Mrs Elsie Finch, née Mackie, left her home – also on Mickelham Street in Camberwell – at ten in the morning. The weather was fine and it promised to be a sunny day in London, so residents were hopeful that the smogs of winter would abate, though the factories continued to pump out toxic smoke, stoves would still be lit for cooking and fog lingered along the Thames – a witches’ brew that led to the thick green air that for a few more years to come would envelop London, sully human lungs and kill more people than crime.
Elsie was on her way to have her hair done. She’ll be having a shampoo, cut and set, thought Elinor White, who guessed the reason for Elsie’s expedition because when Jim Mackie’s aunt emerged from the house and made her way towards a waiting motor car, this one a Vauxhall, she was in a hurry to tie a scarf around hair that appeared, well, flat, as if she could not be bothered to even run a comb through the thinning strands because someone else would be having a go at it.
Despite what seemed to be a rush – Elsie flapped her hand at the driver, showing her frustration that he had not stepped forward to assist her one second earlier – Elinor noted that the woman seemed to have some difficulty negotiating the umpteen steps down from the front door of the Victorian house. Elsie lived at number 18 on the same street as her widower father, Francisco, who was – as Steve Warren had pointed out – hanging on to his mantle as the patriarch of one of London’s most feared crime families. In addition, Elsie carried a fair bit of weight, not helped by wearing a plush pale-brown fur coat on a warm day. She was holding two bags, yet from a distance, parked at the end of the street, Elinor could not have identified whether they were both made of leather, though one was large, suggesting a shopping expedition.
As the motor car moved forward and merged onto the main road, Elinor slipped the Riley into gear and followed – all the way to Mayfair, where the Vauxhall came to a halt outside the salon of Raymond Bessone, a hairdresser considered to be on the ‘up and up.’ Elsie Finch was assisted from the car by her driver – no one could have described the man as a chauffeur, dressed as he was in brown corduroy trousers and a tweedy woollen jacket topping a shirt with no tie. Elinor could not fail to notice the way the sun caught the fabric of his jacket as it fell across his chest, causing the hint of a shadow that suggested he was carrying a pistol. It led her to wonder if the driver might be a former soldier, perhaps a man one of Jim Mackie’s brothers had befriended in the army, and then on demob put the association to good use.
Elinor considered entering the establishment but having her shoulder-length light-brown hair teased and pulled around by a man becoming known for a deft hand with a comb and his fingertips was not an appealing prospect. She waited. And waited, until at last Elsie emerged with hair that had been rollered, hot-dried, brushed and lacquered into a pageboy style fashionable with the younger set. Elinor was surprised; she had once read that Mr Bessone maintained that only young girls should wear long hair, as it could age a woman. Perhaps certain clients were well worth a dose of ego-pampering.
‘Mutton dressed up as lamb,’ whispered Elinor from the relative comfort of her motor car, before once again slipping the Riley into gear and following the Vauxhall to New Bond Street, where the vehicle remained stationary, parked on the street close to Fenwick, another old-established store favoured by those for whom rationing had meant little in the way of lack. Elsie Finch did not step out of the Vauxhall, but as Elinor watched, a well-dressed young woman approached from Oxford Street carrying a Selfridges bag. The back door of the motor car opened. The young woman looked both ways, then handed the Selfridges bag to Elsie in the back seat and took the larger bag, which Elinor now suspected was made of good leather – she thought it might even be very good Italian leather, employed to underline the social stature of the shopper. The exchange was complete within two seconds. An onlooker would have been pushed to recall the young woman slowing her step to execute the swap.
Turning towards the famous store, the woman appeared every inch the well-heeled prospective customer. She wore a costume comprising a shell-pink jacket and skirt, the latter with kick pleats tailored just so to accentuate her calves. A silk blouse was worn to emphasise the collar set flat against the jacket’s lapels. Shop assistants would take the woman to be the daughter of a wealthy man, perhaps a member of the lower aristocracy, possibly a Member of Parliament or a high-ranking officer in the army. No – if she was the daughter of an officer, it would be the navy, the ‘Senior Service.’
It was time for Elinor to make her move. She was ready. Having dressed with care that morning, she was equally well turned out, though her costume was black and she wore a lavender shawl-collar blouse, so only a hint of silk was visible. As if by habit, she checked her white petticoat to ensure it had not slipped beneath the hem of her skirt, remembering her mother’s warning about snow in the south, leveled at her daughters on the day they tried to escape the Kaiser’s army. She could hear Charlotte’s voice echoing down the years as she walked towards the store entrance.
The young woman proceeded straight to the perfume counter, where she sampled several fragrances, shaking her wrist and then bringing it to her nose, as if to ascertain the impact of air on the scent. Nearby, Elinor studied a lipstick – it seemed the American ‘Victory Red’ was still popular, though she decided against it. At that moment, another young woman approached the counter and began to make almost too much of returning a cologne her husband had apparently bought for her birthday because his mother wore it.
‘Oh my dear, can you imagine how that felt?’ she said to the assistant. ‘He wants me to smell to high heaven just like his mother! I must change it for something else, something that’s more … that’s more me.’ Her accent was like cut glass, revealing a provenance within the most upper of classes.
The assistant agreed, but was so distracted by the story and the woman’s loud requirements, she failed to notice several bottles of expensive perfume vanishing into the first woman’s bag.
‘Thank you so much,’ said the woman in the shell-pink costume. ‘I’ll come back in a little while, after you’ve helped this lady. I just want to see how the Chanel smells after it’s been on for a while.’
Slick, thought Elinor. She followed the woman to the clothing department, where the performance was repeated – only this time a third woman complained that she never knew what on earth to buy her older sister for her birthday. ‘You’d think she was from the last century – what would you suggest? She’s thirty this year – thirty, would you believe?’
And so it went on, while half a dozen silk blouses of various designs found their way into the bag with a newspaper laid on top of all but one. Then came what was obviously the pièce de résistance, when the first young woman returned to the counter.
‘I’m so sorry, but this blouse really didn’t suit me after all – may I return it? It has all the price labels still pinned in place, and—’
‘Now that is exactly the sort of blouse I should purchase for my sister,’ interjected the third woman. ‘Thank goodness you came along!’
And so the story went on, with the first woman claiming a nice sum in the shape of a refund on a silk blouse she had just lifted from one of London’s most revered stores. By the time she left the department, Elinor noticed that the woman with the frumpy sister had changed her mind yet again, saying she despaired of ever finding anything to suit such a difficult woman, and perhaps that blouse was just a little too revealing after all.
Elinor followed the first woman out towards the motor car, whereupon the door opened and Elsie Mackie’s ring-heavy hand reached out, her face not visible. She took the bag and handed an envelope to the young woman, who turned and walked away to join the fellow members of Elsie’s little gang.
Not bad for fifteen or twenty minutes’ worth of work, thought Elinor, though she also wondered if Elsie Finch knew the women had made a bit extra on the side with the refund. She suspected there would be several more shops hit on the same day and by the same women, who would never travel in a chauffeur-driven motor car, or even a taxi – they would be unmemorable passengers on a bus weaving along Oxford Street towards Liberty, that oldest of stores, followed perhaps by a foray into Bourne and Hollingsworth before they called it a day. Elsie would distribute the goods to her ‘receivers’ and collect payment within a few days, the next rung of women having sold the goods while earning a commission from Elsie along the way. Elsie was onto what she probably described as a ‘nice little earner’ with minimum liability, while her brothers were landing bigger fish to fry – a far more ambitious game of risk and chance, but with greater returns for a successful operation.
Elinor wondered what elements would have to be in place if the whole Mackie family were planning a much more substantial and profitable outing than usual. And if there was a more sophisticated operation and Elsie was part of it, which of their many lucrative pies would they concentrate on? She knew there was more to be discovered, because while the income from bags of stolen expensive clothing and perfume was nothing to be sniffed at, it was just another drop of water in the Thames to a Mackie.
‘Bob, you first.’ Steve Warren was leaning forward in his chair. ‘And don’t keep anything back – as I said, for the purposes of this little enquiry, Miss White is one of the lads.’
Elinor raised an eyebrow as she turned towards Warren. There had been times when she wanted to end his banter, when she would have liked to slice the side of her palm against his throat to shut him up. This was one of them, and he knew it.
‘Forget I said that, boys.’ He blew out his cheeks. ‘Go on, Bob.’
‘Not much to report, sir – and I’ve got to say, that’s a report in itself. As far as the Mackies go, it’s quiet. Too blimmin’ quiet, if you ask me.’
‘Same here,’ said Charlie Kettle. ‘You know, I was a boy soldier in the last war, sir, and it sort of reminds me of the quiet before the big show. I’ve been thinking about it – there was the cannonade, then there was this sort of silence for a split second, and then the whistle blew and all hell broke loose. Reminds me of it. Except we’re in that second when nothing’s happened yet and the silence is going on for a bit longer than usual – sir, I can almost feel a sort of edginess on the street when I talked to my blokes.’
Elinor noticed the man’s hand shaking. Ah, that explains a lot, she thought. Shell shock. Poor man. Mind you, war was like that, wasn’t it? It stayed with you; could leave you with shaking hands or strange tics. An eye that twitched, a smile that couldn’t be stopped when bad news came, or laughter in the face of tragedy. Terror still blurring the lines between extremes. Love and hate. Happiness and despair. Joy and anger. Tears and laughter. They were all sitting there, talking about villains in London, but the big villain was in all likelihood already inside every single one of them, under control. To a point.
‘I think—’ said Elinor. She cleared her throat. ‘I think Charlie’s right, and what Bob has said backs it up. It’s harder to pinpoint where to look – which is why I suspect there’s a plan to deflect the police with a hit or many smaller hits.’ She paused. ‘We all know it was done by the army in the war – send a few troops in on one side to distract the enemy so the whole army can move in on the other. How would it be best to distract the Flying Squad? You’ve a raft of resources, but like any other department, there are limitations.’
‘Go on, Miss White,’ said Warren, his eyes revealing an instant intense focus on Elinor – a focus that disarmed her for a moment.
‘Right,’ she said, composing herself. Warren’s reaction had unsettled her. ‘Some of these questions are probably not important, but I’m shooting from the hip, as they say in those American western pictures.’ She looked around. ‘Might be handy to get a blackboard in here – you know, to keep our facts straight and identify any patterns.’
‘Yes, miss!’ said Warren, now smiling as he gave a mock salute.
‘I asked for that one, didn’t I, lads?’ Elinor smiled at the three men, who seemed to be bearing down on the thin layer of ice that had formed. She was an outsider, a woman into the bargain, and she could feel the cold air of prejudice as it wafted towards her. ‘Let me continue – or is this where I say, “Pencils down and listen to Miss White”?’ The men laughed again. Ice broken.
‘Now, as I said – or was going to say – if there was to be a same-day, same-time hit with minimum interference, I would imagine … and correct me if I’m wrong, because this is your business, not mine … but I would imagine it would be best to identify banks, shops etc., etc., in towns where a police presence is limited and where the Flying Squad is not likely to be waiting. What if, say, a number of banks around the country were targeted at the same time as jewellers and the pricier shops? And what if you added a few racecourses – not Epsom or Newmarket, but others where the takings are not as big, but nothing to be sniffed at either? Then at the same time add—’
Warren and his two men, Mills and Kettle were shaking their heads.
‘Why not?’ asked Elinor.
‘Too much organisation. Apart from the men at the top, you’re not dealing with the sharpest knives in the drawer here, Miss White,’ said Warren. ‘That sort of “bigger” is too labour-intensive, increasing the risk of any link in the chain breaking, or an informer coming to us and blowing the whole job – or jobs.’
‘Hmmm, yes, I can see that,’ said Elinor. ‘But, Detective Chief Inspector, what if there is only one man pulling the strings, so each job is encapsulated? That means that if the informer talks, only one job is blown.’
‘These boys don’t like too many strings for someone to pull on. This isn’t easy in and easy out,’ said Warren. ‘That’s why they want Jim – I would put money on the fact that it’s one big job and he’s the man they want behind the wheel.’
Elinor felt frustrated. She could have saved everyone the trouble of thinking about this if she had just walked along to the Mackie house and offered to help the young couple get away, suggesting that they go to a place where the brothers would never find Jim. Across an ocean sprang to mind. No, that wouldn’t have worked. Jim’s ‘previous’ would make immigration to the lands of opportunity difficult. With the assisted passage scheme, it cost just ten pounds a head to sail to Australia for a new start in life. ‘Ten Pound Poms’ they called the new wave of British entering the country. It was a pity Jim, Rose and Susie couldn’t join them.
‘I’m sorry, Miss White, but—’ said Warren.
‘But what if—’ she countered. ‘What if … look, from all you’ve said, the Mackies have done without Jim for well over a year. They haven’t needed him because they have other men, men equally talented behind the wheel of a fast motor car – yet might it be the case that they need him now because there’s more than one job on the go at the same time?’ She paused. There was silence. ‘It’s just a thought – that he’s not the main driver, but another body behind the wheel of a fast motor car.’
‘Remember what I said about the debt? Anyway—’ Warren held up his hand to stop the conversation and picked up the telephone on his desk. ‘Val, love, I’ve got a funny old request – could you get a blackboard and some chalk in here?’ There was silence while he listened, followed by his reply. ‘I don’t know where to get a blackboard, love. Nip along to Hamleys, the children’s toy shop – you’re bound to find one in there. Take the money out of petty cash.’ Silence again. ‘I know petty cash is for the bloody tea fund, but right now I need a bloody blackboard and some chalk in my office.’ Warren slammed down the telephone receiver. ‘Sorry about that. There’s a blackboard on the way.’
‘I’m sure she’ll rush down to get it after you’ve asked so nicely,’ said Elinor, looking up as Bob Mills chuckled, then leant forward to speak.
‘Miss White, I think you’ve got a point. There are other drivers, and we know from two big jobs – a bank in Margate and armed robbery of a jewellers in Tunbridge Wells that we’re attributing to the Mackie family – that they’ve been doing well without Jim.’ He looked to his right and continued when he saw Charlie Kettle nod agreement. ‘And it’s occurred to me that Jim Mackie is out of practise, like you suggested. You have to keep up your reflexes if you want to be the sort of driver they need – and you don’t do that behind the wheel of an old Fordson tractor, and definitely not a pair of Suffolk Punches!’
Warren listened, then raised his eyebrows as he consulted his watch. ‘Anything else, Miss White? I daresay you’ve got something more for us, because I know you’re not the sort to have been out doing a bit of shopping of a morning!’
She felt the jab but smiled at the two detective sergeants, rolling her eyes in a conspiratorial fashion. She had been in similar situations – she knew how to handle the barb while at the same time ensuring that the man didn’t have to reach down to protect his crown jewells in the process.
‘Actually, Detective Chief Inspector, that’s exactly what I was doing. Let me tell you all about it.’
She recounted following Elsie Finch, describing how the woman had spent part of her morning and likely would make the most of the rest of her day.
Warren shook his head. ‘I don’t believe it. Right under the noses of the shop security bods – and we have uniform on the street too. How does anyone miss that kind of operation?’
‘It’s simple,’ said Elinor. ‘People have underestimated poor old Elsie. If they hadn’t, someone here at Scotland Yard would be able to identify exactly who was working for her, and there would be no overlooking that level of theft – even if at first blush it doesn’t seem worth your while.’ She sighed, took her shoulder bag from the back of her chair and stood up.
‘But Elsie isn’t going to go looking for Jim, is she?’ countered Warren. ‘And that’s why we’re all jawing away here and I’ve got Bob and Charlie wearing out their shoes – to find out why the Mackie boys want their brother home. Now, that is the concern here.’
Elinor turned to Mills, asking a question to which she already knew the answer. ‘Do you have children, Bob?’
The detective registered surprise at the question. ‘Two boys and a girl.’ Then he grinned. ‘I get it, Miss White. I can see what you’re getting at, and I think you might have something there, but like the boss said, not for this job. My little Janet runs around after her brothers all the time, doesn’t want to be left out of anything. ‘Me too, me too,’ she says. And by golly, that girl knows how to play her brothers. I’d put money on her outwitting them every single time.’
‘Well, on that score, I rest my case,’ said Elinor, drawing her attention to Warren.
Warren gave a single nod and addressed his men. ‘You know what to do – start with the drivers.’
‘Sir,’ said the two detectives as they stood up, shoved their notebooks into their jacket pockets and left the room.
‘Well, you’ve certainly set the cat among the pigeons, Linni. Mind you, you were always one to think in ways that others didn’t, but you’re wrong to set any stock by Elsie Finch. She’s a chubby little nobody well past her prime. Her brothers and nephews protect her and let her run her little sideline so she doesn’t get bored and lonely at home all day – and they applaud her for earning her keep and keeping Francisco happy.’
Elinor smiled. ‘Past her prime? I worked out that she’s not much older than me. Watch yourself, Steve. I’m keeping score, you know.’
She left the office and walked out past the desks where Mills and Kettle were getting ready to leave, preparing to put their noses to the ground so that with a bit of luck and working the shoe leather, they might return with the information Warren wanted for the blackboard. She stopped when she entered the outer office, where a woman of about twenty-four sat behind a typewriter. A pencil was pushed behind the secretary’s ear, held in place by strawberry-blonde curls swept back in combs on either side of her head. She was ignoring the two ringing telephones on her desk, though she looked up when she became aware that Elinor was standing in front of her.
‘I’ve got to get this report finished for his nibs in there,’ she said, inclining her head towards the door. ‘And both these telephones have been ringing off the hook! I tell you, there’s no peace for the wicked!’
‘You must be Val,’ said Elinor.
‘That’s me, Val of all trades!’
‘Val, please don’t worry about the blackboard – I’ll get one.’
‘But—’
‘It’s alright, Val. No need for you to go running all over London looking for his nibs’ blackboard.’ She smiled and was about to leave when she added, ‘Oh, and Val – don’t get in any deeper with the chief inspector. If he told you he’d leave his wife, he lied. He’s a first-class detective who deserves your hard work and your respect, but no more than that. I believe I can trust you not to repeat what I’ve said. But take my advice and extract yourself. Find yourself a nice young man – there are plenty around just waiting to walk out with a lovely girl like you.’
Val’s eyes widened. ‘How—’
‘Doesn’t matter. Now, if Detective Chief Inspector Warren asks for his blackboard, just let him know that Miss White offered to purchase it and will be advancing him the receipt for reimbursement through the appropriate channel. Not petty cash.’
Elinor had a little time before making her way to Hamleys in search of the blackboard and chalk, so she stood across the road looking up at the grand buildings known as Scotland Yard. She didn’t have to linger for long. Within fifteen minutes, Detective Chief Inspector Stephen Warren had departed the building, pulling on his jacket as he walked along the street. Elinor waited a few seconds before following him, in her heart hoping his destination was benign; perhaps a shop, or a café where he would get a decent cup of coffee to buoy him through the rest of the afternoon. Yes, she hoped it was an innocent port of call.