‘And what did you have it for in the first place?’ said Keedy, pulling the spade out and holding it up. ‘Did you, by any chance, take it home with you yesterday evening as well?’
Waldron’s bravado had melted away. Eyes darting, he looked like a cornered animal. He let his cigarette fall to the ground then stamped on it with a brutal heel. After a few moments, he snatched the spade from Keedy’s hand.
‘Give that here!’ he yelled. ‘It’s mine.’
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Alice Marmion had said nothing to her friend about her narrow escape from the man who’d followed her. If she’d confided in Vera Dowling, she’d have had to divulge the name of Joe Keedy and that would have let the cat out of the bag. It was important to keep their friendship a secret. Trustworthy in every other respect, Vera was prone to the occasional slip of the tongue. It was safer to keep her ignorant and to be spared her veiled disapproval. She’d never understand why Alice had become involved with a man almost ten years older. If anything, she’d be quietly scandalised and that would have an adverse affect on their friendship. Silence was definitely Alice’s best option. Having missed lunch because of the pressure of work, they were having a snack in the canteen that afternoon. As usual, Vera found something to worry about.
‘Have you had any more thoughts about Belgium?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ replied Alice. ‘I’m wondering if there’s anyone left in the country. We’ve had so many refugees that the entire population must be here now.’
‘I was talking about that idea you had.’
‘Ah, yes.’
‘Have you made a decision yet?’
‘No, Vera. One day, I want to go, and the next day, I’ve changed my mind. It wouldn’t necessarily be in Belgium, of course. I could be driving a motorbike in France.’ Her face lit up. ‘I might even get close to Paul’s regiment. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if I could see my brother over there?’
Vera was sad. ‘Paul’s gain would be my loss.’
‘You could always come with me.’
‘I could never be a dispatch rider.’
‘There are lots of other things you could do over there, Vera.’
‘No,’ said the other, ‘I know my limits and I’ve already reached them. Besides, I promised Mummy that I’d never go abroad because of the danger. If you desert me, I’ll be left on my own.’
‘Hardly!’ said Alice with a laugh. ‘I’m not the only woman in the WEC.’
‘You’re the only one I get on with.’
‘You’ll soon find someone else, Vera.’
‘Nobody else seems to like me.’
‘That’s absurd! Lots of people like you.’
‘No, Alice, they put up with me because of you and that’s very different. Mrs Billington is a case in point. She tolerates me because she admires you.’
It was true and both women knew it. Though she’d had enough courage to leave home, Vera lacked the personality and thrust to mix easily in a group. She always needed someone to lean on. Without Alice beside her, Vera would struggle. She was too shy to make new women friends and too plain to attract male interest. While she sympathised with her friend’s plight, however, Alice had to be selfish. In many ways, she recognised, Vera was holding her back. Going abroad would allow Alice to escape from the dependency.
‘Look out,’ said Vera, tensing as she saw someone approaching their table with a purposeful stride. ‘Mrs Billington is on her way.’
‘Try to relax. Hannah’s one of us.’
‘Then why do I always feel so threatened?’
Alice turned to see the older woman coming towards them with a newspaper under her arm. As they exchanged greetings, Hannah sat down beside Alice.
‘How would tomorrow afternoon suit you, ladies?’ she asked. ‘You can come and have a proper tea at my house.’
‘Thanks very much, Hannah,’ said Alice. ‘We’d like that.’
Vera hesitated. ‘I’m … not sure that I can come, Mrs Billington.’
‘Oh dear!’ exclaimed Hannah. ‘Why is that?’
‘I’ve got … something else on.’
‘In that case, Alice will have to come on her own. Is that all right?’
‘Yes,’ said Alice, helping to bail her friend out. ‘She did warn me that she’d be too busy to help me all day tomorrow,’ she went on, reinforcing the white lie. ‘You’ll have to come to Hannah’s house another time, Vera.’
‘I will,’ said Vera without enthusiasm.
Hannah took the newspaper from under her arm and unfurled it.
‘I take it that neither of you has seen the early edition?’ she said, pointing to the front page headline. ‘The Shoreditch killer is on the prowl again.’
‘Oh, no!’ cried Vera.
‘Luckily, he was stopped just in time.’
‘Let me see,’ said Alice, pulling the newspaper closer so that she could read it.
‘Your father almost had another murder to solve,’ said Hannah, seriously. ‘It’s clear that the man will stop at nothing. Inspector Marmion needs to catch this devil. Until he does, everyone in London will be looking over their shoulder.’
Alice was dismayed. The new case would not only entail additional work for her father. It would mean that Joe Keedy would be completely preoccupied as well. Given the extended hours he’d now have to work, there was no hope at all of seeing him soon. She would have to survive on memories.
When he read the same newspaper report, Marmion was pulsing with anger. The superintendent had given the press the impression that the inspector agreed with him that the two heinous crimes were the work of the same man. Normally so frugal with the amount of information he fed reporters, Chatfield had said too much too soon and reached a conclusion that — in Marmion’s opinion — they’d live to regret. The Evening News had turned it into a sensation. All of a sudden, London had a new monster stalking the streets. If he struck again, it was argued, he would be taking on the mantle of Jack the Ripper as an evil phantom who left the police utterly baffled. The article was very unflattering to Marmion, claiming that his hitherto untarnished reputation was slowly crumbling because he’d made no progress with the murder investigation, thereby leaving the killer to choose a second victim with impunity.
‘That makes my blood boil!’ he said, tossing the newspaper aside.
Keedy picked it up. ‘What does it say, Harv?’
‘They think we’re idiots.’
‘If they’ve been talking to Chat, I’m not surprised. He’s the idiot-in-chief.’ Keedy read the article. ‘This is so unfair,’ he said, hotly. ‘Anyone would think we’ve been sitting on our hands for the last few days. It’s especially unfair to you. They ought to show more respect.’
‘They have newspapers to sell, Joe.’
‘That doesn’t mean they can print lies.’
‘They’d call it “informed opinion”.’
‘Well, if you want my informed opinion,’ said Keedy with spirit, ‘the man who wrote this drivel ought to be kicked the length of Piccadilly. I’ll volunteer to do the kicking and to wear some hobnail boots.’
‘Never get into a fight with a reporter. They always have more ink.’
‘We can’t let him get away with this, Harv.’
‘We won’t,’ Marmion promised him. ‘We’ll solve both crimes and show him just how maliciously wide of the mark this article is.’
During a morning of ceaseless activity, they paid a visit to Gerald Ablatt’s shop where the cobbler had been working quietly away. Aghast at the news of an attack on James Howells, he’d confirmed that his son had been friends with the curate and talked of him visiting the house once or twice. Ablatt was honest. While he appreciated the curate’s many fine qualities, he still preferred the vicar’s sermons. They offered more comfort and far less challenge. After a series of other calls, the detectives had ended up in the room where Howells had lived. It presented a sharp contrast to Cyril Ablatt’s bedroom. Where the latter was small, untidy and filled with books, this one was large, scrupulously organised and devoid of ornament. There was an austere feel to the place. Hidden behind a curtain, a single bed stood in the corner. The furniture comprised a table, a chair and a wardrobe. A neat pile of books stood on the table. Inevitably, the Bible was one of them.