Crime Fiction for Beginners

Chapter 1

Frank Slater had never been in a morgue before. Detective Sergeant James Rose had collected him from his Baker Street flat in a police car driven by a constable. Jim Rose was an alert, athletic looking young man in his late twenties, clean shaven with short, sandy hair showing under his uniform cap. For him this was routine, just the opening episode at the start of yet another murder investigation, a disagreeable routine but one that no longer held any surprises though, of course, every investigation was different.

Together, he and Frank Slater entered the building and identified themselves to the policeman at reception before taking a lift to the second floor. The morgue was very much as Frank Slater had expected: white tiled walls, floors covered in what looked like grey lino, cleanliness reminiscent of a research laboratory, everywhere a faint odour of disinfectant and white coated staff who, while deferential, didn’t look you in the eye. He knew the real horror would come when they pulled open a drawer in one of those refrigerated filing cabinets and he would see whatever was left of Larry, his old colleague and business partner. It was a moment he was not looking forward to.

Frank’s identification of the body was only a formality. It had been found in the early hours of Sunday, clearly strangled, close to the scene of one of Jack the Ripper’s murders, on a route regularly covered in daylight hours by parties of tourists curious to visit the scenes of the Whitechapel murders. There had been no difficulty in establishing the victim’s identity from letters and other documents found on the corpse. The crime’s location might be a reference to the Ripper but of little value as a clue to the murderer’s identity. Though the Whitechapel murders, never solved, had taken place a century and a quarter ago their gruesome horror still fascinated the public to whom the Ripper was a subject of never ending interest. Hundreds of thousands of people had read one or more books about him. Every year there were new theories as to the Ripper’s identity and new books on him were published.

Rose motioned to the white coated attendant who silently pulled open the drawer and drew back a white cloth covering the corpse. Larry looked paler than usual. Like the waxwork of a celebrity, he was immediately recognizable but there was something about his features that in some subtle way was not quite right. Maybe it was the face’s immobility or the tousled greying hair, in life always so neatly combed, quite apart from the fact that a livid tongue protruded between his dark lips and his left eye was half open in a roguish wink. There were no signs of violence apart from a purplish weal so deeply etched that it could hardly be seen and might almost be mistaken for a natural fold in the fleshy throat.

To Jim Rose this was all in the line of duty. He had never felt at ease in the presence of the dead but, as murder victims went, in his experience this one’s appearance was relatively mild. Over his years in the force Jim Rose had seen some sights that he would prefer to forget.

That’s Laurence Barlow all right.

Jim Rose looked at Slater out of the corner of his eye. He was a rather untidily dressed man, middle aged and middle height with a bit of a stoop and, to Jim Rose´s way of thinking, in need of a haircut. Very often people coming to identify corpses, particularly those of murder victims, were deeply affected by the sight, and came over faint but this Mr Slater didn’t seem to be affected at all. Still, the sergeant felt it his duty to enquire.

Are you feeling all right, sir?

Slater glanced across at the police sergeant.

Don’t worry. I’ll be OK. It’s just a shock seeing him there like that.

Knew him well, did you sir?

I shared an office with him for about ten years, so, yes, I suppose you could say I did know him pretty well. He’ll be a big loss to our business and the publishing world in general.

Rose signalled that the body on its metal drawer could now be covered up again and slid back to rest once more in its refrigerated cabinet.

The post mortem is scheduled for Tuesday morning in case the detective inspector is interested in attending, said the white coated attendant consulting details on a clipboard.

Outside, Frank Slater took a deep breath of fresh air. It was a cold, crisp, sunny day of early spring. Tiny yellow-green buds were beginning to emerge on the plane trees. High above, the sky was almost pure, pale blue with only a very few faint cirrus clouds and an airliner’s vapour trail high in the upper atmosphere. As they paused for a moment at the building’s entrance, the police sergeant said Our people are at Slocombe and Windrush’s offices today, sir. They will have removed the hard discs from the computers for analysis by our technicians and sealed all the company files. I’m sorry about the disruption this is bound to cause. The computers will be returned as soon as possible, probably in about a week’s time. Detective Inspector Ware and I will be at your office when you open for business tomorrow in order to take statements from the staff. Is there anything you would to like to ask me? If not, we’ll meet tomorrow morning.

Frank Slater nodded but made no other reply. He walked down the steps, crossed over the road and set off along the street, quiet with only a little Sunday traffic, in the direction of the park. Detective Sergeant Rose lingered a while, gazing after him as he walked away. He was swinging his arms a little, with a discreet but perceptibly jaunty air and an unmistakable spring in his step.

Chapter 2

Larry’s body had been found when the newspapers’ Sunday editions had already been put to bed but it provided excellent copy for a Monday on which there was little else to report. The popular press carried it in banner headlines, the quality titles featured it more discreetly on their inside pages. No journalist missed the Ripper connection, always guaranteed to stimulate the public’s interest and more than one editor considered running a series of articles about the Whitechapel murders to pad out the news for a week or so.

On the Sussex coast, at 209, Ashurst Road, Seaford, a red brick semidetached house on a street sloping steeply down in the direction of the sea, its owner, Cliff Jackson, a plumber now retired, read the news over a late breakfast of fried eggs, baked beans and strong, sweet tea. Never at his most alert after staying with his mates till closing time at the Crown the previous evening, the paper’s banner headline held his attention for only a short while before it moved on to more serious matters such as racing form for the afternoon’s meeting at Doncaster, which he needed to consider carefully before strolling round to Ladbroke’s betting shop a few streets away. But something about the murder case vaguely rang a bell. After wiping his plate clean with a piece of sliced bread and adding it to the pile of dirty dishes in the sink he lit a cigarette and, deciding to risk an argument with his wife by interrupting her work, he opened the door into the front room and cautiously peered round it.

Maudie dear, there’s something in the paper I think you ought to see.

"Doorways erupting bust on a beetle …"

"Eh?" Cliff´s hearing was not too good. It was the only one of his ailments that his wife was unable to ascribe to the phenomenal quantity of beer he consumed.

Maud raised her voice several decibels. "I said: ALWAYS INTERRUPTING< JUST WHEN I NEED TO concentrate. Beginning a new one’s the hardest part but you wouldn’t know that, would you? I don’t think that head of yours has anything in it other than the racing form. Addled by all the beer you put down, that’s what it is. She heaved a sigh. Leave the paper over there and maybe I’ll look at it later if I have the time." Cliff withdrew meekly, pulling the door shut behind him as quietly as he could.

The front room of No. 209 had a bow window with grubby lace curtains looking out across a small patch of garden containing a few neglected rose bushes to a low gate opening onto the street. Maud Jackson was two years younger than her husband. She had a permanently dissatisfied or disapproving expression on her face, gingerish hair rolled up in curlers tied up in a green scarf and wore a pink nylon house coat. A cigarette lightly glued to the middle of her fleshy lower lip gave off a thin wisp of smoke and she sat with her chin jutting slightly forwards, her forehead slightly back in order to prevent the smoke from getting in her eyes. She was sitting at a computer keyboard and, now that her concentration had been interrupted, she scrolled up to the top of what she had written in order to read it through and then carry on again from there:

Life’s Rich Tapestry

By Esmeralda Spencer-Courtney

Chapter I: A Dewy Morning

Sighing deliciously, the Honourable Cynthia Cavendish-Harcourt turned lightly over between the silken sheets of her four poster bed, her long fair hair spread across her pillow like a river of gold, as the footman in his knee breeches and powdered hair softly tied back the red velvet curtains to reveal the formal gardens below the windows of her tower apartment, stretching away as far as the eye could see. It was a beautiful, almost cloudless day of early summer and the lawns were still covered in dew. Beyond the haha the wheat fields waved golden in the early morning sun.

She was dreaming of the dashing officers of the crack cavalry regiment that had just come to be quartered in the county town, chief of whom was Lord Sutcliffe, such a very smooth, very grand young man. She had met him several times, once at the head of his troops, taking part in the regiment’s summer manoeuvres. Had he seen her on that occasion? Cynthia rather believed he had but – and the thought gave her a moment’s unease – hadn’t she noticed that he turned his head as he rode past that Jocelyne Bracegirdle, the odious youngest daughter of the nouveau riche who had just rented Appleby Hall, only seven miles away? That made them neighbours and there was nothing for it: Jocelyne and her two plain elder sisters would have to be invited to the grand ball Cynthia’s father was giving for her in a month’s time. And there were other officers too who had caught Lady Cynthia’s fancy, particularly Charles Montgomery, rather shy and quiet but perhaps still waters run deep, she thought, and his uncle’s the Marquess of Alfriston. Perhaps a little less sure of himself than Lord Sutcliffe, but so tall and manly and how well he rode his charger and how the scarlet uniform suited his slim figure …

There was a light tap at the door and in tripped Marion, the village girl whom Cynthia employed as lady’s maid. Crossing the rich Turkey carpet, she laid a silver salver with Cynthia’s morning chocolate and a dainty porcelain cup on the table by her bed.

’Ow’z milady this foine morning? It be a reelly beautiful day.

Thank you, Marion, that will be all for the moment. I’ll ring for you when I want to get dressed. Marion tripped out with a curtsey and a shy smile.

Sitting up in bed, Cynthia saw that a crumpled buff-coloured envelope lay on the tray along with her breakfast things. Turning it over, she could see that its wax seal bore a crest surmounted by a coronet. Now who could be writing to her? Not that dull old stick, Lord Humphrey Debenham, she hoped. His cadaverous looks and forward ways had not endeared him to her even if he was her parents’ preferred suitor. Her spirits sank as she recognized Debenham’s crabbed hand. Running her eyes over the contents of the letter she saw that Debenham was inviting her and her parents to pass six weeks with him at Debenham Court, his damp, dreary old country seat in the Lincolnshire fens. Cynthia was aware that her parents had been angling for just such an invitation for some time and would accept it even at the cost of foregoing the hunting season, there being no hunting to be had over Debenham’s numerous but swampy acres. However, the invitation coincided with the ball that Cynthia’s parents were giving to celebrate her seventeenth birthday and coming out in a few weeks’ time, so, of course, they would have to negotiate different dates for the visit and she was saved for the time being. Lord Debenham, had naturally been invited to the ball so his letter must have crossed with the invitation. Debenham’s joints were too stiff for dancing, thank goodness, but that wouldn’t prevent him from coming to the ball. He’d leer at her as if she were a prize heifer and spend the evening playing whist and swilling port.

Lady Cynthia knew that her parents were hoping to marry her off to Lord Debenham. Dear Mamma and dear Papa only meant to do their best for her but Debenham was in his sixties and a martyr to gout. The idea of a union with the decrepit Debenham was as far removed from her dreams as it could possibly be. Papa kept harping on Debenham’s immense wealth while Mamma subtly hinted that, once married, the old man wouldn’t last long and then she’d be independent in a comfortable dower house and able to please herself. How romantic, thought Cynthia bitterly. She’d have to put up with the old bore – and his disagreeable attentions – for goodness knows how long, listening to his tedious monologues. The man only had two subjects of conversation. One was the drainage of his swampy land: he’d ramble on about ditches and dykes and windmills to pump out the brackish water till all hours of the day or night. The other was a patent system of crop rotation he’d read of somewhere to increase the yields of what crops would grow on his marshes. He’d told her more often than she could remember that the system was to grow cereals one year, leave the land fallow the next and then plant some sort of vegetable she hoped she’d never set eyes on called a mangel-wurzel, a sort of giant swede or turnip that cows would eat though it gave their milk a disagreeable flavour. She had heard him prosing on about these schemes times without number while his listeners´ eyes glazed and they tried unsuccessfully to stifle their yawns.

If her parents insisted on forcing her into the arms of that dreadful old Debenham, she could say goodbye to all her dreams of a season at Bath, perhaps even London and romance with a dashing young blood. She’d much rather elope and make for Gretna Green with the young gentleman of her choice than have her life ruined just because Debenham was disgustingly rich. Still, she could imagine her father’s anger, her mother’s tears and would prefer to avoid both if possible. The ball was her great chance to do that: if only she could begin a romance with that handsome Montgomery, or perhaps the very grand Lord Sutcliffe, leading to a union much more to her liking. Cynthia’s mind vacillated between these two possibilities, both deliciously attractive.

She stretched and rang for Marion.

Milady?

Marion, fetch my blue taffeta and help me on with it. Very important things are happening today and I must look my best.

Why on earth was it that Cynthia needed to look her best? Maud racked her brains but her mind had gone blank and nothing suggested itself. That was exactly the trouble with being interrupted. Cliff should have known better. When she was in a creative mood the plot unfolded so smoothly she could hardly keep pace with it as she tapped it out on her keyboard. Her characters took on a life of their own and it was all she could do to keep them under some sort of control. But once there was an interruption they were so human that they sulked or actually went on strike.

Well, thought Maud, I’ll just save the little I’ve done, see what Cliff brought and then go down to the shops to get something nice for our dinner. She looked at the headlines. Another brutal murder in London. She was just about to flick through the rest of the paper when the victim’s name caught her eye, Laurence Barlow. Why, that was the stuffy old gent at Slocombe and Windrush who’d told her what she could do with her last manuscript … Yes, that´s who it was. And he´s come to a sticky end just as I hoped and knew he would. Well, well, well and I rather think I have an idea who might have done it. She got up and made for the door, taking off her housecoat and humming a few bars of Don´t cry for me, Argentina as she went.

Chapter 3

On Monday, at five minutes past nine a police car stopped outside the offices of Slocombe and Windrush. They were in an early nineteenth century terrace house built of red brick, somewhat dingy, just off High Holborn, not far from the British Museum, a location that with a stretch of the imagination could be described as Bloomsbury or even Fitzrovia. Out of the car stepped an attractive, fair haired woman in her early thirties, dressed in a smart pinstripe trouser suit, looking every bit the successful business executive, accompanied by Detective Sergeant Rose, also in civilian clothes. Together they walked up the steps, passed through the swing door and stopped in front of the reception desk.

Please tell Mr Slater that Detective Inspector Ware is here to see him.

Frank Slater came out of his office immediately. He was a slightly stooping man in early middle age, wearing a dark blue suit that needed pressing, a pale blue shirt and dark blue silk tie loosely knotted. He looked at Harriet Ware over his reading glasses and she could sense that he was somewhat disconcerted at finding that the police officer in charge of the Barlow murder was a woman. He invited them both into his very untidy private office and offered to have his secretary bring coffee or tea but Harriet accepted neither.

First of all, I need to have all the staff assembled so that I can address them briefly. After that I would like to ask you some general questions about Mr Barlow and his business activities.

Daisy, please have all the staff assembled in the board room. Detective Inspector Ware and Sergeant Rose would like to say a few words to them.

The board room was on the second floor, a large room panelled in dark mahogany with some yellowing framed photographs showing literary prizes being awarded to Slocombe and Windrush authors. With the large table and chairs occupying most of the space, what was left was a bit cramped for the firm’s staff – Daisy, Patricia and Susan, the three directors’ secretaries, Ron and Donald from Accounts, Jenny in charge of purchasing, Clare the office girl and Mrs Simpson the cleaning lady, making with Frank Slater, a total of nine.

Harriet looked round the nine expectant faces. Let me introduce myself: I am Detective Inspector Ware and this is Detective Sergeant Rose. As you all probably know, Laurence Barlow, Slocombe and Windrush´s managing director, was found murdered in the early hours of yesterday morning. Detective Sergeant Rose and I have been assigned by the CID to conduct the investigation into Mr Barlow’s death. Our work will inevitably cause some disruption to your normal routine but we will do our best to keep such disruption to a minimum. Please bear in mind that bringing a murderer to justice is a challenge to all those involved and that a successful investigation is part of society’s ongoing effort to provide the security from violent crime that is an important benefit for all of us. Your full cooperation will help us to reach a successful conclusion as well as helping us to do our work quickly. Please try to remember anything that has happened over the last three months or so that might have significance for Mr Barlow’s violent death and tell Detective Sergeant Rose who will be interviewing you all individually in the course of today. That’s all.

Returning alone to Frank Slater’s private office, Harriet accepted a seat opposite him across the circular table he used for interviewing authors or their agents. He was waiting for her to begin.

So, let’s start by your telling me about publishing.

Frank Slater lent forward to run through a speech that Harriet thought must be part of a regular repertoire.

"Well, Detective Inspector, what can I tell you about publishing? For