Murder, London--South Africa Read online

  “You’ll be surprised what you can be blamed for,” Roger said gruffly. “You’ll be charged this afternoon with kidnapping Lewis—”

  “Van der Lunn!”

  “Didn’t it ever occur to you that you might be wrong?” demanded Roger. He heard voices along the passage, and thought that someone was asking for him, but he did not look away from Bradshaw. “Have you got a lawyer?”

  Bradshaw was momentarily silenced. He moistened his lips, and then said in that croaking voice, “Beth will see to that. Beth—Beth always looks after everything. She’ll get me a lawyer.”

  In that moment he sounded pathetic.

  Then, he saw someone behind Roger, beyond the steel bars in the passage. And on the moment of recognising whoever was there, terror blazed up in his eyes. Roger swung round.

  The barrel-shaped sergeant-in-charge of cells was talking to a small man who was looking at Roger, and saying, “Yes, it’s a very urgent message.”

  He took his right hand from his pocket, but there was no message, only a gun. The movement was so casual that at first the significance did not dawn on Roger. The man fired twice at David Bradshaw, and then once at the sergeant-in-charge who leapt at him, striking at the gun. The sergeant cried out and fell back; the gunman turned and raced along the passage; Bradshaw simply crumpled up until he was a sprawling, straggly heap on the floor.

  Roger sprang to the bars and shook them and shouted, “Stop that man! Stop him!”

  He heard the clatter of footsteps, another shot, a thud as of a man falling. Then he heard Jameson saying in an anguished voice, “He’s dead, he’s dead.”

  One bullet had caught Bradshaw in the left temple, the other in the left eye. Death must have been instantaneous.

  11

  BETH BRADSHAW

  Roger followed the events of the next hideous hour on a teletype machine in Information, with Hardy on one side and the Inspector-in-charge on the other. The Information Room was as always crowded and busy, there were hundreds of other investigations and dozens of newly reported crimes coming up on the teletype, the telephones and the map-tables. Everywhere the controlled, streamlined sense of disorder, which Roger knew so well, was very evident. Now all he could think about was the one case – his case, which had seemed completely under his control and was now spread to the winds.

  The messages were brief and to the point:

  Flash: Charge-room sergeant and outside-duty constable reported man running out of Cannon Row police station. Duty constable gave chase, and was shot in the right leg.

  Flash: Sergeant-in-charge of Cannon Row wounded in chest, immediate report says wound not serious.

  Flash: Man seen to rush out of Cannon Row towards Westminster Bridge and to leap on pillion of waiting motor scooter, colour pale-blue.

  Flash: Scooter believed to have headed south on far side of Westminster Bridge. All Divisions alerted.

  Flash: Police surgeon stated that David Bradshaw was presumably killed by bullets fired at close range. Autopsy arranged for early pm.

  Flash: No trace of scooter or rider or passenger.

  Flash: Duty constable’s leg wound not serious.

  Flash: Condition of sergeant-in-charge of cells more serious than at first realised, now being prepared for operation at Charing Cross Hospital.

  Flash: Pale-blue Lambretta motor scooter believed to have been seen near Lambeth Bridge – being followed by Divisional car.

  Flash: Lambretta motor scooter overtaken, rider and passenger able to establish fact that they were not at Westminster at the time of the attack.

  Flash: Man who attacked police and killed prisoner at Cannon Row now described as of about 5 feet 3 inches in height, sallow complexion, dark hair, dressed in Italian-style suit, tapered trousers, pointed shoes with low heels, narrow-brimmed embroidered trilby-style hat.

  So it went on, until Hardy turned to Roger, and for the second time that day placed a hand on his shoulder, now in commiseration and understanding.

  “We’ve lost the swine,” the Information CI said. “Be damned lucky to get him now. I—what’s this?”

  Flash: Bullet which passed through David Bradshaw’s temple now identified as a .22 Italian-style correction Italian manufactured bullet.

  “Still got a chance, then,” remarked Hardy. “Well, everyone’s been alerted: all stations, ports, and airfields have been warned to look out for him. He may not find it so easy to get away.”

  But Hardy was not as optimistic as he tried to sound.

  “I suppose it could have been worse. I hope Wardle’s all right.”

  “Wardle?” queried Information.

  “The sergeant over at Cannon Row,” said Roger. He nodded to the Inspector and went out with Hardy, acutely aware of the fact that everyone looked at him with exceptional intentness. It was inevitable that when policemen were attacked something happened at the Yard: a tense, keyed-up atmosphere affected everyone.

  In the passage, Roger asked Hardy, “Still carte blanche for me?”

  “More necessary than ever, I’d say.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” said Roger. “I was half inclined to believe that Bradshaw didn’t know more than he’d said.”

  When Hardy didn’t answer, Roger went on, “I’d like to go over to see his wife, and find out if she’s got more information than she’s told us.”

  In an undertone, he added, “I wonder if she’s heard.”

  There was a real possibility that the newspapers had the story, and had already been to Common View Hotel.

  Twenty-five minutes later, he knew they had.

  Half a dozen men were outside the door of the hotel, which had an even more dilapidated look in daylight. Two constables were on the doorsteps, keeping the men at bay. They swooped on Roger when he stepped out of his car, cameras pointing, lights flashing, question after question being flung at him.

  “Did you see the gunman, West?”

  “Were you hurt, Superintendent?”

  “Did you try to stop the attack?”

  “Who was the coloured man with you at the time?”

  “Any news of Sergeant Wardle?”

  Roger turned round from the steps, and said, “The last news I had of Wardle was bad, and that makes me even more anxious to get on with the job.”

  “Have you got the killer, Super?”

  “Any hope of arrest?”

  “If ever I give up hope of making an arrest I’ll stop being a policeman,” Roger replied. He turned round and stepped beyond the porch. Another policeman was in the hall, and coming down the stairs was a remarkably dapper little man, a shiny, polished individual, wearing a black coat and striped trousers and glossy shoes, a Victorian solicitor’s clerk of a character. He stopped on the bottom tread and was still half an inch shorter than Roger.

  “Are you Superintendent West?” His voice was perhaps a little too cultivated to be natural.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m Abbott, Dr Abbott. Are you hoping to see Mrs Elizabeth Bradshaw?”

  Roger’s heart dropped. “I must see her, yes.”

  “I can tell you that you won’t garner any information from her,” declared Abbott. “She refuses to take a sedative; she does nothing but sit on the bed and cry. I have told her sister-in-law that I think the paroxysm will soon pass, and told her what to do once the poor woman is amenable. Very bad business indeed, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Roger said mechanically.

  “I’m glad you weren’t hurt, anyhow.” Abbott nodded and walked past Roger, then swung round as if he had been stung. “Oh, Superintendent!”

  “Yes?”

  “Is this affair still to be kept from the Press?”

  “No reason why you shouldn’t tell them how the woman’s affected,” answered Roger. “If they ask you an
ything about the identity of the man, will you just say that all you know is that his name is Lewis?”

  “Very well,” said Dr Abbott, and he turned and stepped on to the porch, a little ridiculous with his correctness and his polish. Roger found himself smiling; the law was helped on its way by a lot of remarkable and some very peculiar men. As he reached the foot of the stairs, Rebecca Bradshaw appeared from the door which led to the kitchen quarters and the owners’ living room. She looked pale as well as plump, but there was something different about her; she had washed her hair, and it was drawn straight back from the forehead and kept in place with a band over the top, so that it was severely straight from the forehead halfway across the head, and then billowed out in a frizzy mop. The style suited her. It showed her features up well, suggested that if she lost a few pounds – well, ten pounds or so – she might be a handsome woman with a fine figure. The tight-fitting black jumper which she wore accentuated the fullness of her bosom, the smallness of her waist and the sweeping curves of her hips.

  “Good morning, Mrs Bradshaw. I’m Superintendent West.”

  “I know,” she said. Her voice was strangely taut. “We aren’t likely to forget you. What do you want?”

  “I need to talk to your sister-in-law,” Roger said quietly. “I won’t worry her more than I must.”

  “You’ll worry her until she kills herself.” The words seemed to have more bite because of the slow, deliberate way in which Rebecca uttered them; it was as if she meant to make sure that each one counted. “You’ll drive her to her death just as you took her husband to his.”

  Roger said flatly, “Shall I go up, or would you like to take me up?”

  She pushed past him and led the way. He knew that he should be able to disregard her words, but they stung. It was quite right that he had taken David Bradshaw to his death, and that the police had done nothing at all to save his life. What use was it to argue that no one would have dreamed of such an attack? That there had been no warning? At heart, he knew, he should have realised that if Bradshaw could give information away he would be in danger. The truth was that he had been fooled into believing that Bradshaw had been on the fringe.

  As he followed the woman, Roger noticed the fullness of her calves, the unusual thinness of her ankles, and her very small feet. She walked with a spring in every step, muscles flexing.

  A man was speaking in the room on the right, the one where Roger had been the previous night.

  Rebecca tapped sharply on the door, pushed it open, and announced, “Here’s that man West.”

  She stood aside, and Roger went in. Joshua Bradshaw, looking remarkably like his brother, was standing by the dressing table looking down on Elizabeth. Elizabeth lay on the bed, her knees bent, curled up as if she were trying to go back to the womb in her search for comfort. She wasn’t crying, but tears stained her cheeks. She was deathly, shockingly pale, and that was emphasised by her dark, wavy hair. Her eyes were open, and she stared straight ahead of her as if all she wanted to see was the dressing table at waist height.

  Joshua said viciously, “Why the hell can’t you leave her alone?”

  “If you want to hear what I have to ask her, keep quiet,” Roger said. “If you interrupt I’ll send for one of my men to take notes. That will make admissible evidence of everything she says – anything any of you says for that matter.”

  He glared at Joshua, who gulped and shifted his position. Anger still glowed in his eyes. He had a larger Adam’s apple than David Bradshaw’s, and an even longer and scraggier neck. His nose was larger and more hooked, too. In fact, he looked like a caricature of his dead brother, and it passed through Roger’s mind that his wife must have found a lot of quality in him to outweigh his gobbler-like appearance.

  Roger moved to the head of the bed, pulled a chair fairly close, and spoke very quietly.

  “Mrs Bradshaw, none of us can help your husband now, but you might be able to help his memory.”

  She did not shift her gaze or stir.

  “I doubt if anyone else can do this,” said Roger. “The fact that he was murdered so wickedly suggests that someone wanted to make sure that he couldn’t talk to the police. Do you understand me?”

  She didn’t stir or look at him.

  “So we’re bound to think that your husband probably knew much more than he admitted. This is a vicious and evil criminal organisation. If your husband wasn’t really part of it, or didn’t know how bad it was, there’s no reason why his memory should be smeared.”

  Elizabeth Bradshaw did not show any sign that she heard, did not even appear to know he was there. He hitched his chair closer, and resisted the temptation to look up into the faces of the other couple, who had been scared into silence by his outburst and were standing very still.

  “If you know he was deeply involved but had been forced into doing what he did, then we need to know that too. It will lessen the slur on his memory and it will help to make sure that no one else is victimised like he was, that no one else suffers as you’re suffering.”

  Rebecca burst out, “You’re torturing her! Why don’t you leave her alone?”

  Now Roger had reason to look up at Rebecca, and so to turn away from that death mask of a face. He remembered how Rebecca had suggested that her sister-in-law might kill herself, and was quite prepared to believe that she would try.

  “If you think I’m torturing her, try to imagine what will happen if she doesn’t help me,” he said. “She’ll be questioned day after day after day. She may have to give evidence when we’ve caught the murderer, and also when we’ve caught the murderer’s other accomplices. Instead of getting this all off her chest now, she’ll find it building up inside her like a cancer. I’ve come here alone so as to give her a chance to talk freely. What she says to me while I’m on my own can’t be used in evidence. But if she doesn’t talk freely she’ll have to be formally questioned, and we’ll have to take her to the Yard. Can’t you make her see that this is the best way to help her?”

  “Help her,” Rebecca said chokingly.

  Then, for the first time, Elizabeth Bradshaw moved. She raised her head on the pillow, slowly, and straightened her legs with almost painful slowness. She kept moving her head until she met Roger’s intent gaze. It was like looking into the face of death, except for her eyes, which were like burning glass, they were so fiercely bright.

  “If it weren’t for you, my David would be alive,” she said in a toneless voice. “Now I’ve nothing worth living for. Nothing worth living for.”

  After a pause, a long pause, while Rebecca stepped forward and Joshua made a strangled noise in his throat, tears began to well up in those burning eyes; they began to flow, began to pour. Suddenly the death-like face twisted into an awful expression of grief. Elizabeth’s mouth opened, her jaws seemed to work violently.

  Then she began to cry on a terrible, high-pitched note.

  12

  DEAD END?

  Roger waited in the hall downstairs, haunted by a mental image of the woman’s face. He had left the room soon after the outburst. Since then, he knew, Rebecca had persuaded her sister-in-law to take some of the tablets which Abbott had left, and managed to make her drink some hot milk. Now, both the Bradshaws were upstairs with her. They had to be questioned, no matter what their mood. There was no possibility of postponing the interrogation, but that didn’t mean there was going to be anything to relish about it.

  The telephone bell rang.

  The wall telephone was in a corner by the stairs, and Roger went towards it, lifted the receiver, and said in a formal voice, “Common View Hotel.”

  “Is Superintendent West there, please?” It was one of the operators at the Yard.

  “Speaking. Who wants me?”

  “Mr Klemm, sir.”

  “Put him through.” Roger thought he heard a sound upstairs, but no
one appeared. Almost at once, Klemm came on the line. He began to speak hurriedly.

  “Sorry to worry you while you’re there, sir, but two or three things need your attention. Mr Pendleton rang up to say that so far he hasn’t had any luck with that taxi-driver. All the neighbours have been questioned, as well as some people who were on Clapham Common. It’s a thousand to one chance of finding out who it was now – shall we drop it?”

  “No. Keep at it. Ask the Taxi-Drivers’ Association and the owners to help, too.”

  “Right. Nothing on that motor scooterist, either, I’m afraid – looks as if the chap got clean away. But if he’s still in the country, we’ll get him,” Klemm added hastily. “The noon meeting here, sir – I’ve postponed it until two o’clock, as you’re not back. Jameson’s been sent for by South Africa House, but he’ll be back before two. Is that all right?”

  “Yes, good.”

  “I’ve been in touch with Hammerton at London Airport, and he’s preparing a complete file on all the suspected smugglers over the past six or seven months. People whom Customs have turned inside out. It’s going to be a huge job, checking on all air-crews – in fact, Hammerton says it’s going to be impossible except at intervals over a long period.”

  “I know what he means,” Roger said. “But we can’t work only through him.”

  His mind was beginning to tick over smoothly, quickly.

  “Make a list of all the airlines which serve South Africa from London, and lay on visits to all the head offices – I’ll brief you with what to say to them later. Then we need to draft a memo which we can send to police forces in all the world’s largest metropolitan areas, outlining the situation. In other words, what we’ve got to do is to make a skeleton plan and put it into operation as soon as possible. The thing we’re after for a start is any unexplained increase in supplies or stocks of industrial diamonds, or changes in the ruling prices for them, anything to suggest that any market’s been flooded lately. Is McKay with you?”