Murder, London-New York Read online

  Had Vanity Roy given Anderson the slip, or had the DO been more honest than competent?

  ‘I’ll see Naylor first,’ Roger decided, and nodded to Eddie and hurried out. Naylor’s office was only just round the corner; he shared it with a chief inspector who did most of his chores for him: another difference between one rank and another. As he opened the door, Roger heard a tremendous sneeze, then a hearty blow, then a hoarse: ‘Couple’ve days in bed, that’s what I want. Oh, it’s you, Handsome. Come in.’ Naylor thrust his handkerchief into his pocket as he looked at Roger with reddened, watery eyes, and unexpectedly stood up and thrust out his hand. ‘Don’t suppose I’m the first, but congratulations,’ he said.

  Roger looked blank.

  ‘Thanks, but what about?’

  ‘Come off it.’ Naylor’s big hand gripped his tightly. ‘I suppose the truth is you’ve been playing Superintendent for so long you don’t feel any different now you are one.’

  2: Where Is Vanity?

  AFTER the first moment of unbelief, Roger knew that it was true. He had really been promoted. No one had told him, so there must have been some delay in the official notification, but there were too many pointers for doubt. Turnbull’s certainty, the fact that he’d been given Naylor’s job instead of being told to work with Naylor, the Information Room man’s ‘How’s it feel, Handsome?’ Now this. He must have seemed the most blasé man at the Yard.

  Naylor burst into a deep laugh, which soon became a wheeze and grew into a splutter. He sat down, and gasped: ‘So you didn’t—why

  everyone at the Yard knows, Handsome! It came through just after lunch. Do you really mean to say—’ he tried to laugh again and this time it became a spluttering cough.

  That gave Roger the brief respite he needed. His first reaction was one of overwhelming delight. He had not fully realised how deeply he longed for a superintendency, how firmly he had kept his feelings under control, how fixedly he had told himself that he couldn’t expect it for a long time yet. Now here it was, and he had been running around in complete ignorance. That was worth plenty of laughs. He chuckled, as Naylor’s office aide rounded his desk and said: ‘Congratulations, Handsome, better late than never.’

  ‘It certainly caught me napping,’ Roger said, and squeezed this hand much more tightly than he had Naylor’s. Inconsequent thoughts danced through his mind. Delight at home; several hundred pounds a year rise; his own office; much more authority, much more responsibility. He turned back to Naylor, grinning broadly. Naylor had stifled a sneeze, and had a hand at his pocket, as if preparing to grab the handkerchief. In front of him was a slim file of papers, and there was little doubt that these covered the Margaret Roy case; there would be reports from the departments, all available evidence, photographs, medical reports, plans for the inquest, and details of all that had been done, including the search for the sister, Vanity Roy.

  Had she deliberately dodged Anderson?

  The question seemed to ask itself, and as it did so, exuberance and excitement both faded. They seemed to be replaced by a kind of buoyancy, and were no longer on top of his mind; the brief moment of elation was past.

  ‘Vanity Roy dodged Anderson,’ he told Naylor.

  ‘Charley just told me,’ said Naylor. ‘Not sure whether that chap’s going to be a good copper or not, we’ll have to see. Got a call out for her?’

  ‘Report call.’

  ‘Didn’t lose any time, then,’ said Naylor. ‘Well, there isn’t much I can add to this lot.’ He slapped a big, red hand on the file of papers. ‘Not that there’s much there, never known a job with so few pointers. We haven’t made a breakthrough anywhere – hardly made a scratch. Here’s a business-cum-society woman, got everything she wants, could marry almost anyone she wanted, spends half her time in England, the other half in America or Europe. She’s partner in a big firm of picture dealers, might be an angle there. Is reputed to be very generous, has no known enemies, everyone loves her. I know I sound corny, Handsome,’ Naylor digressed, ‘but let me tell you something you know already: when we’re dealing with a beautiful woman like this we usually find someone who is prepared to dig into her memory, and pull something out. A maid, servant of some kind, a past boyfriend, tradespeople, poor relations – someone always comes across with a story which doesn’t stand in with the others, but not in this case. She’s been dead three days, the inquest is tomorrow, and we haven’t a single person with a bad word for her – or for her sister, either. How about that?’

  ‘Nice to know there are some angels left,’ Roger remarked. ‘What about this picture business?’

  ‘Old, established, wealthy, run by two cousins – it’s all in the report. Turnbull knows as much as I do – more, probably, I’ve never been able to cure that chap of keeping things to himself, he seems to think he’s inspired. Make sure he doesn’t try to solve this one by himself, Handsome; he’ll act as if he ought to have been put in charge, as he knows so much about it. He’s been a sour devil for weeks, as it is. Probably thinks he ought to have had promotion sooner.’

  Here was further evidence that Turnbull might be awkward to work with.

  ‘One thing, you know him better than most of us,’ Naylor went on. He drew in his breath as if about to have another fit of sneezing, but recovered. ‘I don’t want to be a Jonah, but there’s another thing I’m not too happy about on this job – Turnbull’s roving eye. He’s too liable to look at a nice ankle instead of the face. I told Hardy as much. Hardy decided to make him a CI, and thought he might take this job over, but I advised against it. If I were you, I’d keep Turnbull off the Vanity Roy search, and find him some other angle.’

  Doing that would virtually tell Turnbull that he’d been passed over, and it might make him vicious, Roger mused. But he was landed with the man now – as he had been once before, when Turnbull might have been thrown out of the Yard but for Roger’s intervention.

  Would that old debt still count?

  ‘I’ll keep him off Vanity Roy,’ Roger told Naylor. The problem of Turnbull seemed insignificant compared with his own great news. ‘Can I take that file?’

  ‘Take nothing,’ Naylor said. ‘You’re working in this office for a day or two, until they find you one of your own. No room in this place, that’s the trouble. I’m taking a week off, I’ve got it coming to me, so there should be time to get you fixed up. I’ve cleared the two top side drawers for you.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Roger. ‘Thanks a lot.’ He felt ridiculously as if he were stepping into another man’s shoes. ‘I ought to nip back to my own office first. Hope you soon shake that cold off.’

  ‘If I were you I’d dose myself with some of those cold capsules,’ Naylor said. ‘I usually do.’

  Charlie chuckled, Roger grinned and went out, closing the door as Naylor realised that he wasn’t much of an advertisement for any brand of cold capsules.

  Roger stood outside the door for a moment. He needed a few minutes by himself to absorb this development, to accept it as true, to realise that the dream wasn’t a dream any longer. He was the youngest superintendent here by five years, just as he had been the youngest chief inspector. It was a damned shame that he couldn’t go straight to the desk and spend half an hour telephoning; to Janet for instance. He must call Janet, and might not have much time later in the day. He hurried to his office, and it wasn’t until he was at the desk that he realised it wasn’t his any longer, for Eddie Day was standing up, a man with a huge paunch which made him look short, a receding chin, and discoloured teeth which protruded a little.

  ‘Congrats, Handsome,’ he said, and it was obvious that he had rehearsed this very carefully. ‘Couldn’t be much more pleased if it had been myself.’

  ‘Thanks, Eddie. Your turn will come.’

  ‘Not now it won’t, I’m past fifty-five,’ said Eddie, ‘but that don’t make any difference to feeling pleased about you.’ Then he became anxious and urgent. ‘When are you moving out, by the way? I’ve always wanted that desk by the windo
w, if you’re going to move right away, I might as well stake my claim.’

  ‘It’s your desk, Eddie! Let’s put yours where mine is, that’ll save a lot of trouble, and if they send another man in here right away, you’ll be safe.’ Roger went to his desk as Eddie followed, still eager, and saw the sealed envelope. ‘Good Lord!’ He ripped the envelope open, and read the brief announcement, from the secretary, that he had been promoted to the rank of superintendent, the promotion to be retrospective, where salary was concerned, to April 1st. There was also a polite note of congratulation.

  Some messenger had delayed, and Hardy and others must have wondered why Roger had made no comment. Why hadn’t Hardy? It certainly explained why Sloan had been bursting with news.

  They changed the position of the desks, shifting telephones, moving oddments. By the time they had finished, Eddie was badly out of breath. Roger picked up a telephone, said: ‘It’s West here, get me my wife, will you?’ and rang off. He picked up another telephone, and said: ‘Information, please … Hallo, Fred, I’ve only just had my official note. You knew before I did … Thanks a lot! … Anything in about Vanity Roy? … The moment anything comes, let me know, will you? I’ll be in Naylor’s office. Thanks, old chap.’ He rang off, looked at the other telephone and wished it would ring. It didn’t. Then the door opened, and Turnbull came in.

  ‘Believe me now?’ he demanded.

  This was a moment to be generous.

  ‘You had it right,’ Roger admitted, and smiled. ‘I hear I’ve got to congratulate you.’

  ‘How about being practical, and giving me your desk?’ Turnbull demanded. His manner made it almost certain that he thought he should be in charge of the Roy case.

  ‘I’ve been after that desk for years,’ Eddie protested indignantly. There was a risk that Turnbull would really lose his temper; and Day was obviously prepared to fight for his rights.

  Then Turnbull seemed to relax, and became positively hearty.

  ‘The oldest inhabitant has first claim, okay, but don’t forget my name’s on it. That right you’re working in Naylor’s office, Handsome?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Right that Vanity’s vanished?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Someone could have told me. If I had the authority, I’d put Anderson back on the beat,’ said Turnbull. ‘That’s the third job he’s mucked up in the past three weeks. Know what his trouble is?’ Turnbull’s smile was positively fierce. ‘Takes after me too much. He likes a pretty face and a bouncy bosom. Suppose you haven’t had much time to think over the slasher job, Superintendent.’

  ‘Not much,’ Roger agreed, ‘but here’s an angle I think we ought to work up pretty quickly.’

  ‘Job for me?’ Turnbull demanded, and gave the fierce grin.

  ‘Yes,’ Roger answered. ‘Work on Margaret Roy’s overseas contacts, where she stayed in New York, Paris, and the Riviera, for instance, what crowd she mixed with, whether she did much gambling, how much business she did for the Old World Gallery. Let’s have a list of all the people and places she’s visited outside England. There hasn’t been time to get it ready yet, but we need it in case we draw a blank from her home base.’

  Turnbull seemed completely deflated, his fierce grin fading, his big body sagging. His voice was unexpectedly flat as he said: ‘Right. I’ll get busy.’

  He turned and went out, without glancing round.

  ‘What did you say to upset him, Handsome?’ Eddie Day enquired, with deep interest.

  Roger answered mildly: ‘I fancy he was working on the overseas angle himself, and getting it ready to throw at us when we’d beaten our heads against the nearest brick wall.’

  That answer would satisfy Eddie, anyhow.

  The telephone bell rang, and Roger snatched it up. This would be Janet, and on the thought Turnbull vanished from his mind.

  An operator said: ‘I’m sorry, Mr West, there’s no reply from your home. Shall I keep the call in?’

  Roger covered his disappointment. ‘Yes, and put it through to Mr Naylor’s office, please.’

  The girl’s voice rose from its formal level: ‘Yes, Superintendent.’

  Roger laughed. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Everyone’s very pleased, Mr West.’

  ‘I’m not exactly annoyed about it myself,’ said Roger. He rang off, lit a cigarette, and reminded himself that it would be easy to go about being patted on the back and shaking hands with well-wishers, whereas Turnbull’s attitude was probably better for him; it would needle him into finding Margaret Roy’s killer quickly. One essential thing was to make sure that Turnbull wasn’t keeping vital facts to himself. Another, to find out whether Naylor had asked the Dorset police to check that Vanity Roy had been where she said she had for the past three days.

  Why had she hidden herself away?

  Naylor had gone from his office, only the telephones and the file were on his desk. Roger nodded to Charlie, who would probably spend half of his life on the telephone, sat down, and opened the Roy file. He had to get inside this case, had to get to know the murdered woman, her friends, her enemies, her relations, her life; he couldn’t be sure, but he had the detective’s almost natural aversion to assuming that hers had been a senseless killing.

  If it was a psychopathic job, then look out for the next victim.

  Frightened, pearl-grey eyes might mean little, but might mean that missing Vanity Roy wondered whether she would be next on the list.

  ‘Now I’m letting my imagination run away with me,’ Roger said, and turned over a document, and came upon a photograph of Vanity’s sister, taken after death.

  It became overwhelmingly important to find Vanity Roy.

  His telephone bell rang.

  ‘I’ve got your wife on the line, Superintendent,’ the operator said.

  ‘Fine! Put her through!’

  This was a great moment …

  Janet West, standing by the telephone in the front room of their house in Chelsea, waited for Roger and assumed that he was going to warn her that he would be late tonight; she was resigned to it. Then he came on: ‘Mrs Superintendent West?’ he boomed.

  Mrs Super …

  ‘Darling!’ Her whole face lit up. ‘Really?’

  ‘Absolutely, and confirmed in black and white.’

  ‘How wonderful!’ Janet said, and then realised that if she wasn’t careful she would start to cry; it had seemed so long in coming. ‘Darling, I can’t—can’t believe it. The boys will be thrilled, there’ll be no holding them …’

  She would have gone on talking for a long time, but Roger interrupted after a minute or two: ‘Turnbull’s been stepped up, too,’ he said.

  ‘Oh,’ said Janet, stopped in midstream. ‘Well, I hope this makes him easier to live with at home. But never mind him, darling …’

  When Roger rang off, Turnbull was very much on his mind, however: domestic trouble could warp a man’s judgement and if Turnbull made a serious mistake so soon after promotion, it might jeopardise his whole future.

  There was going to be more to this job than finding a murderer. And one of the first things he wanted was a talk with Vanity Roy. He hoped to God she was all right.

  3: Fear

  ‘DON’T get yourself involved at all,’ Jimmy had said. ‘There’s no need to. Michael and I can handle them. There’s no need to drag you through the mud.’

  Vanity Roy had replied: ‘If I thought there was a thing I could do, I’d go to the police at once.’

  ‘There simply isn’t a thing,’ Jimmy had insisted.

  It hadn’t occurred to her then, as it had during the three days at the cottage, that either Jimmy or Michael, or perhaps the pair of them together, might have killed Margaret. Cousins with whom you had been brought up, childhood’s bosom friends, companions through adolescence whom one liked, loved and trusted, could not be murderers; they had simply been put in danger, because of Maggie’s murder. That was how it had seemed at the time. When Jimmy had suggested that she should go down
to the cottage, pretending that she knew nothing about the murder, so that she could avoid the worst of the early days of the investigation, she had been very glad to go. She had never liked facing unpleasant things, would hate being questioned by the police, and hate being forced to see Maggie’s body, and her poor, disfigured face.

  So she had gone away.

  It had been all right on the journey down, and even on the first night alone, for she had not really believed it; she hadn’t seen Maggie, had only been told that she was dead.

  ‘Just stay there for a few days, and we’ll look after everything,’ Jimmy had said, and Vanity could remember the pressure of his fingers on her arm. ‘It’ll be all right once the inquest is over. You’ve always hated funerals, and you’d hate this one more than ever.’

  ‘But how shall I explain where I was?’

  ‘You’ve often gone down to Lynn for a few days with your books and your typewriter, this won’t be unusual. And you can say the radio broke down. I expect it has, anyhow, the battery probably needs replacing. You’ve the gramophone for company, there won’t be anything strange about it. There’s absolutely no need for you to go through purgatory, Van. It would be different if there was any way you could help.’

  Tall, friendly, reliable, trustworthy Jimmy, with his prematurely grey hair and his persuasive eyes; she had always liked Jimmy better than Michael.

  ‘And if you get off now, before you go to Maggie’s flat, no one will be surprised,’ he had added. ‘You can stay for three or four days until the police find you, and then the worst will be over.’

  Everything he had said had made sense, and she had taken the train from Waterloo to Weymouth, then gone by bus to Lynn, all quite openly. She had arrived when it was nearly dark, and been glad of the comfort of the little cottage, with the rustle of the waves on the pebble beach not far away, and the lullaby of the wind. Being familiar with the cottage had been a comfort too, and perhaps that and the fact that she had been so tired had taken her through the first night. She had slept well.