The Cold Light of Dawn (Gaffney and Tipper Mysteries Book 1) Read online

  A glance round the living-room confirmed what the girl had said about its untidiness; the bedroom was even worse. Pauline just laughed and confessed that she hated housework but admitted to having a blitz about once a month. Markham reckoned that the blitz must be about due. Despite the fact that it was now gone eight o’clock in the evening, the bed was still unmade, and there were clothes spread about the room, occupying every imaginable place; on chairs, on the bed itself, on the floor, and on hangers along the front of the wardrobe. The dressing-table looked like a terrorist outrage, with bottles, make-up and aerosol tins covering every square inch of its surface.

  ‘It’s a bit untidy,’ she said, with masterly understatement. She laughed again; she clearly didn’t give a damn.

  Tipper surveyed the room from just inside the door. It was obvious that the cataclysmic arrival of Pauline Lawrence had obscured anything which might have been of evidential value.

  ‘There’s something funny about the wardrobe,’ she said.

  There wasn’t much of the wardrobe that Tipper could see, but he studied it nevertheless. It was a good forty years old. It had a single door in the middle, so that the cavities on either side were difficult to get at, and had a large inset oval mirror. There was a drawer at the bottom with brass handles, and at the top, an intricately carved trim. It didn’t look funny to a man of Tipper’s age who had seen its like in a score of seaside hotels over the years.

  ‘What’s funny about it?’ he asked.

  By way of reply the girl started taking clothes off the front of it and laying them on the bed. Eventually she opened the door to reveal even more clothes. ‘It’s the mirror,’ she said. ‘Look, you can see through it from the inside.’

  Tipper and Markham studied it closely. From the outside, it was a normal mirror, but from the other side Tipper was able to see the rest of the room. ‘Well I’ll be damned,’ he said to Markham. ‘It’s a two-way. Look, you can see where it’s been fitted — and not very well.’ It was evident that the original mirror had been removed and replaced by a two-way mirror, held in place by clips. On a hunch, Tipper moved the clothes to one side and peered into the wardrobe. Screwed onto the side panel was a piece of wood, and another on the other side. He turned to Pauline Lawrence. ‘Was there a shelf in here when you moved in?’ he asked.

  She shook her head. ‘No.’

  Markham pushed his hand behind the wardrobe and after a bit of juggling withdrew a piece of unvarnished chipboard. It was about five feet long and some eighteen inches wide. ‘The shelf,’ he said. ‘But I bet he didn’t leave the video-camera behind,’ he added, echoing Tipper’s thoughts.

  ‘And he won’t have left any fingerprints on that, either.’

  ‘You wouldn’t get any off that texture anyway,’ said Markham.

  ‘That’s what I meant,’ said Tipper with a glance that implied that he knew what he was talking about. ‘Nevertheless, I think we ought to get Sid and his lads down here to take a look. It’s just possible that he might find one on the mirror somewhere.’

  ‘And there again, he might not,’ said Markham pessimistically.

  *

  The fingerprint team arrived within the hour and carried out a thorough examination of the flat now occupied by Pauline Lawrence. It was disappointing. The only prints were those which the police had expected to find; Mr and Mrs Chambers, Pauline, and a couple which Sid was almost certain were Penny’s. The senior fingerprint officer, realising the importance of the case, had brought down the equipment for instant comparison, and had taken elimination prints from the Chambers and their tenant. For good measure they also examined the middle flat, now empty again, Webster’s successor as tenant having left two weeks previously. They found some more prints identical with those thought to be Penny’s and a few probably belonging to the latest tenant. They could, of course, have been Webster’s, but without having a set of his they couldn’t be sure.

  ‘It’s impossible to say after all this time,’ said Sid, ‘but it looks to me as though he made a thorough job of wiping clean. He’s obviously a professional, Harry, but a professional what is anyone’s guess.’

  ‘Thanks for trying anyway,’ said Tipper. Back upstairs, he turned to the girl, who had watched fascinated throughout, and apologised for the disruption.

  She had made coffee for everyone, and now dismissed Tipper’s apology with a smile. ‘That’s OK,’ she said. ‘It’s just like the telly.’

  ‘Not really,’ said Markham. ‘They always solve it in fifty minutes on the box, otherwise the advertisers get all upset. But then you’d know that in your business, I suppose.’

  *

  ‘And what does that all amount to, then?’ asked Tipper, when they finally got back to the Yard.

  ‘I know what it amounts to,’ said Markham, ‘but I’m not sure what it means. I reckon that this bloke Webster — if that’s his name — put a two-way mirror in his wardrobe with a shelf across the middle. That was in the right position for a video-camera, but that’s a guess —’

  ‘Don’t see what else it could have been,’ said Tipper.

  ‘But assuming it was, anyway,’ continued Markham, ‘What was he photographing? He’s a “J” but he wasn’t taking photographs on the seventeenth of June — he was already gone.’

  ‘Gone from Mexico Road, certainly. But how do we know he didn’t reappear in Wimbledon. It was a bit of a coincidence that both he and Penny left within a fortnight of each other.’

  ‘Well we do know that she wasn’t averse to the occasional exotic pose.’

  ‘You mean porno,’ said Markham brutally.

  ‘Yes,’ said Tipper wearily. ‘I mean porn. I was just trying to be nice about it.’

  ‘Left it a bit bloody late,’ said Markham, half to himself.

  Tipper grinned. ‘What have we got then?’ he asked. ‘This man Webster — Australian or South African — becomes friendly with Penny, either accidentally or on purpose. Some sort of agreement is reached, and he persuades her to have a two-way mirror and video-camera installed. Now why should he do that?’

  Markham shot a cynical glance at his chief. ‘Come on, Guv’nor. It’s got to be blackmail. What else?’

  ‘Blackmailing who?’

  ‘Anybody who can’t afford for it to be known that he’s having it off with some bird. There’s plenty of punters who’d fall into that bracket.’

  ‘But the Chambers didn’t mention a stream of male visitors.’

  ‘Frankly, guv, I think they’re a bit too naive to have noticed anyway, but supposing said callers asked for Webster instead of Penny. It would suit them — and Penny. Then they keep going up the stairs, past Webster’s flat to hers — at the top. And there doesn’t need to have been that many — not a stream as you call it. You only need two or three carefully selected victims and you’ve got a nice little earner going.’ Markham stretched his legs out and looked thirsty; it was nearly one in the morning and pubs were long closed.

  Tipper relented, and opening the bottom drawer of his desk, took out a bottle of Scotch and two glasses. ‘You can get the water,’ he said.

  When the drinks were poured, Markham carried on. ‘There can’t be any other reason for him cleaning the place out. If it was just him and her — for their own personal amusement — there’s nothing illegal.’

  ‘Then why not set up the camera on a table? Why go to all the trouble of fixing up a two-way mirror?’

  ‘Well guv’nor, one thing’s certain. We can’t ask her and we can’t ask Webster — until we find him.’

  ‘If we find him,’ said Tipper. ‘But at least we can talk to the local nick. The Old Bill obviously took an interest in him, and he took flight almost immediately afterwards. Something rattled our Mr Webster, Charlie, and it could have been a bit of police interest.’

  ‘If it was blackmail, it could open up the field of our murder suspects,’ said Markham, casually picking his teeth.

  Tipper nodded slowly. ‘I’d reached that point some time ago
, Charlie,’ he said.

  *

  ‘Neck-and-neck,’ said Markham.

  ‘Charlie, I do wish you’d stop talking in bloody riddles. What are you on about?’

  ‘Well firstly, Wallace’s statement checks out — more or less. There are one or two gaps, but not at the crucial period, and certainly not for long enough to have been to France and back.’ He sucked through his teeth, and Tipper frowned. ‘But Mistress Lambert — well now, that’s interesting.’

  ‘On the game?’

  ‘Oh, no, nothing so crude. Just a few whispers that she was not averse to doing the occasional private photo call, with or without cameras, if you take my meaning, for those with the right money. At their place — West End flat, hotel room, friend’s place — that sort of thing. In other words, a high-class stripper.’

  ‘What about her place at Wimbledon?’

  ‘Not mentioned,’ said Markham. ‘Perhaps that was so rare and so discreet and so expensive that no one ever got to hear.’

  ‘Or Wallace was a one-off — for old time’s sake,’ said Tipper.

  Markham pursed his lips. ‘You do have a way with words, guv’nor. But, yes, you might be right.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Yes. I tracked one bloke down — exclusive high-class club; the sort of place you-know-who might go to …’ Markham winked. ‘He said he’d heard that she would do the occasional strip, but only for a very select very private audience, and in a very private place — men or women!’

  ‘Oh Jesus!’ said Tipper. ‘This bloody enquiry’s getting too much for me. Why the hell couldn’t we have had a clean, decent, straightforward stabbing in an East End boozer?’

  ‘That’s because they know you’re good at these dodgy murders, guv’nor.’

  Tipper shot a malevolent glance at his subordinate. ‘What about Hampton Wick, Charlie? Any joy from the local nick?’

  ‘Yes. The collator’s off, but the station officer had a look in the index. There’s a trace, but he can’t understand the collator’s notes.’

  ‘Bloody terrific, isn’t it. There are times when I despair of this police force. When’s he back?’

  ‘Day after tomorrow,’ said Markham, picking his teeth.

  ‘That’s no good. This is a murder enquiry. I want him here today. Get him called out.’

  ‘He’s in Spain, guv.’

  ‘Christ Almighty,’ said Tipper. ‘There are times when I think we pay policemen too much. When I was a PC I couldn’t afford a week in Brighton.’

  ‘I still can’t,’ said Markham.

  ‘Right. We’ll see your club owner first.’

  Chapter Nine

  The inside of Bellamys had the tawdry look of the morning after the night before. The tables were bare, shorn even of their tablecloths, and there was a staleness in the air, a legacy of poor ventilation and an excess of cigar and cigarette smoke. In the harsh daylight it was hard to believe that by evening the shabbiness would be disguised by discreet lighting, attentive waiters in evening dress, plush curtaining, and a band that was just obtrusive enough to allow intimate conversation to be unheard on the next table.

  ‘Stewart Taylor,’ said the figure behind the desk, rising as Tipper and Markham entered his office. ‘I’m the proprietor.’

  They shook hands and sat down, Taylor to continue stirring at a fizzing mixture in a glass.

  ‘Rough night?’ asked Tipper, nodding at the glass.

  ‘No.’ Taylor drank the mixture down with a grimace. ‘I’ve got an upset stomach. What can I do for you, gentlemen?’

  ‘Have a look at that, for a start,’ said Tipper, laying a copy of Penelope Lambert’s photograph on the desk.

  Taylor withdrew a heavy-rimmed pair of glasses out of his top pocket, flicked open the arms and put them on. ‘Mmmm!’

  ‘Is that the best you can do?’ asked Tipper. ‘You do know her?’

  ‘Yes, I know her, old boy. She’s called Penny Gaston.’ He sighed. ‘But I told him that.’ He nodded towards Markham.

  ‘And when Sergeant Markham came to see you,’ said Tipper, ‘you also said that you had seen her in here from time to time — yes?’ Taylor nodded. ‘And,’ went on Tipper, ‘you knew her to be a strip-tease artiste?’

  ‘Would you like a cup of coffee, gentlemen?’ asked Taylor, ‘because I bloody well would.’

  ‘Yeah, fine, thanks very much.’ Tipper shrugged. There was no way that this was going to be a quick interview.

  A waiter brought coffee and went through the complicated routine of serving it, enquiring whether it was to be black or white, and would sir take milk or cream, and would he like white sugar or brown sugar. Eventually they got back on course, somewhat savagely.

  ‘Can we stop pussyfooting about, Mr Taylor?’

  Taylor held his arms up in an attitude of surrender. ‘She used to get in here from time to time, sure.’ He stirred his coffee.

  ‘Mr Taylor,’ said Tipper, his patience shortening by the minute, ‘can I just say this? I am investigating a serious crime — I am not in the slightest bit interested in the law relating to the licensing of clubs, or infractions of the law, other than to say that if anyone proves to be unco-operative — even ever so slightly — I shall arrange to have him struck off and he will likely never trade again. Are we at one on that?’

  Taylor spun on his chair and opened a cabinet behind him. He withdrew a bottle of Glenfiddich and three glasses. ‘Got it, Chief Inspector,’ he said, and poured a measure of Scotch into each of the glasses without asking. ‘What do you want to know about this girl?’

  ‘The when, the where and the how of what you told DS Markham here.’

  ‘She came in here once or twice, well maybe a bit more often than that. To be perfectly honest I was a bit concerned about her — I thought perhaps she was a high class tom — she was in with quite a few different guys, and that sort of reputation doesn’t do a place like this any good, given the clientele.’

  ‘How did you know?’

  Taylor smiled — a worn, tired smile. ‘The intelligence officer in a place like this is always the head waiter. If you’ve got a good one — and I have — he keeps you informed of everything that goes on. It’s got to be. Your blokes from the Clubs Office are always poking about, waiting to pounce, and it’s such a cut-throat business that any of my competitors’ll put the bubble in for me without a second thought. There’s no honour in this trade, believe me.’

  ‘Where do we find this head waiter of yours?’

  Taylor glanced at his watch. ‘He’s probably in already. He usually gets in about now. He’s got an office behind the bar.’ Taylor stood up. ‘If you come with me, gentlemen, I’ll show you, unless you want to talk to him in here.’

  ‘No — we’ll talk to him in his own domain, thanks. It’ll save taking up any more of your time.’ What Tipper meant was that he didn’t want Taylor there when he talked to the head waiter.

  The head waiter’s office was little more than a cupboard, and the middle-aged grey-haired man who stood up when they entered was introduced by Taylor as Pierre. He inclined his head slightly and murmured ‘M’sieur’ to each as the introductions were made.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Taylor,’ said Tipper by way of dismissal, and the owner left, somewhat apprehensive about what his head waiter might say in his absence. Taylor was not a happy man.

  Pierre brought in a chair from the main room of the club, and all three sat down. It was crowded. ‘What can I do for you, m’sieur?’ The head waiter spoke with a French accent.

  ‘Peter Morton, isn’t it?’ asked Tipper brutally. Markham had done his homework in his enquiries at the Clubs Office.

  The head waiter knew when he was beaten. He paused, sighed, and said, ‘What can I do for you, guv?’ in tones that bore greater proximity to Hoxton than to the Seine.

  ‘How often did you see this girl in here?’ Tipper laid the photograph on the desk in front of Morton.

  ‘Five or six at most, I suppose.’


  ‘Who was she with?’

  ‘Other people’s husbands probably.’

  ‘Names?’

  Morton looked wounded. ‘This is a discreet place, guv’nor,’ he said. ‘That’s the way the punters like it.’

  ‘I’m not too interested in what the punters like,’ said Tipper. ‘I’m investigating a murder — her murder, and I’m getting a little impatient with being buggered about at every turn.’

  ‘Christ!’ said Morton. ‘I didn’t know that she’d been topped. When did that happen then?’

  ‘Never mind. Who were these blokes?’

  ‘I honestly don’t know. The waiter on the table does the bills up, but I reckon it’s too late to find out now. It might be possible, though.’ He looked doubtful, and Tipper wondered if he was playing for time.

  ‘A lot of the trade in here is on credit cards — the old plastic money, but you can always tell when they want to be anonymous — they pay cash. That way there’s no record. They’re usually the blokes who worry about their reputation — those who’ve got a reputation to worry about, that is.’ He smiled sarcastically. ‘There was only one of those, at least he was the only one I remember — the only one I dealt with. We were a bit pushed that night — one of the waiters was off sick, and it was a Saturday, so I had to do a bit on the tables myself.’

  ‘Hard luck,’ said Markham, in an aside.

  ‘And who was he?’ asked Tipper.

  Morton shook his head. ‘Well I don’t know, do I? I mean, that’s what I was saying, isn’t it? He wanted to remain anonymous.’

  ‘Seen him since? Has he been in again?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘With a woman not his wife, I suppose.’

  Morton looked reproachful. ‘The most charitable view you could take is that it was his daughter — and if she was I can understand him not wanting to let her out of his sight.’ He smirked.

  ‘When he was in here with Penny Gaston, did it look like an evening out?’

  ‘He didn’t pick her up in here, that’s for sure. And they left early — by our standards anyway — like they were going on somewhere else.’