Instrument of Slaughter

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

For a man with crimes to solve and administrative problems to tax him, Claude Chatfield had a strangely contented air that morning. Harvey Marmion soon learnt why. Spread out on the superintendent’s desk was an array of national newspapers. Priority on the front pages had been given to the latest developments in the war but there was extensive coverage elsewhere of the murderous attack on the Reverend James Howells. To a man, reporters painted a more favourable picture of the activities of Scotland Yard with regard to the two investigations. Marmion was given credit for the tireless dedication he’d so far shown and the superintendent was also praised. As soon as the inspector walked into his office, Chatfield thrust the newspapers at him. Marmion was pleased to see that, after the censure in the Evening News on the previous day, he’d been largely exonerated. He was also amused that the superintendent was commended for putting him in charge of the investigation when Chatfield had, in reality, opposed the appointment.

‘What do you think of that?’ asked Chatfield, complacently.

‘Praise is better than condemnation, sir,’ replied Marmion, ‘but the fact remains that we haven’t actually solved either of the crimes. Only when that’s done should we receive any plaudits.’

‘It’s a question of appearance. This makes us look good.’

‘Looking good is not necessarily the same as being good.’

‘Don’t quibble, man.’

‘I don’t feel that we deserve these plaudits yet, sir.’

‘We’re in the public eye, Inspector. This kind of window dressing is always to our advantage. With a depleted force having to police a city the size of London, we need all the help we can get from the press.’ He took the papers back and put them on his desk. ‘When and if you ever rise to the level of superintendent,’ he went on, loftily, ‘you’ll come to appreciate that.’

Marmion ignored the jibe. ‘I’m sure you’re right, sir.’

‘What are your plans for today?’

‘I want to start with another visit to the hospital,’ said Marmion. ‘Father Howells’s parents were in too fragile a state to be interviewed yesterday. I’d like to ask them how much they knew about their son’s private life. It might yield some clues for us to pursue. After that, I hope, you’ll have secured that search warrant for us.’

‘It will be ready and waiting, Inspector.’

‘Then Sergeant Keedy and I will visit Waldron’s house.’

‘Let me know if you discover anything of significance.’

After explaining how he intended to spend the rest of the day, Marmion went off to his own office where he found Joe Keedy waiting. The sergeant was studying the map of London that lay on the desk.

‘One thing about this job,’ he said. ‘It certainly gives you plenty of geography lessons. I think I could find my way around Shoreditch blindfold.’

‘I’m waiting for the moment when we take the blindfolds off, Joe, because I feel that there’s something we’re simply not seeing as yet.’

‘Have you talked to Chat yet?’

‘Yes,’ said Marmion. ‘I left him basking in the praise he’s received in the morning papers. He got a pat on the back for assigning us to the case.’

‘But we were never his first choice.’

‘That doesn’t matter. He’s probably busy with the scissors right now, cutting out the articles for his scrapbook. He’s a walking paradox — a man who hates the press yet who hangs on every kind word they say about him.’

‘Well, he won’t get any kind words from me,’ said Keedy, forcefully. ‘I’ll never forgive him for getting promotion ahead of you. You’re twice the detective he is.’

‘That’s water under the bridge.’

‘I’m not as forgiving as you, Harv.’

As Keedy folded up the map again, he noticed a slip of paper that had been hidden beneath it. He reached out to pick it up.

‘Sorry about that,’ he said. ‘I forgot there was a message for you.’

Marmion took it from him. ‘Thank you,’ he said, reading the two short lines. ‘This could be important.’

‘Is it from the hospital?’

‘No, Joe, it’s from Mrs Skene. She rang from Lambeth police station half an hour ago. If she’s that keen to speak to me, it must be urgent.’

‘Do you want to go straight there?’

‘The hospital and the search come first,’ decided Marmion. ‘Mrs Skene will have to wait her turn in the queue. Let’s go.’

They left the office and walked side by side down the corridor.

‘I bet Ellen was pleased to see you home a bit earlier last night,’ said Keedy.

‘Yes, I got a warm welcome.’

‘How is she?’

‘I suppose that “long-suffering” is the best way to describe her. But that’s true of all police wives. She had one piece of good news for me — a letter from Paul. We hadn’t heard from him in ages and Ellen was starting to worry.’

He told Keedy about the contents of the letter and how it could be read in different ways. While his wife had been heartened by its apparently positive tone, Marmion had noticed the hints of despair between the lines. In his judgement, their son was bored, depressed and angered by the futility of war. Of the friends with whom he’d joined up so enthusiastically at the outbreak of hostilities, over half were either dead or wounded. It was a sobering statistic.

‘Luckily,’ said Marmion, ‘Ellen was simply happy that he’s alive and well. She was thrilled to hear that Paul was in line for a promotion. Like any other mother, she clings to good news like a limpet.’

Keedy was cynical. ‘Is there any good news about the war?’

‘That’s a fair point.’

‘Look how many policemen who joined up have been killed in action. What must their families think of the efforts we’re putting in on behalf of a conchie?’

‘You know the answer to that,’ said Marmion, not wishing to rehearse a familiar argument once more. ‘Oh, there was something else that Ellen had been saving up to tell me.’

‘What was that?’

‘She thinks that Alice has a new chap in her life.’

‘Is that surprising? She’s an attractive young woman.’

‘Yes, but she’s always confided in her mother in the past. When she was asked directly about it, Alice denied there was anyone this time.’

‘Then perhaps your wife is wrong,’ said Keedy.

He already knew about Ellen’s suspicions because Alice had told him about the exchange with her mother. Keedy was anxious to guide Marmion away from the subject because he found the subterfuge difficult. Besides, he still considered himself no more than a good friend of Alice Marmion. Though he’d recently seen her twice in succession, their meetings were too infrequent for anything more serious to develop. That, at least, was what he told himself.

‘When it comes to men,’ said Marmion with a grin, ‘Ellen is never wrong.’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘She married me, didn’t she?’

Maud Crowther was a creature of habit. Having run the Weavers Arms with her husband for so many years, she was accustomed to working long hours in the public gaze. She took pride in her appearance and would never venture outside the house until she’d curled her hair, applied her make-up and put on smart clothing. As she examined herself in the mirror that morning, she could hear the cat crying to be let in but she made him wait until she was satisfied with the way she looked. When she did finally open the front door, the animal darted in through her legs and scurried off to the kitchen to eat the food she’d put in his bowl. Maud, meanwhile, was transfixed. On the doorstep in front of her was a large bunch of flowers. She had no idea who’d left them there or why. Scooping them up, she inhaled their fragrance and smiled. When she took them into the house to put in a vase, she realised that there was a card tucked in among the blooms. On it, in a rough scrawl, was a single word.

Sorry.

‘Horrie Waldron!’ she said to herself. ‘You old rogue.’

News at the hospital was better than expected. The Reverend James Howells had shown the first signs of regaining consciousness. His eyelids had flickered and his lips had started to move as if he was trying to say something. It was still too early for the detectives to talk to him but they were pleased with the improvement in his condition. Marmion asked the doctor in charge of the case to contact Scotland Yard the moment that the patient was able to speak. Though no interlopers had so far been spotted, the policeman was kept on duty outside the room. Marmion always put safety first.

He and Keedy talked to the curate’s parents but learnt nothing from them that they hadn’t already gleaned from the vicar. Their son kept in regular contact with them by letter but his private life was largely a mystery to them. They, too, were bolstered by the news from the doctor and were eager to be allowed to see the patient again. The detectives left them in the waiting room and drove back to Scotland Yard where Chatfield — true to his word — had a search warrant for them. In the event, it proved unnecessary. When they got to Waldron’s address, the landlord admitted them without even asking to see the warrant.

A big, shambling, flat-faced man, he was clearly used to his tenant’s uneasy relationship with the police and was prepared to tolerate it. Indeed, he had the look of someone who’d had his own brushes with the law and who therefore took any visits from detectives in his stride. After warning them about the smell they’d encounter, he unlocked the basement door and left them to it. They were met by the stink of leftover food, unwashed dishes and rising damp. Keedy opened a window to let in fresh air, noting that the glass hadn’t been cleaned in ages.

‘This is more of a lair than anything else,’ he complained.

‘It’s probably all that he can afford, Joe.’

‘How can anyone live in conditions like these?’

‘Thousands of people do,’ said Marmion, ‘all over London.’

Their search did not take long because Waldron owned little in the way of clothing and nothing in the way of luxuries. His room contained a low bed, a chest of drawers, an upright chair and a wardrobe with scratches on the doors. Tucked away in a drawer they found a couple of shirts, some detached collars, two pairs of socks in need of darning, threadbare underwear, a pack of cards and some tobacco. The only real surprise was in the wardrobe where a new suit hung beside an old coat and a pair of corduroy trousers, shiny through overuse. Also in there was a pair of black shoes and a lone tie. To their amazement, the shoes had been polished to a high sheen.

‘I’ll bet he doesn’t wear those at the cemetery,’ opined Keedy.

‘No,’ agreed Marmion, ‘he saves them for a special occasion and I think we both know what it might be.’

Keedy laughed in astonishment. ‘He wears that suit when he goes calling on Maud Crowther. That’s why it’s here.’ He felt the material. ‘It’s good quality.’

‘Then the probability is that she bought it for him. Waldron could never pay for a bespoke tailor. The rest of his clothing looks like hand-me-downs.’

They turned their attention to the scullery. The larder was almost bare and the drawer beside the sink had only a few items of cutlery. Unwashed plates lay on the table. Potato peelings and other kitchen waste stood in an enamel bowl. It was the trousers that made their visit worthwhile. Taken down from the line, they were now draped over the back of a chair. When he picked them up, Marmion could feel that they were still damp. He held them up to the window and saw the marks on the knees and the shins.

‘What do you think these are, Joe?’ he asked.

‘Bloodstains.’

‘Ask him how they got there.’

The first customer was waiting outside the forge for them. While Jack Dalley unlocked the door and dealt with the man, Percy Fry unharnessed the horse and led him into the stable. He then started work beside his boss. Having driven his wife across to Dalley’s house, Fry had brought him back to Bethnal Green on the cart, a journey that took longer than usual because of heavy traffic. They were both kept busy for hours. Since Elaine Fry was not there, they missed the mid-morning cup of tea that she always brought them. Instead, it was Fry himself who had to make it. When he came back downstairs with the tea, the two men took a break.

‘It was considerate of Elaine to come again,’ said Dalley, ‘and I know that Nancy will appreciate it, but I’m not sure that it was wise. Your wife looked as if she ought to have stayed in bed, Perce.’

‘Elaine will perk up as the day wears on.’

‘We don’t want to impose on her.’

‘She was keen to go, Jack. She felt that she was able to help yesterday.’

‘Oh, she did — no question about that.’

‘Don’t worry about her,’ said Fry. ‘Elaine had plenty of rest last night. In fact, she went to bed almost as soon as we got back yesterday. She sleeps like a baby for ten or eleven hours at a stretch.’

Dalley sipped his tea. ‘I wish that Nancy could do that,’ he said, soulfully. ‘She’s exhausted. She hasn’t had a proper sleep since we heard the news. And that means I have to stay awake most of the night with her. It’s wearing me out.’

‘You could always take another day off.’

‘No thanks, Perce. I’m like my brother-in-law. I’m only happy when I’m doing something. If I stay at home, I have to listen to Nancy saying the same thing over and over again. That’s why I’m so grateful to your wife.’

‘What about that other lady?’ asked Fry, before draining his cup with a loud slurping noise. ‘Is Mrs Skene going to be there today?’

‘I’ve no idea,’ replied Dalley. ‘I never expected her to turn up yesterday. Caroline is a good-hearted woman but we haven’t seen all that much of her in the past. That’s not to say she isn’t welcome,’ he added, quickly. ‘Nancy told me how kind she’d been.’

‘Elaine said the same thing about her.’

‘Women are so much better at comforting someone in distress. Like most men, I suppose, I just don’t know what to do. I always feel as if I’m in the way. My nephew was battered to death yet somehow I couldn’t find the right words to say to his father.’ He hunched his broad shoulders. ‘I felt sort of embarrassed. That’s why I prefer to leave the comforting to people like your wife and Nancy’s cousin. It seems to come naturally to them.’

Caroline Skene was in need of comfort herself at that moment in time. Pacing up and down the front room, she kept pausing to peer out of the window. Her teeth were clenched, her brow corrugated and her mind ablaze. She couldn’t understand why her summons had not been answered. Putting her trust in Marmion, she expected him to respond instantly. Yet it was almost two hours since she made the phone call and he still hadn’t appeared. Was he deliberately keeping her waiting? Or could it be that he’d ignored her request altogether? The thought went through her like an electric shock. Marmion was the one person who could help her. If he abandoned her, she would have nobody to whom she could turn.

It was only when she was alone that she was able to mourn properly. In front of her husband, all that she could show was her natural grief over the death of a relative. Marmion was the one person who’d had some insight into the intense pain she felt over the loss of a young lover. He’d been sympathetic and refrained from even the slightest criticism of her adultery. His sole interest was in solving the crime. He was not there to question her behaviour. That had enabled her to confide in him things that she would never divulge to anyone else.

As she was hit by another wave of grief, she sank down onto the settee. A second later, she jumped to her feet as she heard the sound of a car pulling up outside the house. Caroline ran to the window, saw Marmion getting out of the vehicle and went straight to the front door. When she opened it, she didn’t even hear his apology for being delayed. She simply burst into tears and went into his arms. Easing her gently back, he closed the door then guided her to the front room. He lowered her onto the settee and sat beside her.

‘Thank God you came!’ she said, grasping his wrist.

‘I wish I could have been here earlier, Mrs Skene,’ he said, looking into the frightened eyes. ‘Why did you want to see me?’

‘It’s a long story, Inspector.’

‘I’ve got plenty of time to listen.’

‘Something terrible happened yesterday,’ she told him. ‘I spent some of it with my cousin, Nancy, trying to calm her down. Then I called on Gerald — that’s Cyril’s father — and stayed a couple of hours with him. I must have left around eight o’clock to make my way back here.’

‘Go on, Mrs Skene,’ he said.

‘I was followed. I didn’t notice anything until I got back to Lambeth, but then I had this prickly feeling that someone was watching me. When I got to the corner of the street, I turned round sharply and saw him move behind a lamp post. I lost my nerve completely then,’ she admitted, ‘and ran all the way here. It was the most awful feeling, Inspector.’

‘Was your husband at home?’

‘Yes — Wilf was here. He’s on early morning shifts this week.’

‘Did you tell him what had happened?’

‘Of course not,’ she said. ‘He didn’t even notice that I was upset. If I’d told my husband, I’d have had to explain why I was followed.’

‘A woman on her own is always at risk of arousing someone’s unwanted interest,’ said Marmion, disappointed that she had nothing more serious to report to him. ‘I’m sorry that you were bothered in that way.’

‘You don’t understand, Inspector. It’s not the first time.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘It’s happened before but … I never really noticed it then. When you’re with someone you love,’ she went on, eyes filming over again, ‘you block out everything else. All I could see — and all I wanted to see — was Cyril.’

‘How do you know that it’s happened before?’

‘I began to remember odd incidents. For example, there was a time when Cyril and I met in a church. I know you’ll think badly of me for doing something like that,’ she said, hastily, ‘but it was the only place we could be together for a little while. We just sat in a pew at the back and held hands — there was nothing more than that.’

‘You don’t have to justify it, Mrs Skene. Tell me about being followed.’

‘It was as we came out,’ she recalled. ‘I saw someone on the opposite side of the road who looked vaguely familiar and it crossed my mind briefly that I might have seen him earlier when we first met that evening. But,’ she continued, ‘I was enjoying the pleasure of being with Cyril so much that I thought no more about it.’

‘And you say that there were other instances?’

‘I think so, Inspector, but I can’t be sure.’

‘What about yesterday? Was the person who stalked you the same man you saw when you came out of that church?’

‘I couldn’t say. On both occasions, I only got a glimpse of him. But there was no doubt about what happened yesterday. I was followed back home. It can only mean one thing,’ she concluded. ‘Someone knows about me and Cyril.’

‘Yet you took great care to be discreet.’

‘Maybe we weren’t discreet enough. Maybe someone saw him coming into this house or leaving it. We were certainly seen together outside that church.’

Marmion pondered. He’d been tempted at first to dismiss her tale as coming from an overheated imagination. The note of hysteria in her voice suggested a woman on the verge of nervous collapse. The more she talked, however, the calmer she sounded and he came to accept that there could well have been recurring instances of surveillance that might have culminated in the murder of Cyril Ablatt. She’d released his wrist now and sat there awaiting his advice.

‘I’d like you to do something for me, Mrs Skene,’ he said. ‘Get paper and pencil then rack your brains. I want you to write down a list of other times when you thought — or had a fleeting suspicion — that the two of you were being watched. If there are enough occasions, we may be able to see a pattern.’

Her face crumpled. ‘I’m terrified, Inspector.’

‘That’s understandable.’

‘As soon as my husband left for work this morning, I went to the police station to ring you. When I lost Cyril, I didn’t think that anything could be worse. But it looks as if it can. Someone has already killed Cyril,’ she said with a shiver, ‘and now he’s after me.’

Keedy had been dropped off at the cemetery. He thought it would be an easy task to locate and arrest Horrie Waldron but he was mistaken. The problem was that the gravedigger saw him first and played hide-and-seek with him. His detailed knowledge of the cemetery allowed him to stay one step ahead of the sergeant. When he realised what was happening, Keedy pretended to give up and walked towards the main entrance. As soon as he reached cover, however, he doubled back in a wide circle. Concealing himself behind a statue, he bided his time until Waldron eventually came back in sight. Keedy gave him a few minutes before sprinting across the turf and grabbing him from behind.

‘Don’t run off this time, Horrie,’ he warned.

‘Let go of me.’

‘If you try to get away again, I’ll handcuff you.’ Keedy released him. ‘I’ve come to place you under arrest.’

Waldron was outraged. ‘What the hell for?’

‘It’s no good playing the innocent. We searched that hole you live in.’

‘You got no right to do that.’

‘It was legal and above board. We had a warrant.’

‘You’ve got a bloody cheek, if you ask me.’

‘I’m glad that you mentioned blood,’ said Keedy. ‘We found the stains you tried to wash off from your trousers.’

‘They weren’t bloodstains,’ said Waldron, wildly. ‘I spilt some tomato sauce on them, that’s all.’

‘You were trying to remove the evidence of your attack on Cyril Ablatt.’

‘That’s ridiculous!’

‘Let’s discuss it when we’ve got you in custody, shall we?’

‘You got to believe me, Sergeant. I never laid a finger on Ablatt.’

Keedy was impervious to his protestations. After reading him his rights, he arrested him and invited Waldron to go with him. The gravedigger held his ground as he weighed up the possibilities. In the end, he seemed to give up and let his head fall to his chest. Without warning, he then gave Keedy a firm push and ran off in the opposite direction, darting between the headstones as if the devil was at his heels. Annoyed at the deception, Keedy gave chase, his greater energy and his longer strides eating up the distance between them. Waldron could hear the footsteps getting closer and closer. He put all his strength into an extra burst but it was in vain. Keedy matched it effortlessly and got close enough to dive forward and tackle the fugitive around the thighs.

Waldron came crashing down to the ground and landed head first, dazing himself momentarily in the process. By the time his head cleared, he found that his wrists had been handcuffed behind his back and that Keedy was holding him down. When he tried to wriggle free, Waldron could hardly move. Keedy stood up and took hold of his collar to haul him upright.

‘That’s another charge, Horrie,’ he said. ‘You resisted arrest.’

‘Piss off!’

‘You’re determined to make it difficult for yourself, aren’t you?’

Waldron was fuming. ‘I swear, on the grave of my mother, that I didn’t touch Ablatt that night.’

Keedy held him by his lapel. ‘So where did those bloodstains come from?’

The question took all of the resistance out of Waldron. His face reddened and his whole body sagged. Shifting his feet uneasily, he turned his face away. After a few moments, he found some vestigial defiance.

‘I’m saying nothing,’ he said.

Caroline Skene took time to go through her memories of times spent with Ablatt. She wrote down a list of incidents, crossing some decisively out then reinstating the odd one after reflection. In the end, she’d remembered six definite occasions when it occurred to her — if only for the briefest of moments — that there might have been someone watching them. She added a seventh, explaining that it referred to a time when Ablatt had arrived at the house and said that he’d had the feeling that he might have been trailed by someone. Since they could see nobody in the street through the window, they dismissed the notion. Caroline now believed they’d been too hasty in doing so. She handed the list to Marmion who read through it.

‘There is a pattern here, Mrs Skene,’ he observed. ‘The incidents all took place either during the evening or on a Sunday. If someone is shadowing you, he can only do it outside working hours.’

‘The trouble is that I can’t be certain, Inspector. Did I actually think that something fishy was going on at the time or am I inventing it?’

‘Only you can tell me that.’

‘I sensed someone might have been there without actually seeing him.’

‘Instinct is usually reliable,’ he told her. ‘It is in the case of my wife, anyway. When she gets the feeling that something is in the air, she rarely makes mistakes.’

‘What do we do now?’

‘I suggest that you stay indoors of an evening for a while. You’re safe enough moving around during the day. If you do need to venture out one evening, keep your eyes peeled. Note the time and place where you get the idea that you may be under observation.’

‘I’ll be too afraid to leave the house at all now.’

‘That’s up to you, Mrs Skene.’

‘Do you think I’m in danger?’

‘I think that you should exercise caution,’ he said, choosing his words with care, ‘though I don’t believe there’s any immediate physical danger. If this person has designs on you, he had the opportunity to strike yesterday evening.’

She was reassured. ‘Yes, that’s true.’

‘There’s always the possibility that he may just be an admirer.’

‘Then it’s a strange way to show his admiration,’ she yelled, with a sudden flash of temper that she regretted instantly. ‘I’m sorry, Inspector. I didn’t mean to shout like that. It’s rather got on my nerves, I’m afraid.’

‘That’s not surprising. Answer me this,’ said Marmion. ‘When the two of you were out together, was there ever a time when one of you recognised anyone that you knew?’

‘I never saw anyone I knew but Cyril did.’

‘Oh — when was this?’

‘It was just before Christmas. Since it was very cold, we had hats, scarves and gloves on. In fact, I had a scarf across my mouth so nobody could possibly have recognised me. But Cyril was afraid that someone might spot him,’ she said. ‘At one point, he pulled me into a shop doorway and ducked his head. There was someone he knew, walking on the opposite pavement.’

‘Did he say who it was?’

‘Oh, yes. It was his boss.’

‘Eric Fussell?’

‘That was the name. Cyril was so anxious not to be seen by him.’

Keedy was soon regretting the fact that he took the prisoner back to Scotland Yard. Hearing that a suspect had been arrested, Chatfield insisted on being present during the interrogation, wrongly believing that his rank would intimidate Waldron. It did nothing of the kind. The gravedigger simply clammed up and refused to answer any questions. While he sat on one side of a table, the detectives sat on the other. Left alone with him, Keedy felt that he could get him talking. But as long as the superintendent was there, threatening impotently, there was no chance.

‘You’re not helping yourself, Mr Waldron,’ said Chatfield. ‘Silence is no means of defence. You’re our prime suspect. We know that you had reason to hate Cyril Ablatt. We know that you’re given to violent behaviour. And we’ve now found bloodstains on the trousers you wore that night. It appears that you tried in vain to get rid of them.’

Chatfield would like to have confronted him with the trousers but Marmion had promised to bring them back in the car and had not yet returned. Arms folded and eyes on the ceiling, Waldron continued to ignore everything that was said. The superintendent could simply not get through to him. Relief at last came. There was an urgent message from the commissioner and Chatfield had to make a reluctant exit. Keedy had his chance to chisel away at Waldron. It took him five minutes before he got the first few words out of him.

‘Do you admit that it was blood on those trousers?’

‘It might be.’

‘Either it is or it isn’t.’

‘Can’t remember.’

‘You remembered spilling tomato sauce on them earlier.’

‘Yes, it does look a bit like blood.’

‘We didn’t find any tomato sauce in your larder, Horrie.’

Waldron stirred. ‘Don’t you poke around in there!’ he demanded.

‘There was hardly any food at all,’ said Keedy. ‘You live on beer, don’t you? That’s where you get your meals — at the Weavers Arms.’

‘Want to go home.’

‘You’re not going anywhere until we get to the bottom of this.’

‘It wasn’t me what bashed his head in.’

‘Then who was it?’

‘Who cares?’

‘Everything points to you, Horrie.’

Retreating back into silence, Waldron folded his arms and closed his eyes. Keedy had to fight back the impulse to hit him. Instead, he delivered a verbal blow that had far more effect.

‘Maud Crowther is going to be disappointed in you, isn’t she?’

‘What you on about?’ growled Waldron.

‘Imagine what she’ll think when she hears that you’ve been arrested,’ said Keedy. ‘You won’t be her blue-eyed boy anymore, will you?’

‘Shut your trap!’

Having found his weak spot, Keedy exploited it mercilessly.

‘You’d rather forgotten about her, hadn’t you? So had we until we went into that skunk’s den where you live. We opened your wardrobe and we made an astounding discovery.’

‘Keep away from my things, you bastard!’

‘We learnt that there are two Horrie Waldrons,’ said Keedy. ‘One is that drunken gravedigger who can’t always be bothered to shave in the morning and who’s too quick to throw his weight about. The other one is a man who actually washes and takes pains to look nice for his lady friend, even to the extent of wearing a suit. Is that what you did on the night that Cyril Ablatt died? You went off to see Mrs Crowther in your Sunday best, then you put on your old clothes and committed murder.’

‘That’s a lie!’ howled Waldron, smacking the table.

‘How did the bloodstains get on your trousers?’

‘I told you to shut up.’

‘Perhaps we should ask Stan Crowther. He might have an idea.’ Keedy prodded him even harder. ‘I daresay he’d be interested to hear that his mother has a secret admirer. What are your chances of getting served in his pub when he knows the truth about the pair of you?’

‘I’ll kill you!’ roared Waldron, diving over the table.

Keedy was knocked to the floor by the force of the impact but he recovered quickly and grappled with his attacker. The sound of commotion brought two uniformed constables to the room. When they came in, they saw that Keedy was now astride his attacker, subduing him with a relay of punches. Turning him over, he snapped the handcuffs back on his wrists then signalled to the newcomers. They hoisted Waldron to his feet and dumped him back in his chair, standing either side of him with a restraining hand on his shoulder. Keedy got up calmly, straightened his coat, picked up his overturned chair and set it down before sitting in it.

He then gave the prisoner his most radiant smile.

‘Now that I’ve loosened your tongue,’ he said, ‘we’ll start again.’