet.’

‘The family will want the body as soon as possible.’

‘That’s always the case,’ said Marmion, ‘but we have to follow protocol. The inquest must come first.’ He picked up the newspaper beside him. ‘Have you had the chance to see this?’

‘Is that the Evening News?’

‘They sent over a copy of the early edition.’ He handed it to Keedy. ‘Just read the first paragraph. The tone has changed completely since yesterday.’

Keedy looked at the front-page feature. ‘I see what you mean, Harv.’

‘Yesterday, he was a murder victim deserving of sympathy. Then we told them about Cyril Ablatt’s background and they latched onto the fact that he was a conscientious objector. Today, he’s a different person altogether.’

‘The sympathy has dried up almost completely.’

‘That’s why we have to redouble our efforts. There are far too many people who think that conchies ought to be hanged, drawn and quartered. They’d be quite happy if the killer got away with it. We’re going to disappoint them.’

‘How do we do that?’

‘Something will turn up.’

‘I’ve heard that phrase before.’

‘It comes from Mr Micawber in David Copperfield.’

‘But he wasn’t a detective, was he?’

‘Oddly enough, he was. It was Micawber who exposed Uriah Heap’s villainy and saved the day. He turned out to be a hero in the end.’

‘Things don’t happen like that in real life.’

‘We’ve had to rely on luck before,’ said Marmion. ‘Solving a murder is not entirely a matter of logical deduction. Take that anonymous letter I had this very morning. It came out of nowhere.’

‘But did it get us any closer to the killer?’

‘It might have done, Joe.’

Keedy put the newspaper aside. ‘All we’ve managed to do so far,’ he said, disconsolately, ‘is to arrest a useless plumber.’

‘You did more than that. You stopped him venting his spleen on the wall of the house. Mr Ablatt will be grateful and so will a lot of people in Shoreditch. Most of them are decent folk who’d think what Robbie Gill was going to do was in bad taste.’

As they were speaking, a young woman knocked on the open door and came into the office. She spoke with deference.

‘This came for you, Inspector,’ she said.

‘Thank you,’ said the other, taking a piece of paper from her.

The woman walked away. Reading the message, Marmion grinned broadly.

Keedy was curious. ‘Well?’

‘I told you that something might turn up,’ said Marmion. ‘This could be it.’

Caroline Skene had never been inside a police station before and she didn’t relish the experience. It was so bare and comfortless. When she showed the business card to the duty sergeant, he rang Scotland Yard and asked for Inspector Marmion. He was told to wait while the inspector was found. Caroline, meanwhile, was kept sitting on a high-backed wooden bench. The fact that desperate criminals must have sat on it over the years only deepened her sense of guilt. She had the urge to leave but, since the phone call had been made, she had to stay there. It seemed an age before someone came on at the end of the line. The sergeant spoke to him then offered the receiver to Caroline. She crossed to the desk on unsteady legs and looked at the instrument warily. Unfamiliar with a telephone, she took it gingerly from him.

‘Hello,’ she said, meekly.

‘Is that you, Mrs Skene?’ asked Marmion.

She was reassured. ‘Yes, Inspector — you told me to contact you.’

‘Do you have some information for me?’

‘Yes, I do, but I don’t want to talk on the telephone.’

‘That’s fair enough,’ he said. ‘I was told that you’re ringing from Shoreditch police station. Is that correct?’

‘It is.’

‘Then I’ll meet you there. You stay put.’

She looked around. ‘I’d rather not talk here, Inspector.’

‘I understand. A place like that can be rather intimidating for someone as law-abiding as you. Not to worry,’ said Marmion. ‘I’ll come as soon as I can. Then we’ll find somewhere else to have a chat. Is that all right?’

‘Yes, Inspector — thank you.’

‘Goodbye, Mrs Skene.’

Before she could bid him farewell, the line went dead. Handing the receiver to the sergeant, she went back to the bench and perched on the edge of it. She was not at all sure that she was doing the right thing but the decision had been made now. Still stunned by the death of her young friend, Caroline’s grief would only be softened by the arrest of the killer. It was time to be more honest with Marmion.

After finishing work, Mansel Price left the hullabaloo of the railway station and made his way to Fred Hambridge’s workshop. The carpenter was stacking a door against a wall when the Welshman arrived. Price was glad to see that his friend was alone.

‘Where’s the boss?’ he asked.

‘Charlie went off to price a job,’ said Hambridge. ‘He won’t be back for ages.’

‘Good — it means we can talk. I’ve got news for you, Fred.’ ‘What’s happened?’

‘I almost caught the man who painted things on Cyril’s wall.’

He described the incident during the night and was enraged that he’d been robbed of the chance to overpower the man. Having lurked in the dark for so long, Price felt that he deserved the kudos of catching him.

‘I blame Sergeant Keedy,’ he said.

‘What was he doing there?’

‘The same as me — only he had the sense to stay indoors. He was in the front room of a house nearby. He had a feeling that the man might come back again with his paintbrush. I was mad at him for interfering but the truth is that it was probably just as well. If he hadn’t come along, I’d have torn that man to pieces.’

‘Then you’d have been in trouble with the police as well.’

‘The sergeant said that they’d soon find him at daybreak. He left his ladder and his paint. Both could be traced back to him.’

‘You did well, Mansel.’

‘I got in a couple of good punches, I know that.’

‘You should have let me know you were going to stay up all night. I could have waited with you. The two of us could have nabbed him. Anyway,’ said Hambridge, crossing to the wall where his coat was hanging, ‘I’m glad you called in. I’ve got something to show you.’

Price grinned wickedly. ‘It’s not a dirty postcard, is it?’

‘No — it’s something a bit more serious than that.’

He handed the Welshman the letter. Price took it out of the envelope and read it through, his anger slowly mounting.

‘Don’t go, Fred,’ he urged.

‘I have to go. I’d be breaking the law.’

‘Burn the letter. Tell them it never arrived.’

‘They’d only send another one. You’ll be getting one yourself.’