Orford had taken encouragement from his short acquaintance with the new assistant commissioner’s methods. He seemed to be a man you worked with, not for, and the inspector approved of that.
At a nod from the inspector, his escorting uniformed constable, a young copper who’d been left on duty in the area overnight, stepped out towards the boat. “Site’s been cleared, sir, following removal of body. Nothing much to see. What are we looking for?”
“Chalk marks, Constable. You go and get started here at the blunt end and work your way round. Use your torch.”
“Right, sir. See you at the prow in a minute.” A second later, the constable’s excited voice sang out: “Got something, sir! Here—look. It’s a bit faint but them’s letters. Scrawled across the transom.”
“Know your boats, do you?”
“Naw! Only from Sunday afternoons on the boating pool at Southend. Look—he’s made himself a door to get in and out. That’s nifty!” He pointed to the flat rear of the boat and waggled one of the halves to illustrate. “It’s his front door and he’s put his name over it.”
They peered at the almost obscured chalk marks.
“Two words, sir,” the constable breathed. It’s ‘Ab … Ab … three more letters then: on … om … at the end. Second word’s ‘Hope.’ Absalom Hope! That’s him!”
“No, lad.” The inspector spoke gently, not wishing to dampen the young man’s enthusiasm. “It’s the boat’s name. Just where you’d expect it to be, on its rear end. He’s called it the Abandon Hope. Poor bugger! Turned out to be a suitable sentiment in the circumstances. It’s from Dante’s Inferno. Italian poem. A long one. The warning at the entrance to Helclass="underline" Abandon hope all ye who enter here. It was my old school motto,” he added jokingly. He copied the two words into his notebook.
The constable gave the governor an admiring look. This was what a grammar school education did for you. “Italian, eh? Fancy our lad knowing that, sir! They didn’t find any books in his crib.”
“He had the latest copy of Paper Doll in his pocket. Surprising what you read in pulp magazines these days. It’s not all naked ladies and racing tips. They all have their ‘culture corner.’ Here—hang on, lad! We’re not off yet! There’s four sides to a boat—port and starboard but outside and inside as well. Help me roll it over.”
“Cor! There! On the smooth bit along the keel. We could have missed that, guv. Now we’ve got letters and numbers. ALM 145. Registration number of a motor car?”
Orford looked over his shoulder back at the row of gas lamps on the embankment. They were all still alight apart from the one that had been nobbled.
“The motor vehicle that parked over there three nights ago? The motor that brought the body down here for burial. Our poor old sailor boy twigged there was something wrong going on, wriggled out to check the registration plate, wriggled back in again and chalked up the number for future reference.”
“Fair enough. Very public spirited. Didn’t do him any good though. They must have seen him, and done him in.” The constable looked about him, suddenly nervous.
“It’s going to do us some good though. He may not have died in vain. Records will be able to give us the name and address of the owner of the vehicle and we’ve got ’em! Bagged! We’ll have something to tell Sandilands when he strolls back in from his weekend.”
He put a tick in his notebook, turned the page and scanned his notes. “Right. One down, one to go,” he muttered. “Next on the menu: shepherd’s pie and rice pudding. Gawd!”
“Beg pardon, sir?”
“Stomach contents. Last meal eaten by the girl they buried down there in the mud.” He pointed with his pencil. “A ballet dancer, she was.”
“Doesn’t sound much like what a dancer would eat. Don’t they feed ’em lettuce leaves?”
“You’re not wrong, lad. Weighty stuff—pie and pudding! Can’t see the Covent Garden canteen offering that to the chorus line, can you? Wreaks havoc with your grand jeté. So—where d’you go in London to get that combination of rib-sticking fodder, Constable?” he asked idly.
“My Gran’s, sir. On a Tuesday. That’s home cooking where I come from. Beef joint, Sunday; cold cut, Monday; minced up for shepherd’s pie, Tuesday. Regular as clockwork. Rice pud’n every day. Always one on the go in the bottom oven.”
“Thanks for that. If all else fails, I’ll stick your granny in the frame as an accessory to murder.” He looked at his watch. “Six o’clock. Time your relief turned up. Tell him when he comes there’ll be a police photographer in attendance to record the chalkings. And when he’s done, that’s it, we’ve finished here and you can all bugger off. I’m off about my other chores now. Well done! Now go and get your bacon buttie, lad.”
THE RIVER POLICEMAN was waiting for him, quivering with suppressed excitement, at reception when Orford got back to the Yard.
“Got him, sir! I’ve identified your dead sailor.”
He took his notebook from his pocket. “I nipped down the river on one of our launches and visited the Empire Memorial Hall over in Limehouse. British Sailors Society. It’s a rescue mission for seafarers who’re down on their luck and need a billet for the night. They’ve got two hundred and twenty cabins and they’re all full every night. So full they have to turn men away. The bloke on reception thought he recognised him from the corpse photo but he couldn’t swear to it. Beards and earrings not uncommon there. If it’s who they think he is, he’d spent a week with them on being kicked out of the navy. Not for bad behaviour he thinks. He was a quiet customer. Not a drinker and he gave them no trouble. Never tried to smuggle a tart in. Just another bit of naval flotsam and jetsam. Turned off because of the cuts. Anyhow, his allotted time ran out at the hostel and he had to make room for someone else. He came back again a week later. Same thing. He was getting to be a regular. They had no idea where he went on his off days. But they did have a name for him and the name of his last ship.” He handed over a notebook and pointed to a page. “It’s all there, sir, with dates.”
“Well thanks a lot, Eddie. We can nail this one then. We’ll get his details from the Admiralty now we know who we’re talking about. Poor bloke. Not a nice way to end your days. Some vicious sod broke his neck they say.”
“Thought as much.”
Orford looked down at the book in his hand and looked again. He burst out laughing. “Well, well! Up yours, Dante! And stuff me! Able Seaman Absalom Hope, eh? I feel we’ve been introduced.”
CHAPTER 16
Joe’s landlord eyed the ringing telephone with disfavour. Seven o’clock on a Saturday? Inspector Alfred Jenkins (Retired) was expecting his daughter-in-law to arrive with her two little boys any minute to do his weekly scrub and polish while he played games with his grandsons. He’d got two new Dinky cars to give them. Latest models. That was how his Saturday mornings were spent and he didn’t welcome any disruption.
But then it occurred to Alfred that it might be a call from his tenant and he hurried to pick up the receiver. Joe hadn’t come home last night. Not an unusual occurrence; the poor bloke led a demanding professional life and in his private life—well, he was no hermit, was the politest way of putting it. Alfred had got used to his upstairs tenant rolling home at a late hour doing a fair imitation of Berlington Bertie, reeking of brandy, tie askew and lipstick on his cheek. He’d calmed down a bit since that girl had got her claws into him. The three o’clock in the morning appearances had been less frequent and the lipstick seemed to have changed colour.