Edward Marston: Instrument of Slaughter

‘That may be difficult.’

‘Why is that, sir?’

‘From what I hear, the skull has been smashed to a pulp. I don’t think anyone will be able to identify what’s left of him.’ Chatfield drew himself up to his full height. ‘The killer must be caught and caught quickly,’ he emphasized. ‘The public needs to be reassured that a murderer will not be allowed to roam free in the streets of London. However,’ he said with a thin-lipped smile, ‘there will doubtless be those who have no cause to mourn Ablatt. His death means that there’ll be one conchie less to worry about. I can understand that feeling.’

‘That’s more than I can do,’ said Marmion under his breath.

Concealing his disgust, he went out and closed the door firmly behind him.

Since the outbreak of war, Joe Keedy’s work days had been longer and his nights under constant threat. Policing the capital was a twenty-four-hour operation. It meant that, while his social life was curtailed, he was amply rewarded with the action on which he thrived. In case he was roused in the small hours, he always had a shave immediately before retiring to bed so that he looked presentable when awakened at short notice and needed simply to put on his suit before being ready to leave. As it happened, when the police car arrived outside his digs, Keedy was already up and dressed. One glance through the window told him that he and Marmion had a new investigation to lead. Chewing a last piece of toast, he swallowed it with a gulp and washed it down with a mouthful of tea. Then he reached for his overcoat and hat before heading for the door.

Standing at over six feet, Keedy was a handsome, wiry man in his thirties who took far more care with his appearance than the average detective. His hat was set at a rakish angle, there was a sharp crease in his trousers and his black shoes gleamed. He bounded down the stairs and let himself out into the cold. A moment later, he climbed into the car beside Marmion.

‘Good morning, Harv,’ he said.

‘You were quick. Were you expecting me?’

‘It’s a case of intuition.’

‘I thought that was something only women are supposed to have.’

Keedy laughed. ‘That’s what they tell me.’

Marmion was glad to see him. They were good friends as well as colleagues and had developed a mutual understanding that helped to speed things up. As the car made its way through the deserted streets in the direction of Shoreditch, Marmion gave him a succinct report of events.

‘It doesn’t look as if we have much to go on,’ observed Keedy.

‘We soon will have, Joe.’

‘That meeting of the NCF could be significant.’

‘According to our dear superintendent,’ said Marmion, ‘it explains everything. He’s convinced that Ablatt was followed after the meeting, then attacked for daring to oppose the war. It never occurred to him that other factors might be involved.’

‘Ah, well, that’s old Chat for you. He always jumps to conclusions.’

‘It’s one of his many charms.’

‘I still can’t believe he was promoted over you,’ said Keedy. ‘Everyone knows that you can wipe the floor with Chat when it comes to catching villains. Yet it was that smarmy bastard who was appointed instead of you.’

‘He probably did better than me in the interview.’

‘He can’t do anything better than you, Harv.’

‘Yes, he can,’ said Marmion. ‘He can lose his temper much faster than me. He was frothing with anger when I got there and accused me of being late. If it was left to Claude Chatfield, I’d have to sleep in my office.’

‘I don’t think your wife would like that.’

‘She wouldn’t, Joe. The house seems empty now that Alice has moved out. If I start bedding down at Scotland Yard, I’m sure that Ellen would want to join me.’

Keedy rolled his eyes. ‘That would go down well with the top brass!’

‘As for the promotion, be thankful that I didn’t get it.’

‘But you deserved it, Harv.’

‘Think of the consequences.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘If I was Superintendent Marmion, then you’d be travelling in this car with a certain Inspector Chatfield. How would you fancy that?’

Keedy grimaced. ‘I wouldn’t fancy it at all,’ he said. ‘I remember the way he used to treat his sergeants. They did the work and he took the credit. No wonder three in a row enlisted in the army to escape him.’

‘I hope that you’re not thinking of doing that, Joe.’

‘Of course not — I prefer to do my fighting on the home front.’

‘Then I can guarantee you’ll have your hands full. Cyril Ablatt is only the latest visitor to the police morgue,’ said Marmion, philosophically. ‘There’ll be plenty of others to keep us occupied and plenty of chances to explode the superintendent’s instant theories about each successive murder.’

‘Chat is a congenital idiot.’

It was Marmion’s turn to laugh. ‘And so say all of us!’

The house had a narrow frontage and stood at the end of a terrace in a grimy backstreet. On the side wall of the building, someone had painted patriotic slogans and outright abuse in large white capitals. They were illumined by the gas lamp nearby. Evidently, one of the neighbours objected to Cyril Ablatt’s pacifist leanings. Drawn curtains in the front bedrooms testified that most people were still asleep but there was a light downstairs in the Ablatt house as the car drew up outside it. Marmion and Keedy got out and took a deep breath. Passing on grim news always upset them because they had to inflict intense pain. There was no easy way to do it. Marmion used the knocker to give a gentle tap. There was an immediate reaction. Footsteps came scuttling down the passageway, then a bolt was drawn back. When the door swung open, they were confronted by the hunched figure of a bald-headed man in his fifties. In pyjamas, dressing gown and slippers, he had the fatigued look of someone who’d been up all night. Sensing disaster, he let out a deep sigh of resignation.

‘It’s about Cyril, isn’t it?’ he asked, biting his lip.

‘I’m afraid that it is, sir,’ said Marmion. ‘Are you his father?’

‘Yes, I am.’

‘I’m Inspector Marmion and this is Sergeant Keedy. Would it be possible for us to step inside, please? I don’t think you’d want to hear this on the doorstep.’

‘Of course, of course …’

Gerald Ablatt stepped back so that they could step into the dank passageway. Closing the door behind him, he took the detectives into the front room and motioned them to the settee. Removing their hats, they sat down. Ablatt himself was directly opposite, perched on the edge of an armchair. The room was so small that his knees were fairly close to theirs.

‘I’ve been dreading this,’ he admitted.

‘It’s bad news, I’m afraid,’ warned Marmion, gently. ‘Do you think that your wife ought to hear it with you?’

‘My wife died three years ago, Inspector — diphtheria.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that, sir.’

‘It might be a blessing in disguise. Cyril was our only child. Mary doted on him. I’d hate her to have heard that he’s met with some kind of accident.’ His eyes widened quizzically. ‘That is why you’re here, isn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ said Marmion, exchanging a glance with Keedy, ‘but it was rather more than an accident. A young man was attacked and killed last night. We’ve reason to believe that he may have been your son.’

For a few moments, Ablatt was stunned and looked as if he was about to fall over. Keedy sat forward in case he needed to catch the man, while Marmion felt guilty at having to administer the hammer blow. With a supreme effort, Ablatt steadied himself and managed to control his emotions. His hands were tightly clasped and his body tensed.