Edward Marston - A Bespoke Murder

‘What if he didn’t authorise it?’

Marmion chuckled. ‘If I thought there was any chance of that happening,’ he said, ‘I wouldn’t have told him about it. We’d simply have gone ahead.’

‘There’s that devious streak of yours coming out again,’ said Keedy, laughing.

‘I’m just being practical. Good results are what matter.’

‘We’re supposed to obey orders.’

‘So was Nelson,’ said Marmion. ‘Luckily, he didn’t always do so and achieved great victories as a result.’

Keedy grinned cheekily. ‘Are you telling me I can disobey you whenever I fancy?’

‘I’m telling you to exercise discretion, Joe. By the way,’ he went on, picking up a sheet of paper, ‘I had another report from the man I put on David Cohen. He’s discovered something interesting.’

‘Let me guess — Howard Fine is Cohen’s illegitimate son.’

‘There is a blood relationship between them, as it happens.’

‘Really? I was only joking.’

‘It’s not that close. It turns out that the firm that Fine joined in Brighton when he left London is run by David Cohen’s cousin.’

‘Does that mean Cohen recommended Fine for the job?’

‘Something of the kind must have happened.’

‘Wheels within wheels, eh?’

‘Yes, Joe,’ said Marmion. ‘The problem is that they keep turning faster and faster.’ There was a tap on his door. ‘Come in.’

The door opened and an attractive young woman entered with a folder. She walked to the desk and offered it to Marmion.

‘This has just been sent to us, Inspector,’ she said.

‘Thank you.’

Handing the file over, she gave a polite smile of farewell and went out again. Keedy had not taken his eyes off her. As the door shut behind her, he gave a whoop of approval.

‘That’s one bonus of the war,’ he observed. ‘When I came to Scotland Yard, we only had male clerks. Now that manpower is scarcer, we’ve got something much nicer to look at.’

Marmion opened the folder and read the brief report inside.

‘Forget her,’ he said, standing up. ‘I’ve got something even nicer to look at here.’

‘What is it?’

‘During an attack on a house in Liverpool, a man of German origin was beaten to a pulp. He died some days later. The police are searching for a man by the name of Ernest Gill.’

‘So?’

‘Someone walked into her local police station this morning and gave Gill’s address. It’s one that we’ve already come across, Joe.’

‘When was that, Inspector?’

‘It was when we looked at the criminal record of bald-headed Bradley Thompson. This man must be a friend of his because they live at the same house. He might well be a member of the True British League as well.’ He gave the sheet of paper to Keedy. ‘There’s a description of Gill here. Make a note of it. You may be able to do our colleagues in Liverpool a big favour.’

Ernie Gill walked jauntily along the street beside his friend. They were both wearing dark clothes and Thompson’s bald head was hidden beneath an oil-stained cap. They turned a corner and saw the sign outside the Lord Nelson swinging creakily in the wind.

‘I like the League,’ said Gill. ‘They get things done.’

‘That’s why I joined, Ernie. I tried one or two other groups but all they did was talk and shove leaflets through letter boxes. The day after I came here,’ said Thompson, ‘we were painting slogans on the windows of Jewish shops. A week later, we were throwing bricks through them.’

‘I enjoyed setting that car alight.’

His friend sniggered. ‘Pity the owner wasn’t sitting in it.’

They reached the pub and went in through the swing door. There were several people drinking in the lounge bar but they ignored them and headed for the room at the rear. As they entered, Thompson looked around with a smile of satisfaction.

‘He’s not here,’ he said with contempt. ‘I knew he wouldn’t be.’

‘Give him time, Brad,’ suggested the man in the dungarees. ‘I don’t think he’ll be frightened off somehow. Ernie wasn’t, was he?’

Gill cackled. ‘You can say that again. This is just what I want. I feel really at home here.’

‘That’s good, because we’ll have plenty of work for you to do.’

‘Where are we going this evening?’

‘It’s another commission.’

‘Somebody must hate Jews as much as we do if he keeps on doling out money like this. What’s his name?’

‘I don’t ask,’ said the man. ‘He gets what he pays for and we get some more cash for our coffers. We’ll spend some of it in the bar here tonight.’

There was a general laugh of approval. As well as the man in the dungarees, there were two other members of the True British League. One was a short, emaciated, sallow individual in his fifties with a fringe beard flecked with grey. The other was a strapping young man with thick eyebrows meeting each other above a bulbous nose. Like Brad Thompson, he had the wild-eyed look of someone who was keen to exercise his muscles. While both men acknowledged the newcomers with a nod, they left the talking to their leader.

‘I’ll drive,’ said the man in the dungarees, ‘and Brad can sit beside me. The rest of you can travel in the back of the lorry. That goes for the new man as well.’

‘He won’t come,’ said Thompson.

‘Oh yes he will — he believes in our cause.’

‘Lots of people do but they’re too afraid to show it.’

‘I’m not afraid,’ said Gill, stepping forward. ‘We need a group like this in Liverpool. Some parts of it are crawling with Jews, and Manchester’s even worse.’

‘The True British League is here to clean up London and drive the Jews out,’ said the leader. ‘One day, we may be able to carry the message to other cities. I’ve got an idea, Ernie,’ he added, snapping his fingers. ‘Perhaps you could start a branch in Liverpool.’

Thompson smirked. ‘He won’t be going back there in a hurry.’

‘No,’ said Ernie, laughing, ‘I sort of outstayed my welcome.’

‘The coppers are still looking for him.’

Without warning, the door was flung open and Joe Keedy stepped in. He was wearing the same rough apparel as before. He identified the man in the dungarees as the one to whom he’d talked on his first visit. Keedy recognised Brad Thompson as well but the other three faces were new to him.

‘Here I am,’ said Keedy, rubbing his hands together.

‘Brad thought you’d be scared off,’ said the leader. ‘I knew that you wouldn’t let us down.’

‘I wasn’t going to miss out on the fun.’

‘Right, let’s get on our way. Brad’s in the cab with me. You’re in the back of the lorry with Ernie and the others.’

‘Which one’s Ernie?’ asked Keedy.

‘I am,’ said Ernie, stepping forward. ‘Who are you?’

‘I’m someone who doesn’t want the country polluted by Jews.’

‘That’s all we need to hear,’ said the leader. ‘Follow me. We’ll go out the back way.’

He took them through a door in the far wall and out into the courtyard. The lorry was waiting. While the leader climbed into the cab, Thompson went to crank the engine. Keedy clambered into the rear of the lorry and sat down. The others got in after him. After a couple of turns, Thompson started the engine then hauled himself up into the cab. The lorry pulled away with four men, two cardboard boxes and some cans of petrol in the back. As it swung into the street and picked up speed, it shot past a car parked in the shadows. Keedy was the only one aboard who knew that it would follow them.

The car turned into the drive and came to an abrupt halt. As the engine was switched off, the front door opened and Miriam Stein came out. Her brother-in-law climbed out of the vehicle.