When British armies fought in places like India, the Crimea and Africa, they were engaged in distant events that had no immediate resonance on the home front. This war was different. It could be heard, it could be felt and, as German bombs were dropped with increasing regularity, its acrid smell became familiar. Housewives might not be directly involved in the hostilities but, every time they went shopping, they were aware of the food shortages brought about by the limited number of imports reaching Britain. Many items became scarce, some almost disappeared from the shelves and others lacked their earlier quality. The country was by no means close to starvation levels but every household felt the impact of the shortages. One way to counter it was to get up early and be first in the queue.
‘Good morning, Lena.’
‘Oh, hello.’
‘The queue will stretch around the block before the shop opens.’
‘I don’t think much of this new type of margarine,’ said Ellen Marmion. ‘If there’s not enough butter to go around, they should at least find something that tastes nice.’
Lena Belton shrugged. ‘I just take what I can get.’
‘They say that rationing is not far off. In a sense, I suppose, it’s already here because we’re only allowed so much of this and that. Do you remember the outbreak of the war when some people flew into a panic and bought large quantities of everything they could get hold of? Oh,’ said Ellen, penitently. ‘Sorry to bring that up. It was thoughtless of me.’
She chided herself for being so tactless. At the start of the war, Lena had had a husband and three sons. Only the youngest boy remained. It had not been kind to talk about events a couple of years earlier and stir up raw memories. Lena Belton was a round-shouldered woman with grey hair peeping out from beneath her hat and a face pitted with the pain of loss. Ellen had known her for years and seen her hit by the recurring deaths in the family. Anxious not to upset her, she tried to think of a neutral topic of conversation but it was Lena who spoke first.
‘I saw your husband’s name in the paper yesterday.’
‘Yes, Harvey is leading another murder investigation.’
Lena was bitter. ‘Why do some people have to kill?’
‘I wish I knew.’
‘You’re not even safe watching a film.’
‘It’s unsettling.’
‘Do they know who did it?’
‘Not yet, but Harvey won’t give up until they find him. He’s working all hours at the moment and so is Joe Keedy, of course. That’s really upset Alice. She knows that she won’t see much of him until this case is solved.’
‘How is Alice?’
‘She’s well, thank you. As you know, she joined the Women’s Police Service.’
‘I thought she liked being a teacher.’
‘She did,’ said Ellen, ‘and I wish she’d kept her job, Alice was good at it. Oddly enough, I bumped into the headmaster of the school yesterday. He’s as worried about food shortages as we are. Every morning he has the children reciting a poem by Rudyard Kipling.’
‘Why does he do that, Ellen?’
‘It’s called “Big Steamers” and it lists all the foods that ships bring us from overseas. Mr Poole – that’s the headmaster – has a son in the merchant navy so the poem means a lot to him.’
There was a concerted cheer as the shop door opened and the butcher emerged in an apron to lift his straw boater and give his customers a wave of welcome. The queue surged gratefully forward. Ellen and Lena never reached the shop in the first move but they were only yards short of the front door. It was Lena who brought up the war this time.
‘Patrick wanted to go in the merchant navy,’ she said.
‘I never knew that.’
‘His brothers were keen on the army but he always preferred the sea.’
‘How old is he now, Lena?’
‘He’s almost seventeen.’
‘Patrick is such a big, strapping lad, he could pass for twenty or more. When he gets to eighteen, he’ll be conscripted. He can go in the Royal Navy then.’
‘No he can’t!’ snapped Lena, eyes blazing. ‘What a stupid thing to suggest! I’ve lost two sons to this war, I’m not going to lose a third. Whatever happens, Patrick will not be another useless sacrifice.’
Ellen was startled by the sheer venom with which she spoke. Lena Belton was adamant. One son at least would survive. Ellen suddenly felt uncomfortable standing next to her. She was glad when there was another surge and the pair of them got inside the shop itself and they were able to see what was on sale.
Though he arrived at Scotland Yard earlier than usual, Joe Keedy found Marmion already at his desk. After poring over a newspaper, the inspector flung it aside in disgust.
‘Have you seen that article, Joe?’
‘I haven’t read any paper yet.’
‘Don’t bother with this one. It’s pure drivel. I TALKED TO A KILLER. All she did was to sell him a cinema ticket. She makes it sound as if they had a long conversation about everything under the sun.’
Keedy picked up the newspaper. ‘Are you talking about Iris Fielding?’
‘Didn’t you warn her to keep her mouth shut?’
‘Yes, Harv, but I had a horrible feeling that she wouldn’t listen. The usherette had more sense. Mabel Tyler wouldn’t do anything like this,’ he said, scanning the article before giving a snort of annoyance. ‘Yet she probably exchanged far more words with him.’ He put the newspaper down. ‘What has the morning brought us?’
‘I daresay we’ll get a few more bogus witnesses from the cinema but I’m still hoping for reliable new information from one of the patrons.’ He picked up a sheet of paper. ‘I’ve already had one nice surprise.’
‘Where did it come from?’
‘I’m not quite sure because his handwriting is atrocious so I can’t really decipher his name. He’s a window cleaner who happened to be working at the rear of a property in Coventry Street on the day in question.’
Keedy took the letter from him. ‘Did he see anything?’
‘He may have done, Joe. He mentions a man leaving the cinema by the emergency exit and crouching over the bin before putting something in it.’
‘It must have been the handbag.’
‘He doesn’t mention that. His view must have been obscured. But the man then walked right past him. Window cleaners tend to have sharp eyes. They need them for peeping through bedroom windows.’ They shared a laugh. ‘What do you think, Joe?’
‘His writing is worse than mine,’ replied Keedy, handing the letter back, ‘but he could be useful. Why didn’t he pop in and tell us what he saw?’
‘He’s a working man. Time is money. He can’t afford to take an hour or more off to give us information that may turn out to be useless. At least we know where to find him today because that’s a bit I can read. He’ll be up a ladder in Leicester Square, cleaning the windows of the Cupid cinema. I think that you and Mr Whatever-He’s-Called should have a chat.’
‘I’ll get over there this morning. And I’ll make a point of passing the West End cinema on my way. If it’s reopened and Iris Fielding is there, I’ll give her a flea in her ear. What else have you got in line for me, Harv?’
Marmion sat back in his chair. ‘I’ve been thinking, Joe.’
Keedy chuckled. ‘I’ve never known a time when you’re not thinking. My brain switches off when I leave here but yours keeps whirring away like a motor.’
‘How did she meet him?’
‘Yes, a relationship of some sort had obviously developed if she’d reached the point where she agreed to a rendezvous in the cinema with all that that implied. It was a big decision for her and not one to be taken lightly. So who was he and how did he wheedle his way into her affections?’
‘We’ve no way of finding out. Mrs Reid didn’t confide in anyone, and her friend, Mrs Bond, is as much in the dark as we are.’
‘I remembered something her father told me,’ said Marmion. ‘He stressed that his daughter was raised in a strict Christian household. That means she would have been a regular churchgoer in Bayswater. Find out what church she went to and see what activities she engaged in.’
‘She’d hardly have met her future killer at a church social.’
‘Stranger things have happened.’
‘I fancy that their friendship began elsewhere.’
‘We need to build up a fuller profile of her, Joe. What did she do in her spare time? Where did she go? Speak to that neighbour of hers, Mrs Cinderby. She’ll be able to help you. But don’t bother with Mrs Bond,’ said Marmion. ‘I’m afraid that I exhausted her as a source of information.’
‘Yes, she’s a spiky lady, isn’t she?’
‘She was knocked sideways by the murder of her friend, but she was also more than a bit resentful that Mrs Reid hadn’t even hinted that she had an admirer. Alma Bond is one of those women who like to know everything.’
‘Right then,’ said Keedy. ‘So far I’ve got a nameless window cleaner and a dear old lady who lives next door to the victim. Is there anyone else, Harv?’
‘Knock on doors in Bayswater. We heard how ready Mrs Reid was to help her neighbours. They’ll all have something to tell you about her. Collect more pieces of the jigsaw so that we can fit them into place.’
‘What about you?’
‘I’ll wait here until lunchtime in case any more so-called witnesses turn up.’
Keedy’s face ignited. ‘Does that mean I can have your car?’
‘Yes, you can – but only if you bring it back in one piece.’
‘What about Mr Christelow? He may still be at the house.’
‘Then give him a wide berth, Joe. He takes the same view as Mrs Cinderby. He thinks his daughter is a saint.’
‘All fathers are ignorant of what their daughters are really like.’
Keedy blurted out the words before he realised what he was saying and he wished that he could take them back. His romance with Alice Marmion had been kept secret from her parents until the moment when the couple felt they were ready to reveal the truth of the situation. Marmion had severe reservations about Keedy as a son-in-law and not only because he was some years older than Alice. The sergeant had had a number of girlfriends in the past. Marmion didn’t want his daughter to be gently discarded after a certain length of time like her predecessors.
‘I’m sorry, Harv,’ said Keedy. ‘That wasn’t a dig at you.’
‘It’s a fair point. I don’t know Alice as well as I’d like to but I know her a damn sight better than Mr Christelow knows his daughter. Saints don’t go to the cinema with strangers while their husband’s backs are turned,’ said Marmion, pointedly. ‘And there’s something else to consider. Nobody ever achieved martyrdom by watching a Charlie Chaplin film.’
Life as a policewoman had been a continuous education for Alice Marmion. It had given her a detailed knowledge of the geography of central London and introduced her to the darker aspects of the capital. It had also helped her to understand the difficulties faced by her father and by Joe Keedy. Everything looked fine on the surface but she had glimpsed the crime and corruption that bubbled underneath. The huge influx of refugees from Belgium or France and the prevalence of soldiers and sailors on leave created a host of additional problems. London could be too vibrant at times. New clubs had opened up everywhere, prostitution was rife and – even with their watered beer – pubs were as popular as ever. Walking the beat was a far cry from the ordered world of the little school where she’d taught for a number of years.
Taking a deep breath and adjusting her uniform, Alice tapped on the door.
‘Come in!’ called a voice from inside the office.
Alice entered the room. ‘Good morning, Inspector.’
‘Ah, you’ve arrived at last, have you?’
‘I was told that you wished to see me.’
‘I do, I do,’ said Thelma Gale, scrutinising her to see if there was anything in Alice’s appearance with which she could fault. ‘Shut the door.’
Alice obeyed the order then stood in front of the desk.
Inspector Gale was a stout woman of unprepossessing appearance who looked as if she’d been born in uniform. Her face was untouched by cosmetics and her hair was brushed back from her forehead and held in a tight bun. She exuded authority.
‘Stand up straight, girl,’ she said, ‘and try to look more purposeful.’
‘Yes, Inspector,’ said Alice, drawing herself up.
‘How many times must I tell you? We’re on a mission. Policewomen are tolerated rather than respected. We must prove that we can do the job every bit as well as our male counterparts. Don’t you agree?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘Nobody is in a better position to understand that than you. Look at your father. Look at Sergeant Keedy. Wouldn’t you like to see women doing the real detective work that they do?’
‘I would, Inspector.’
‘We should never settle for being second class,’ said Thelma, slapping the desk with a palm. ‘I believe passionately in the rule of law which is why I denounced the work of militant suffragettes. We’ll never make advances by smashing windows in Oxford Street or slashing paintings in the National Gallery. That’s vandalism. The women who did that were trying to achieve a noble objective by violent means and that was a mistake.’ She glared at Alice. ‘Well, speak up. Don’t you have an opinion on the subject?’
‘I believe that women should have the vote,’ said Alice, firmly, ‘and the war has given us the opportunity to prove our worth.’
‘It’s an opportunity that we must seize with both hands.’
It was a familiar theme and Alice had heard her return to it again and again. All that she could do was to stand there and listen. There was an underlying enmity between the two women. Alice admired the inspector for her efficiency and dedication but resented the way that Thelma Gale picked her out for undeserved criticism. Keedy always explained away the inspector’s attitude as an example of a plain and undesirable spinster being jealous of Alice’s youth and beauty, but there was another side to Thelma’s envy. She resented the fact that Alice had privileged insights into real policing denied to her. As a result, she was often singled out for the full blast of the woman known to everyone under her command as Gale Force.
That morning, however, the gale was no more than a soft breeze.
‘How is the murder investigation going?’ asked Thelma, sweetly.
‘I have no idea, Inspector.’
‘Come, come – your father must have let slip something.’
‘I haven’t even spoken to him since he began work on the case.’
‘Sergeant Keedy would have discussed it with you.’
‘He has more sense than to do that, Inspector,’ said Alice, resolutely, ‘and I have more sense than to ask him. All I know is what I read in the newspapers. As it happens, I’ve hardly seen the sergeant since the murder took place. He and my father are working all hours. They’re under great pressure from Superintendent Chatfield to solve a case that is – for obvious reasons – very disturbing.’
‘It may have one positive effect,’ said Thelma, sharply. ‘Women will now be far more careful when they choose to go to a cinema with a man. However, that’s not what I wanted to see you about.’ She looked at the paper in front of her. ‘I’ve been working out the new shift patterns and I’m glad that you won’t be distracted by the pleasures of your social life.’
‘What do you mean, Inspector?’
‘I’m transferring you to night duty.’ She smiled malignantly. ‘I’m afraid that you’ll be seeing even less of Sergeant Keedy for a while.’
Toby Ruggles was a ginger-haired man in his fifties with an unshaven face and piggy eyes. Joe Keedy found the window cleaner squeezing out his chamois leather into a bucket of water. Ruggles was smoking a cigarette. When he heard that he was speaking to a detective, he rolled the cigarette from one side of his mouth to the other but never removed it.
‘We got your letter, Mr Baggles,’ said Keedy.
‘It’s Ruggles – Toby Ruggles. Can’t you read?’
‘Thank you for making contact. Tell me what you saw.’
‘It’s all in the letter.’
‘I wanted to make sure that you were a real person. We get lots of hoax letters at a time like this. Some people seem to enjoy giving us misleading information and sending us off on the wrong track.’
‘I’d never do that, Sergeant.’
‘That’s good to hear.’
‘This is my territory, see?’ said Ruggles with an extravagant gesture. ‘I’ve cleaned windows round here for years.’ He jerked a thumb at the cinema behind him. ‘The Cupid is my favourite.’
‘The West End is much bigger and grander.’
‘Yeah – but the manager is much stingier. They pay me well at the Cupid and I get two free tickets every time. Me and the missus started coming here when it was known as the Palm Court. God knows why they changed the name.’
‘Let’s go back to the day of the murder.’
‘If you like,’ said Ruggles, shaking his head so that he shook off the ash at the tip of his cigarette. ‘I was at the back of Coventry Street, cleaning a window.’
‘How far away from the West End cinema were you?’
‘Fifteen or twenty yards at most. I was up my ladder.’
‘What did you see?’
‘Well, it’s like I said in my letter. This bloke comes out of the emergency exit and I thinks to myself that it’s a funny thing to do. I mean, it’s a Charlie Chaplin film. They’re always good. When he opened the door, I could hear the laughter inside. Why was he leaving before the film was over?’
‘Go on.’
‘There was this bin outside and he lifted the lid. Because he had his back to me, I couldn’t see what he put inside. Next minute, he legs it down the street and goes right past me.’
Keedy produced his notebook. ‘Could you describe him to me?’
‘Yeah – I got two good eyes, Sergeant. You need them in this business to see that you’ve done a proper job. I don’t cheat like some of the others. They never get right into the corners, especially on first-floor windows which the customer can only see from below. They get their money’s worth from me.’
‘I’m still waiting for that description.’
‘He was shorter than you – but not all that much – and he had the same sort of shape. I reckon he was about the same age as well, Sergeant. In fact,’ he went on, removing the cigarette so that he could emit a throaty laugh, ‘it might almost have been you.’ Dropping the cigarette to the floor, he stamped on it. ‘He wore this grey suit. It was smart but not as good as yours, and I noticed how clean his shoes were. I mean, they were gleaming.’
‘You saw nothing of his face, I assume,’ said Keedy, jotting down the details.
‘He was wearing a hat so I only saw a little,’ said Ruggles, ‘but he could shift, I can tell you that. I’ve never seen anyone walk that fast.’
‘Was anyone else about?’
‘Yeah – there was quite a few people but they didn’t take any notice of him. I did, Sergeant. That’s why you got that letter from me.’
‘It’s very public-spirited of you.’
‘If truth be told, it was the missus who made me write it.’
‘Please thank her on my behalf.’
Ruggles began to roll himself another cigarette. Closing his notebook, Keedy walked away. The chat with the chain-smoking window cleaner had produced one valuable fact. His description of the killer was almost identical to the one given by the Reverend Matthew Hearn. Charlotte Reid had gone into the cinema first. In all probability, the last person to enter it was the man who intended to strangle her to death.
The morning had been largely unproductive for Harvey Marmion. He interviewed two people who claimed to have been at the cinema on the fatal day but learnt nothing of value from either of them. Superintendent Chatfield then descended on him and badgered him for more information that could be released to the press. To get rid of him, the inspector promised that he would have something new to say about the killer at the end of the day. Left alone in his office, he wondered what on earth it could be. There was a tap on his door and a policeman showed in a visitor. Well dressed and well groomed, the newcomer was in his late thirties. Marmion wondered why he was so diffident.
‘May I help you, sir?’ he asked.
‘I’m not sure,’ said the man.
‘Have you come about the appeal in the newspaper?’
‘Yes, I have.’
‘Then please sit down,’ said Marmion, indicating the chair.
The man sat down. ‘I can’t stay long.’
‘What was the name, sir?’
‘It’s … Mr Smith.’
‘Then I’m grateful that you came to see me, Mr Smith.’
During his career as a policeman, Marmion had met scores of people who gave the surname of Smith. Some were genuine but most wanted anonymity. The visitor was one of the latter. Marmion respected his feelings.
‘Were you at the West End cinema on the day concerned, sir?’ he said.
‘We were, Inspector – that’s to say, I did go there with a friend. We like Charlie Chaplin films. The place was quite busy so the usherette showed us to the back row. We wanted to sit much closer but there were no two seats together.’
‘I understand, Mr Smith.’
‘Before the film started,’ said the other, ‘this young woman was shown to a seat in the back row. The usherette’s torch lit the woman’s face for a split second and I saw how pretty she was.’
‘Are you telling me that it was the woman in the newspaper photograph?’
‘It could very well be, though I didn’t get a proper look at her. It was dark and there were two empty seats between us and her. Then the film started and all our attention went on that. After a while – out of the corner of my eye – I saw this man take the seat on the other side of her. She made a noise as if she were pleased to see him. They were only four or five feet away from us.’
‘This is very valuable information, sir,’ said Marmion, encouragingly. ‘What else do you remember?’
‘Not a lot, Inspector, because we were so engrossed in the film. But they didn’t seem to be watching it at all. They were … very close together and that went on until the man suddenly disappeared. I don’t know why. When the lights went up, the woman seemed to be asleep – though how anyone could nod off during a Chaplin, film, I can’t imagine. We left her there and went out at the other end of the row.’ He gave a nervous laugh. ‘That’s all I can tell you, sir.’
‘It confirms what we suspected, Mr Smith.’
‘We were horrified to read what had been happening so close to us.’
‘Your friend must have been extremely upset.’
‘Yes, Inspector, she was unable to come to work next day.’ The man rose to his feet. ‘Talking of work, I must get back to the office but I felt that I had to come. Do you know who he is? Have you identified the killer yet?’
‘Let’s just say that your testimony is a big step towards an arrest, Mr Smith.’
He offered his hand and was met by a clammy palm. ‘Goodbye, sir, and thank you.’
The visitor looked as if a great load had been lifted from his shoulders. Marmion watched him go then made a few notes. Two things were evident. The man was married – he was wearing a wedding ring – and his companion in the cinema was not his wife. He’d also lied about not wishing to sit in the back row. Marmion’s guess was that he employed the woman he took to the film. If he was the boss, he’d be able to take time off during the afternoon. It was not Marmion’s business to pry into their relationship. All that he wanted was a genuine witness and he’d just heard testimony from one who’d sat uncomfortably close to a murder.
Mrs Cinderby was thrilled to see Joe Keedy again. She not only invited him in, she plied him with cups of tea and home-made biscuits that were tastier than any he’d eaten before. She was lonely. That was why she was so glad of company. Because it was a fine day, her husband had gone off to his bowls club. From the way she complained about his desertion, Keedy had the impression that it was his regular escape route. Calling on the old lady saved him a great deal of time. She was able to tell him all that he needed to know about Charlotte Reid’s many activities at the church. When she was alive, she’d been a dedicated parishioner who was on the flower rota and who helped to prepare refreshments in the church hall after certain services.
‘She loved that church, you see,’ said Mrs Cinderby, fondly. ‘She and Derek were married there.’
‘We were told that she was very popular with the neighbours.’
‘Oh, she was, Sergeant.’
Off she went and all that Keedy could do was to marvel at her knowledge of the rest of the people in the street. She went down one side then worked up the other, listing the families with which Charlotte had had a close connection. It was almost as if Mrs Cinderby had conducted a census. Alma Bond was picked out once again as the dead woman’s bosom friend and the old woman spoke kindly of her. What was clear to Keedy was that there was a strong sense of community in the street. Many families had sent off young men to the war and, in a few cases, some had either lost them in action or received them back home with their crippling injuries. Everyone was drawn together by adversity.
Keedy was deeply grateful. He wouldn’t have to bruise his knuckles by knocking on door after door. Most of the information he needed had been kindly provided by Mrs Cinderby.
‘I saw the inspector bringing Mr Christelow here yesterday,’ she said with evident disappointment, ‘and I hoped that I’d be able to speak to Charlotte’s father. My husband and I got to know him quite well, you see. But he wouldn’t even answer the door. He just wanted to be alone. I wasn’t even able to offer my condolences.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Keedy, closing his notebook and rising from the chair. ‘Thank you for everything. You’ve been a godsend, and those biscuits of yours would win prizes.’ She tittered. ‘I’ve learnt everything I needed to know so I’ll be on my way.’
‘It was a pleasure to see you again, Sergeant.’
Mrs Cinderby showed him to the door and opened it for him.
‘She was a busy woman,’ he said. ‘I don’t know how she fitted in so many activities. Mrs Reid seems to have known almost everyone in the street.’
‘Oh, she had friends elsewhere as well.’
‘Really? You didn’t mention those.’
‘There was Mrs Stothart, for instance. She lives on the main road. She and Charlotte saw each other every week. They went to art classes together.’