Murder at down street st.., p.6
Murder at Down Street Station, page 6
He took them to the empty office with the door to the small platform that they’d visited before. ‘If you wait here, I’ll bring Grigor to you. I’ll be easier for you to talk to him away from the rest of the staff.’
Purslake left and they settled themselves at the desk, just as an Underground train rattled past at speed on the other side of the brick wall.
‘Provided we can hear one another with all that noise,’ commented Lampson sourly.
A short time later the door opened and Purslake ushered in Grigor Rostov, who looked at them warily.
‘Good morning, Mr Rostov,’ said Coburg, gesturing towards the empty chair.
‘I am being harassed,’ complained Grigor as he sat down.
‘Not by us, I assure you,’ said Coburg. ‘We’re just trying to find out who killed your sister.’
‘I mean by the press,’ said Rostov. ‘Yesterday I was chased along the road by a reporter shouting at me.’
‘Yes, we saw the item in the paper,’ said Coburg. ‘We shall be having a word with Mr Marsh and hope he might leave you alone. The reason we’ve come today is because we understand that your sister left a box for potential clients at The Dorchester to put a card in with their name and contact details.’
‘Yes,’ said Rostov. ‘That is correct.’
‘We’ve looked through her bag and other possessions, which the University College Hospital is still holding for you, but we haven’t been able to find the cards. Or anything relating to her activities as a fortune-teller. We wondered if perhaps she had left them here. After all, she was staying here at Down Street at night.’
Rostov nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘She had nowhere to keep her things, so I let her share my locker here. It’s in the locker room.’
‘Perhaps you’d show us?’ said Coburg gently.
Rostov got up and made for the door, Coburg and Lampson following. They walked down a corridor until they came to a door marked ‘Locker room’. Rostov led them in, and to an array of narrow metal cupboards. He went to the one marked ‘G. Rostov’, took a key from his pocket and unlocked it.
‘There,’ he said. ‘Most of these items are Svetlana’s. I keep most of my things at home.’
Coburg and Lampson removed the items from the locker and put them on a table in the locker room. Rostov stepped forward and picked up four books.
‘These are mine,’ he said. ‘Language dictionaries, which I need for work.’
Coburg and Lampson went through the remaining items. There were clothes; a pack of tarot cards; a book on palmistry; another on the signs of the zodiac, both of which were English editions. There were also books in Russian that appeared to be on astrology and other aspects of fortune-telling. There was a bag, shut with a drawstring. Coburg pulled the drawstring and opened the bag to reveal about forty cards, the same as the ones they’d seen on the table at The Dorchester. Each card had a name written on the reverse, with contact details. Each card also had details of money paid written in pencil.
‘This is what we’re looking for,’ said Coburg. ‘We’re hoping that possibly one of these people may be able to give us information that may lead to your sister’s killer. With your permission, we’d like to take them with us.’
‘Of course,’ said Rostov. He gestured at the other items on the table. ‘Do you want these?’
‘Not at the moment,’ said Coburg. ‘Can we ask you to keep them here, in case we might need to look at them in the future.’
Henry Bidlow MP sat at the desk in his office in the Houses of Parliament studying the day’s newspapers. Not the riff-raff, of course, only the quality: The Times and The Telegraph, along with the Daily Mail, because the Daily Mail also had its ear to the political grapevine, albeit nearer to the voting public than either The Telegraph or The Times. It was all about reading the runes, looking at who was in favour and who was likely to be removed from the Cabinet, thus leaving a vacancy for the right man. And, in Bidlow’s opinion, there was only one right man, if only he could get himself noticed in a favourable way by Churchill. Goddammit, Churchill had appointed those socialist upstarts Bevan and Bevin to the War Cabinet. He could understand Churchill having to appoint Attlee – the man was the leader of the opposition – but Bevan and Bevin for heaven’s sake! If he and other like-minded people didn’t take action, the Cabinet would be dominated by these lefties, and where would the Tory party stand then?
He was interrupted by a knock at his door and was annoyed to see it open before he’d had a chance to call ‘Come in!’ The arrival was his junior secretary, Martin Higgins, who should have known better than to enter without being summoned. Higgins had that sly smirk on his face he so often wore, usually when he’d undermined one of Bidlow’s political rivals and was keen to report and exult in his success. Higgins laid a newspaper on his desk. Bidlow looked at it in puzzled disdain. The Daily Globe. A tittle-tattle gossip sheet. What did Higgins think could possibly be in there that would be of interest to him?
‘What are you bringing this rag in here for?’ he demanded.
‘Page four.’ Higgins smirked. ‘Your problem is fixed, thanks to me.’
Intrigued, Bidlow turned to page four and scanned it. One headline leapt out at him: Stargazer butchered in Churchill’s secret bunker. Bidlow read the story with mounting horror:
The murdered woman has been identified as an immigrant Russian fortune-teller, Svetlana Rostova, who carried on her fortune-telling trade under the stargazer name of Lady Za Za. We tried to talk to the late Lady Za Za’s brother, Grigor Rostov, who works at the Railway Executive Committee offices at the former Down Street station, where Lady Za Za’s body was found.
Bidlow looked at Higgins, horrified. ‘You did this?’
Higgins smirked again. ‘I’m hardly likely to admit any such thing,’ he said. He looked around the room. ‘The one thing about this place is there are ears listening everywhere. All I’m saying is you asked me to fix a problem, and it’s been fixed.’
Bidlow stared at him. ‘But … but … but,’ he burbled, then stopped, at a loss for words, a look of horror on his face.
‘Following orders is what they call it.’ Higgins smiled. He leant over the desk so his mouth was close to Bidlow’s ear. ‘I believe there was a payment offered for a successful outcome,’ he whispered. ‘As I recall it was a hundred. But, in view of the awkward nature of the remedy, I think five hundred would be a fairer price, don’t you?’
Bidlow stared at him, shocked. ‘Five hundred pounds? Are you mad?’
‘If it comes to it, I could always plead insanity,’ said Higgins with a chuckle. ‘Driven mad by my member of parliament employer who insisted I did an unpalatable thing. Not just unpalatable, very definitely illegal and a hanging offence. You’d be in the dock with me. That wouldn’t look good, would it. MP on trial for murder.’
‘This is lunacy!’ burst out Bidlow. ‘I never ordered you to kill anyone!’
‘You told me to end a serious problem you had,’ said Higgins. ‘Your wife giving certain secrets of yours away to some Russian fortune-teller. Secrets that could cost you a pretty penny if they came to light, not to mention a big blot on your political career. If you even had a political career if the story came out. So I dealt with it.’ He tapped the newspaper and gave Bidlow a smile. ‘I’d prefer cash rather than a cheque.’
When she got to the St John depot, Rosa found an envelope marked for her attention.
‘It was in the letter box this morning,’ Chesney Warren told her.
‘Possibly your friend at the BBC,’ said Doris with a smile as they walked towards their ambulance.
Rosa opened it, and as she read it her face registered shock.
‘What’s the matter?’ asked Doris. ‘Bad news?’
Rosa held out the letter to her. It was unsigned. In block capital letters it said:
IF YOU APPEAR ON THE HENRY HALL SHOW ON TUESDAY YOU’LL DIE. I MEAN THAT LITERALLY. I’LL KILL YOU. I KNOW WHERE YOU LIVE. I KNOW WHERE YOU WORK.
‘My God!’ said Doris. ‘This is some maniac, it must be.’
‘But a maniac who knows where I live and work,’ said Rosa, obviously concerned.
‘You’ve got to take it to the police,’ said Doris.
‘Fortunately I’ve got one at home,’ said Rosa.
‘You’ve got to show this to him,’ said Doris. ‘Get them to test it for fingerprints, or whatever it is they do.’ Then she asked, worried, ‘What are you going to do about the show on Tuesday? Are you going to cancel being on it?’
‘Am I hell!’ said Rosa fiercely. ‘If this lunatic thinks they’re going to stop me being on the show, they’ve got another think coming.’
Coburg and Lampson stood on the small piece of platform where the body of Svetlana Rostova had been found.
‘The logical conclusion is that she was killed inside the building and her body dumped here afterwards,’ said Coburg thoughtfully. ‘I doubt if she’d been here to flag down a passing train because she wasn’t an employee of the REC; she just had a visitor’s pass.’
‘Makes sense.’ Lampson nodded. He gestured along the platform in the direction of Hyde Park. ‘Although there’s always this foot tunnel from Hyde Park.’
‘But anyone using that would take a chance of being hit by a passing train once they’d left the foot tunnel and joined the main line,’ said Coburg. ‘And if they were carrying a dead body there’s always the risk of stumbling on the live electric rail.’
‘All too risky,’ agreed Lampson. ‘So the foot tunnel’s out.’
‘Jeremy Purslake suggested the body might have been dumped from a train,’ mused Coburg.
‘I can’t see it,’ said Lampson. ‘If it was from inside a carriage, someone would have seen what was going on. And I can’t see it being dumped from the driver’s cabin. Any driver would know a dead body being found would bring suspicion on him.’
‘I agree,’ said Coburg. ‘But we can work out when the body was dumped, and talk to the drivers of the trains passing Down Street in that timeframe. See if any of them look shifty.’ He gave a sigh as he added, ‘But I agree, that’s highly unlikely. As is Purslake’s suggestion that her dead body had been put on the train roof and fell off as it passed Down Street.’
‘He’s just trying to divert attention away from the REC offices,’ said Lampson. ‘He doesn’t like to think it was someone who works here who killed her.’
‘Even if she was killed here, it doesn’t mean it was by someone who works here,’ said Coburg. ‘Say she had one of her fortune-telling clients here?’
Lampson shook his head. ‘They’d never have got past security upstairs.’
‘No, you’re right,’ agreed Coburg. ‘We need to talk to everyone who was here on Christmas Day. Security staff, workers, cleaners, everyone. Someone must have seen Svetlana around.’
‘It’s a big job,’ said Lampson. ‘The train drivers and people here.’
‘It is,’ said Coburg. ‘So I suggest we split it. You take the train drivers who were on duty that day and I’ll talk to the staff who were working here on Christmas Day.’ He patted his pocket, where he’d put Svetlana’s client cards. ‘And along with that, we’ll talk to this lot, her clients.’
That evening, Rosa showed Coburg the threatening letter. He read it, then looked at her, his expression troubled.
‘It could be a joke,’ she said.
‘A not very funny one,’ he said darkly. ‘Have you ever had this sort of thing before?’
‘No. You get the occasional person who hangs around wanting to talk to you after a gig, and some of them can be quite oddball. But nothing like this.’
He folded the letter up, replaced it in the envelope and put it in his pocket.
‘I’ll look into it, check it for fingerprints, that sort of thing. You never know. They might have done it before. But what are you going to do about the show on Tuesday?’
‘I’m going to do it, of course.’ She smiled. ‘After all, I’ll have my own police protection with me.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
Sunday 29th December 1940
Coburg and Rosa were settling down to breakfast when the phone rang. Rosa was the one who answered it, and she was surprised and pleased to hear the voice of her brother-in-law, Magnus, the Earl of Dawlish.
‘Magnus,’ she said. ‘How lovely to hear from you.’
‘I’m phoning because I read in The Times that you’re doing a live broadcast the day after tomorrow. The Henry Hall show from the Finsbury Park Empire.’
‘Yes,’ said Rosa.
‘Would it be possible to arrange a couple of tickets for Malcolm and myself? As you know, Malcolm is a huge fan of yours and it would make his year to come to see you in a live broadcast.’
‘Leave it to me,’ said Rosa. ‘All I can do is ask the producer, which I’ll do first thing tomorrow, and phone you back.’
‘I shall keep my fingers crossed,’ said Magnus.
Rosa was just heading back to the table when the phone rang again.
‘I expect that’s Magnus again with something he’d forgotten to say,’ said Coburg through a mouthful of sausage and beans.
‘Coburgs,’ said Rosa.
‘Sorry to trouble you at home, Mrs Coburg,’ said a man’s voice. ‘This is Scotland Yard duty office. Is DCI Coburg there, please?’
‘One moment,’ said Rosa. She held out the phone towards Coburg. ‘It’s Scotland Yard for you.’
Coburg got up from the table and took the receiver. ‘DCI Coburg.’
‘It’s the duty office, sir. I’m sorry to trouble you at home but we’ve got a note that if anything happens at Down Street you’re to be contacted.’
‘That’s correct,’ said Coburg. ‘What’s happened?’
‘A dead man’s been found outside the entrance. He’s been identified as a Mr Grigor Rostov.’
‘Is anyone from the Yard there?’
‘Just a beat constable who was called by someone who works there.’
‘Let him know I’m on my way. And put through a call to the medical team for someone to attend. Ideally, Dr Welbourne from UCH, if he’s available.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Coburg hung up and turned to Rosa. ‘I’m afraid I’ve got to go. Another person’s been killed at Down Street. The brother of the previous victim.’
‘A family dispute?’ asked Rosa.
‘I don’t think so,’ said Coburg. ‘I’ll call you and let you know if I’m going to be late.’ He sat down again at the table. ‘But first, I’m finishing my breakfast.’
Henry Bidlow munched without enthusiasm at the breakfast that had been laid before him by his housekeeper, Mrs Partly. Usually he enjoyed his Sunday breakfast of eggs, sausage and bacon with lashings of butter on his toast. Being a member of parliament for a rural constituency had major advantages; he didn’t have to think about rationing. Rationing was for the peasantry, not for people like him. But today the sumptuous feast on his plate turned into ashes in his mouth as he thought about Martin Higgins. The absolute bastard! Even worse, a murdering bastard if he was to be believed. And there was no reason not to believe it.
He recalled his conversation with Higgins after he’d discovered that his wife, Eleanor, had been going to see a fortune-teller. ‘You know how these people work, Higgins; they worm information out of the people who come to them so they can pretend they know things about them they could only learn “from the stars”. That way lies blackmail.’ He’d given a sarcastic laugh. ‘It was only when I questioned her properly that Eleanor admitted she’d let slip to this woman about my links with Krupp. For God’s sake, it’s just business. But if it gets out that’ll be the end of my political career. They’ll be calling me “the MP for the Nazi Weapons Machine”, or something similar. You’ve got to find this Russian fortune-teller woman, Higgins, and make sure she stays silent. A hundred pounds should do it, and tell her firmly there’ll be no more forthcoming. And if she opens her mouth, I’ll make sure she’s deported back to Russia.’
Instead, according to Higgins, he’d killed her, thus solving ‘the problem’. And now he was demanding five hundred pounds for it!
He cursed his wife, who was currently upstairs in bed, nursing one of her headaches. Stupid woman, to gabble that way to that Russian charlatan. What did she expect? A good beating, that’s what, and that’s what he’d given her.
The question was, what the hell was he going to do about Higgins?
It was raining heavily when Coburg arrived at Down Street. The pavement outside the building’s entrance was awash, the rainwater running off the edge of the pavement and filling the already overflowing gutters. A police constable wearing a long waterproof cape was standing beside a man’s body lying on the rain-soaked pavement. He saluted as Coburg got out of his car and came towards him.
‘Morning, sir,’ he said.
‘Morning, Constable.’ He looked down at the body of Grigor Rostov. ‘Do we know how he died?’
‘No, sir. I didn’t want to disturb the body. And the medical people haven’t arrived yet.’
‘Who found him?’
‘A woman. She works here and she was leaving the building when she saw him. She thought at first he’d fainted or something. She’s done first aid so she could tell he was dead.’
‘Where is she?’
The constable gestured towards the black door of the REC. ‘In there, sir. I couldn’t see there was any reason for her to get soaked.’
‘Good thinking, Constable.’
‘Chief Inspector!’
Coburg turned and saw Dr Welbourne hurrying towards them, an umbrella held in one hand and his medical bag in the other. Welbourne stopped beside the body on the ground. ‘Who is he, anyone know?’
‘Grigor Rostov.’
‘Any relation to the previous victim, Miss Rostova?’
‘Her brother.’
Welbourne frowned. ‘Well, we know there’s a connection between the victims.’
‘Can I leave you to do a quick examination in situ while I talk to the woman who found him?’ asked Coburg. ‘She’s in the building.’
