‘Right after the bomb went off. Joe heard them, too.’
Grace, on the other side of Cook, was already on his feet. He was batting his hat against his leg, knocking the dust out of it.
‘We’d better get in there, guv.’
Billy clambered to his feet. He saw the backs of his hands were bleeding from the rubble that had come down on them. ‘Pruitt … where’s Pruitt?’
‘Here, sir.’
The young constable was bare-headed. The sight of his cropped hair made Billy realize his own hat had gone missing in the blast.
‘Stay here with Hornsby. See to him.’
He blinked at the chestnut vendor beside him. The man was sitting up. He seemed unhurt. There was no sign of his brazier and pan.
‘Three more shots, you say …?’ He struggled to get a grip on his scrambled wits. ‘Come on, then. Let’s go.’
The smoke had thinned and a stream of people, a few in uniform, but most in civilian dress, was issuing from the pub’s doors. Though there was blood to be seen on faces and hands here and there, they didn’t look to be too badly hurt. Just shaken up. Billy saw Grace was ahead of them, making for the alley at the side.
‘Sir … sir!’
Two bobbies had appeared as if from nowhere, out of breath and panting. Billy recognized their faces. They were the men he’d posted up in the street. He realized they must have run down when they’d heard the bomb go off. He looked about him. There was quite a crowd in front of the pub now. One or two had sat down on the paving stones; they were shaking their heads, probably surprised to find themselves still alive, he thought. Then he noticed that others were drifting off, leaving the site.
‘Did anyone go by you?’ he asked the constables. ‘When you came down?’
‘Sir …?’ The older of the two answered him. ‘I’m not sure, sir. We couldn’t see, not with all that smoke.’
‘Never mind. Wait here. Come if we call.’ Billy looked for Grace and Lofty, but they’d vanished: gone inside. He started down the alley himself and came to the door, which was open. As he moved to enter it, Lofty Cook’s tall figure materialized out of the dust-laden gloom inside.
‘Jesus. Billy …! You’d better come and see.’
Lofty’s eyes were wide, his face pale. Without saying more he turned and led the way back down the unlit passage to the door at the end, which was open and where there was a light burning. As they went in he moved to one side, giving Billy a view of the interior, where the bodies of two men were sprawled on the floor close to a table in the centre of the room. Joe Grace was on his haunches beside them.
‘We’ve a couple over here, guv.’ His eyes seemed unnaturally bright. ‘Old friends, these are. But guess who that is …’
He pointed and Billy saw a third body propped against the blood-spattered wall near the door, head askew, eyes empty and staring. The narrow features looked familiar.
‘It looks like Alfie Meeks,’ he said.
‘It’s him, all right.’ Grace rose to his feet. He caught Billy’s eye and grinned. ‘Bastard made a clean sweep. He topped ’em all.’
‘Solly Silverman, did you say? Well I never.’
Sinclair bent down to look at the body, which was that of a man in late middle age whose forehead, lightly coated with dust, bore the blackened circular mark of a bullet fired at close range. Silver-haired and distinguished- looking, he was dressed in an expensive woollen coat of prewar cut belted in front, and the chief inspector had to peer closely before he could make out the bloodstained patch in the dark material which showed where a second shot had been fired into his chest. A navy blue silk scarf hung loosely about his neck. His face wore a surprised expression.
‘When I think of the years I spent trying to put that old villain away …’
A second body lay close by, face-down, and the chief inspector turned to examine the back of the skull, which had been shattered, white bone showing through the mat of close-cut black hair.
‘Costa, I take it?’ he said to Billy, who nodded.
‘You can’t see his features too clearly, sir, but it’s Benny all right.’
Billy could feel himself starting to sway on his feet and he collected himself quickly. A feeling of exhaustion had descended on him in the past twenty minutes, the after-effects of shock, he reckoned, and he was having to grit his teeth to keep going. He watched as Sinclair bent lower.
‘That looks like a shotgun,’ the chief inspector remarked, peering under the body.
‘It’s a sawn-off,’ Billy told him. ‘Benny usually brought one with him on a buy. Been doing it for years, by all accounts.’
‘A buy? So you think that’s what this was about?’ Sinclair straightened.
‘It’s only a guess,’ Billy admitted. But Silverman’s a fence, after all, and I can’t think what else would have got him out and down here on a cold winter’s night. Also, he had a briefcase with him — Pruitt saw it — and it’s not here now, so whoever shot him, shot them, must have taken it. If it was a buy, Solly would have brought cash with him. That’d be the drill. And he’d have had Costa with him as a bodyguard.’
Relieved to see Sinclair’s nod — he seemed to agree — Billy shook his head to clear it. He’d rung the chief inspector from a telephone in the pub within minutes of their discovery of the three bodies, only to find he’d already left for home, and thereafter had hardly drawn breath as he’d struggled to bring order to the chaos that had soon enveloped the riverside when the rescue services, alerted to the explosion, had begun to pour down the steps on to the narrow embankment. Firemen trailing hoses had jostled with ambulance crews and air-raid wardens, their passage delayed by the White Boar’s customers, who had thronged the terrace, themselves unable to leave the area easily due to the steps being blocked. As it happened, the pub had survived the blast relatively unscathed. The V-1 had come down in the middle of the neighbouring warehouse, rearranging the debris there but causing little other damage. Only one window had been broken, and though it had been blown in with considerable force the combination of taped panes and the blackout blind had cut the amount of flying glass to a minimum. Medical teams who had arrived with the ambulances left on the street above had treated a dozen or so patients, but only two — Hornsby one of them — had been taken to hospital. Firemen had inspected the tiled roof and pronounced it safe. Gradually the crowd on the embankment had thinned.
Meanwhile Cook and Grace had secured the murder site and prepared it for the forensic squad which Billy had called for when he’d telephoned the Yard. With the aid of two lamps borrowed from the rescue services and set up in the corners, the room was lit now like a stage set; it was possible to make out every detail down to the peeling wallpaper and the thin patina of dust that had fallen from the ceiling in the aftermath of the explosion, covering the table and dulling the pools of blood lying on the bare floorboards beside it.
Presently Ransom had arrived, summoned from St Mary’s, and Billy had cleared the room so that the pathologist could make his examination undisturbed. In the meantime he’d instructed Grace and Pruitt to interview whatever customers they could find in the hope that one of them might have laid eyes on Alfie Meeks’s companion earlier and to question the landlord of the White Boar, Stan Jewell. But the effort had proved fruitless. A good many of Jewell’s patrons, aware by now of the police presence, had made themselves scarce, and although some of the others recalled hearing the shots that had preceded the detonation, none had witnessed the arrival of Meeks and his associate. As for the landlord himself, in Grace’s words he’d proved, not surprisingly, to be a wise monkey’.
‘He didn’t see who went into the back room with Meeks. Doesn’t know what happened there. Says he rents the room for private parties. Private parties …’ Joe had snorted in derision. ‘He even tried to pretend he’d never heard of Silverman, though it’s odds on he moved half the stuff he lifted through Solly when he was a second-storey man.’
‘What about Meeks?’ Billy had asked. ‘He’s the one who rented the room. Did he know him?’
‘He admits they were “acquainted”.’ Grace curled his lip. ‘I could tell Jewell didn’t think much of him, though. He all but said he couldn’t understand what Alfie was doing there. But he won’t help us, that’s for certain. Like I say, he’s a wise monkey.’
Grace had also had a word with Barrow, but learned nothing from him. The cellar-man had been below broaching a fresh keg of beer when the bomb had gone off.
