A Bespoke Murder

‘I made it clear that they were to say nothing. There are a couple of reporters hanging about. If they get a sniff of murder, it will be all over the newspapers tomorrow. I want to conduct this investigation at our pace and not that of the British press.’

‘Fair enough — what do we do now?’

‘Nothing much is going to happen here for a while,’ decided Marmion, ‘so I’ll slip off and interview the two people in custody.’

‘Do you want me to come with you?’

‘No thanks, Joe. You stay here. And if any reporters try to pester you, don’t give anything away.’ Marmion was about to leave when he remembered something. ‘By the way, that was very clever of you. How did you know that Mr Stone had a Jacob Stein suit?’

‘That was easy,’ explained Keedy. ‘I can pick out the work of all the best outfitters in London. Their styles are so individual. Then there’s the other clue, of course.’

‘What other clue?’

‘You’ve met Stone. He likes to dress well and he’s the kind of man who’d always patronise someone who gave him a big discount. Nobody else but his brother would do that.’

Marmion grinned. ‘You ought to be a detective, Joe Keedy.’

Ruth was in a world of her own. Wearing a dressing gown, she sat on the edge of the sofa with her arms wrapped protectively across her chest. Her mother had replaced annoyance with sympathy. All her instincts told her that her daughter had been through a devastating experience and was in need of love and comfort. She made Ruth a hot drink but the girl would not even touch it. Miriam sat beside her, stroking her back gently.

‘You’re home now, Ruth,’ she said, softly. ‘You’re safe. Nobody can touch you here.’ She picked up the cup. ‘Why don’t you take a sip of this?’ The girl shook her head. ‘It will do you good.’

Ruth could not imagine that anything on earth could do her good. She was utterly beyond help. In spite of what her mother said, Ruth was not safe in her home. He’d followed her there. She could still smell his foul breath and feel his weight pressing down on her. She could still recall the intense pain he’d inflicted in pursuit of his pleasure. Her breasts were still sore after their kneading. Her mouth still tasted of him. Her vagina was smarting.

Miriam put the cup back in the saucer and moved in closer.

‘What happened?’ she whispered.

‘Nothing …’

‘Something must have upset you. What was it?’

‘There was nothing.’

‘I’m not blind, Ruth. I saw that blood and it’s not the right time of the month for that. It’s not the only stain I saw on your stocking. I’m bound to wonder, darling. Every mother has those fears for her daughter. I’m no different.’ She put an arm around Ruth’s shoulders. ‘Tell me the truth. It will have to come out sooner or later. Why hold it back? Whatever has happened, I’ll still love you — we all will. But we can’t help you if you don’t tell us how. Do you see that?’

‘Yes, Mother,’ said Ruth, quietly.

‘Then please — please — tell me what this is all about.’

There was a long pause. Her mother was right. Ruth could not stay silent indefinitely. The truth could not be hidden. When she tried to speak, however, Ruth almost choked on the words. She began to retch. Miriam pulled her close and rocked her gently to and fro until Ruth recovered. Then she kissed her daughter on the forehead.

‘Take your time,’ she advised. ‘There’s no hurry.’

Taking a deep breath, Ruth summoned up her courage.

‘It was my fault,’ she said, blankly. ‘It was all my fault.’

The first man interviewed by Marmion at the police station was of little help. Roused from a drunken stupor, he admitted that he’d joined the mob when it marched past the pub where he’d been drinking because he was hoping for some excitement. When the window of the shop in Jermyn Street had been broken, he’d clambered inside and helped to smash the place up until someone set it on fire. As he tried to flee, he was arrested by a policeman. Marmion was satisfied that he was telling the truth and that he’d been acting alone. He clearly had no idea who had been leading the mob or who had started the fire.

The second man who was cooling his heels in a police cell was a different proposition. Brian Coley was a surly plumber in his late twenties, a solid man with tattoed forearms and an ugly face twisted into a permanent scowl. When Marmion started to question him, the prisoner became truculent.

‘You got no reason to keep me here,’ he protested.

‘From what I hear, Mr Coley, we have every reason. According to the arresting officer, you were part of a gang that broke into the shop and vandalised it. When you were leaving, you had a suit in your possession.’

‘It weren’t mine.’

‘I gathered that.’

‘I mean, I didn’t steal it. What happened was this, see? Some other bloke give it me. When he saw that copper waiting to pounce on him, he shoves the suit in my hands then hops it. So the copper arrests me instead, when I was just an innocent bystander.’

‘You were actually seen inside the shop area.’

‘Who says so?’

‘It was the policeman who arrested you.’

‘Then he’s lying his bleeding head off.’

‘Now why should he do that, Mr Coley?’

‘Coppers are all the same,’ said the plumber, curling his lip. ‘They’re liars. I never went into that shop.’

‘But you admit that you were in Jermyn Street?’

‘Yeah … I sort of … happened to be passing.’

‘Really?’ said Marmion, raising a cynical eyebrow. ‘I checked your address before I came in here. How does someone who lives in Shoreditch happen to be passing a gentleman’s outfitters in the West End?’

Coley folded his arms. ‘Can’t remember.’

‘You were in that vicinity with the express purpose of damaging private property. Why not be honest about it? You entered that shop and stole a suit.’

‘It’s not true.’

‘Let me ask you something else,’ said Marmion, changing his tack. ‘What do you think of the Germans?’

Coley snorted. ‘I hate the whole lot of them.’

‘Why is that?’

‘They’re fighting a war against us, of course — and they sunk the Lusitania off the coast of Ireland. Germans are vicious animals.’

‘That’s a term that might be used of the mob in Jermyn Street this evening. The attack was certainly vicious — and all because the shop was owned by a man named Jacob Stein.’

‘He deserved it.’

‘Why?’

‘He’s one of them German bastards.’

‘He was a naturalised British citizen,’ affirmed Marmion. ‘That means he has as much right to live in this country as you or me. If you’re so keen to punish Germans, why don’t you have the guts to join the army? You could fight them on equal terms then.’

Coley glowered at him. ‘I got my job to look after.’

‘Thousands of other able-bodied men have already volunteered.’

‘That’s their business.’

Marmion regarded him with a mixture of interest and contempt. He’d met a lot of people like the plumber, resentful men with a hatred of any authority and a particular dislike of the police. From the way that Coley seemed at ease in custody, Marmion deduced that he’d been in trouble before. One thing was certain. Coley had not been alone. He knew others who’d been party to the attack on the shop. He had the names that could be useful in the inquiry.

‘Who else was with you?’ asked Marmion.