Against the Light Page 19

  ‘You should try it, it’s a cracking read.’

  Gaines slid The Riddle of the Sands from its shelf. That Inskip, not noted for reading, had actually picked up the book at all, never mind read it, must have something to recommend it. It looked new, and appeared to be unread, a complimentary copy signed by the author. A folded sheet of letter paper had been tucked inside the flap. ‘Well, well. Read this, Sergeant,’ he said to Inskip when he had done so himself.

  It was a short note to Latimer from Childers, the purpose of which was to thank him very sincerely for his recent, very generous, donations to the Cause. ‘I have come to value our growing friendship greatly,’ it went on, ‘and know only too well the hardships of the path you are treading. Having trodden the same way myself I know the difficulties you face, and the struggle between conscience and loyalty. I have, thank God, emerged from the dark and I am confident that now you have made your decision and your doubts have been resolved, you will feel the same sense of freedom.’ It was simply signed, Childers.

  So that was it, Latimer’s reason for suicide. He had thrown in his lot with the extremists, but contrary to what Childers had evidently thought, he had still been plagued by doubts, struggling between conscience and remorse, in which neither had won. Yet he wouldn’t have been the first to switch allegiance from one party to another over a principle, and survive. It hadn’t harmed Winston Churchill when he had crossed the floor from the Conservative benches to join the Liberal party, nor impeded his almost meteoric rise to Home Secretary. Yet … were Latimer’s doubts enough for him to have taken that fatal step?

  At least, it went some way to explaining that odd message the woman Mona Reagan had asked David Moresby to pass on to Latimer. It now seemed more than possible that as a person working in the Nationalist party offices, she had overheard some gossip about Latimer’s possible defection to the other side. But what connection could they have had, that she felt it necessary to warn him, possibly at risk to herself? It was an interesting question, but it hardly mattered now.

  There was little else left in the room to interest them, but Gaines found himself staring at a large group of family photographs ranged on the top of a chest of drawers that seemed, in view of its extent, and given what was known of him, to reveal a somewhat surprising aspect of Latimer’s character: a stiffly seated Victorian couple, presumably his parents, Latimer as a boy, as a young man in tennis whites with a group of friends, a wedding photograph of himself and Alice. Latimer holding the hand of his little sister, Violet, and smiling down at her. More of Violet alone, a pretty little girl who seemed to have enjoyed from an early age having her picture taken, being dressed up for the occasion in flouncy clothes, jewellery and, as a tiny girl in one picture, wearing a white party frock, pretty slippers and – extraordinarily – white gloves.

  He thought that Edmund Latimer must have been something of an enigma. The personal revelation of family feeling was unexpected, and sadly seemed to emphasize the sense of emptiness in the room, over which, despite the apparent normality, the taint of death remained, a stain in the air. The very silence seemed to underline the horror of what had happened here, those few moments when a man had taken the ultimate step of deciding to pull a trigger and blow out his brains.

  He stood in the centre of the room, gauging something and trying to work out what it was as he gazed round. Dust motes danced in a beam of sunlight. He deliberately brought back to mind his initial impressions of the room, and the large desk as he had first seen it. An unusually tidy desk, he recalled – apart from Latimer’s body sprawled across it. Otherwise, only a stack of blank paper on one side, waiting to be used, a blotter, both previously unmarked before the shooting had made such a mess of them. They’d been taken away for examination, as had the fountain pen, uncapped, which had rolled to the floor.

  ‘Noisy things, guns,’ he remarked at last. ‘Yet not one person in the house hears one going off.’

  ‘It was only a small gun, and it’s a big house,’ Inskip said, but he spoke doubtfully because he understood what Gaines was getting at, unlikely as it seemed. ‘His study’s here on the ground floor, and everyone was asleep upstairs.’

  There was a French window and when Gaines tried it, he found it was unlocked. ‘Careless. Anyone could have got in that way.’ He looked even more thoughtful.

  Inskip said, ‘You’re not suggesting … sir?’

  Gaines didn’t reply.

  ‘Because when the gun’s fingerprinted it will show—’

  He stopped, and Gaines supplied, ‘It’ll show his own fingerprints, of course … which could have been left when the gun was wiped and put back in his hand.’ He saw Inskip’s expression and sighed. ‘All right, I know. I’m being fanciful.’ Fanciful in his book was something that wasn’t permitted. ‘I’m pushing it because I can’t see a way through all this yet. What’s been happening to these people?’ Inskip shrugged non-committally. ‘Oh, come on, Sergeant, don’t tell me you haven’t been thinking the same thing. This is somehow all part of what’s already happened. The baby’s kidnap, Dudley Nichol, your Danny boy, and now – now this little lot.’

  About which, he gloomily predicted, there were going to be repercussions. It was likely to go well beyond Edmund Latimer’s so far inexplicable suicide.

  ‘You’re right, sir,’ Inskip said. ‘If you don’t mind my saying, it is a bit fanciful.’

  ‘I know. I was just trying it out.’ But against Gaines’ instincts, the notion that the MP hadn’t died by his own hand was one he had to admit he’d been toying with ever since he’d first seen the body. He doubted very much if it would stand up to scrutiny, and in any case he’d now ceased to believe it himself, but it had been worth considering, if only to be ruled out. All the same, he led the way out via the French window, just to show how easy it might have been, and locked it behind them.

  When they reached the front of the house, they came face to face with David Moresby, who was also just leaving, setting off to hire a taxi as soon as he saw one, he said.

  ‘Lucky to have caught you then,’ Gaines said, ‘if you could spare a minute or two, sir, we’d be grateful.’

  ‘Well.’ He frowned and pulled his watch from his top pocket. ‘Is there something else? I was under the impression you had finished with me.’

  ‘I think you’ve been keeping something from us, Mr Moresby.’

  ‘What?’ His politely correct manner seemed to be in danger of deserting him. ‘Look here, I’ve told you everything I know that might be of use in clearing up this sad business. If you still think Latimer was being forced to act in a way he felt was dishonourable, that he was in some way mixed up in some dirty business, you could not be more mistaken. What I said about Mona Reagan—’

  ‘It’s nothing to do with Mona Reagan, Mr Moresby. Unless she was involved with him in a personal way, if you get my meaning.’

  ‘Personal? Mona?’ He laughed shortly. ‘You’re on the wrong track there, Inspector.’ He was trying to brush it off, but he wasn’t entirely succeeding. Blustering didn’t come naturally to him, Gaines thought.

  ‘I said “unless” Mr Moresby.’ The other man went silent. ‘We shall find out if that was the case, sooner or later, if there is anything in it,’ Gaines reminded him gently, ‘you know that. But I said it had nothing to do with her.’

  Still Moresby hesitated. ‘Wouldn’t it be better to have the truth of the matter from you? I realize you probably didn’t want to say anything about it in front of Mrs Latimer, which is why I didn’t ask you earlier, but I can promise discretion, in so far as I am able.’

  Suddenly, Moresby’s common sense took over and he gave in. ‘Is there somewhere we can talk?’

  ‘We can go back into the study, we won’t be disturbed there. It’s locked, but we have the keys.’

  ‘The study?’ He looked slightly appalled at the prospect of entering the room where the tragedy had taken place.

  Inskip said, ‘It’s been cleared by now.’ He led the way
round to the back where he unlocked the French window and they once more entered.

  Moresby’s eyes went immediately to the damaged wall and the arc of blood splashes still defacing the wallpaper and he hesitated for a moment, but in the end he stepped into the room. Inskip, displaying unusual tact, indicated a seat that had its back to the bloody reminder, well out of range of the desk. Not everyone was accustomed to looking at sights like that, he admitted. Averting his eyes, Moresby took the seat.

  ‘You assumed correctly that I was reluctant to speak in front of Mrs Latimer,’ he began immediately the other two had found chairs for themselves. ‘When you hear what I have to say, you’ll realize why.’ Gaines, who had already guessed something of what was coming, didn’t reply. ‘But that wasn’t the only reason I didn’t say anything. I wasn’t supposed to know about it, for one thing, and for another, I suppose it could turn out he was being blackmailed for it, which I suppose is what you’re getting at. I doubt it, though, and in any case, I don’t believe Latimer would have reacted in the way he has. Whatever else, he wasn’t a coward, he would have faced it, ridden out the scandal. And he would certainly have appreciated that it was not the way to cover up. Nothing stays hidden when someone has taken his life, does it?’

  He looked down at the toes of his polished shoes for a while and then met their combined regard squarely. He seemed to realize he hadn’t been making a great deal of sense. ‘I feel pretty bad about me being the one to tell you this. I’m certain Alice – Mrs Latimer – has no idea, though I don’t suppose it will be long before some kind person informs her. I’m amazed it’s been kept from her so far. You can stop looking for political motives for what he has done. Latimer and I have worked together for a good while and I owe him a great deal,’ he said honestly. ‘The least I can do is to prevent it going on record that he took his life because of any chicanery in that direction. He was not dishonest.’

  Whatever else, he had said. Gaines knew then he had been right in his earlier assumption that there had been little love lost between the two men. ‘I assume you are saying he was having an affair?’

  ‘That’s what it amounts to, I suppose, though an affair implies a temporary thing, a fling that’s soon over. And as far as I know – I’m certain, in fact – this was more serious than that. You – you will want details, her name …’

  ‘Yes, though I doubt very much that it isn’t known already. As a politician yourself, Mr Moresby, in the public eye, you must be aware that it’s in the interest of national security to keep tabs on anyone of importance in the Government.’

  ‘The Special Branch, I suppose,’ Moresby said with resignation.

  ‘Yes, they’ve already been notified about Mr Latimer’s death and we will be working together,’ Gaines said neutrally, giving no indication this was not something he precisely welcomed, either, although he had often worked closely with them. The Branch saw themselves as an elite corps and were inclined to want to take over the whole operation. But since they were chiefly concerned with all matters pertaining to national security, part of the Branch’s area of responsibility was to keep themselves up-to-date with politicians and all their activities, extramarital or otherwise. It was inevitable, having been a minister at the Home Office, that Latimer’s background would be known to them.

  ‘Are you sure Mrs Latimer knows nothing?’ In Gaines’ experience, wives who were presumed to be innocent of such matters were often quite well aware of what was going on, even if, for various reasons, they chose to keep the knowledge to themselves.

  ‘Yes, I’m certain she doesn’t. But she will have to know, it seems. I think I must go to her now and warn her,’ he said, though he looked wretched at the prospect. ‘Before she hears it in the wrong way. I should have thought about it before. It’s better she’s told straight off, rather than hear of it in a roundabout way, which she’s certain to do, one way and another.’

  He half rose from his chair before recollecting that he hadn’t yet said all he needed to. ‘You want to know about Connie Fiore,’ he said.

  Fifteen

  Daniel O’Rourke lay inadequately propped against the cast-iron bed frame by a thin pillow, gasping on a cigarette. It was the last thing he needed with this cough, though it helped to disguise the fusty smell of the pillow, had he been in any condition to notice or care about such things – about the pillow, or its stained black-striped ticking, the lumps in the mattress, or the coarse grey blanket. Living as a hunted man, you got used to discomfort, and this was luxury compared to some of the places he’d slept in. A room to himself. Food sometimes, though he couldn’t force much down at present – but what was food, as long as he had his cigarettes? The craving for a drink was a different matter. He was desperate for a drop so he could think better, but she wouldn’t bring him any, only water.

  He’d got drunk that night with Dudley Nichol, or Lennie Croxton as he’d called himself when he came back to England. It was a pity about what had happened later, but never in this world had he imagined Dudley getting cold feet, becoming dangerous and therefore dispensable. Inoffensive as he’d outwardly appeared, he’d had passions he shared with every true patriot – stronger passions than his own, Daniel owned, in moments of the honesty which admittedly didn’t come to him very often. Like most converts, Dudley had been more fervent in the cause and less tolerant of those who opposed its aims than many of those who were born into it. He had a fire in his belly although, back in Ireland, he hadn’t shown himself capable of the cold, calculated violence which many of their brotherhood, including Daniel himself, were deeming necessary.

  The rats were starting their nightly scuttering behind the skirting board. They were worse at night. He had killed one the night before last when it had ventured into the room. He’d reached down from the bed for one of his heavy, nailed boots and made a lucky throw. The rat lay dead on the floor. He couldn’t stomach the thought of it lying there, beginning to smell maybe, but when, weak as he was, he’d managed to get himself out of bed and pick it up by its tail it squirmed and came alive again, only stunned by the boot. He’d twisted its neck and thrown it out of the window and into the other rubbish in the yard below, wedged his boot into the hole it had come from, then crawled back to bed. By morning, the leather had been gnawed through by more rats and he’d had to ask her to get him another pair.

  ‘You’ll not be needing boots for a while,’ she said, holding the water glass to his lips to help him drink.

  God, but he could do with a drink now. Not water, though, a drop of the hard stuff was what he needed. The pain in his chest was like a red-hot knife and he was beginning to sweat again. He knew he had a fever, what with the burning, then the shaking cold coming after, with only moments of clarity among the confusion in his mind. He’d got soaking wet on too many of those bloody vigils outside Manessa House and then again in the pouring rain that night. It had been a queer old to-do all round, that night, ending up with him drenched to the skin and exhausted. He’d dropped on to the bed and fallen asleep as he was, there in his wet clothes, shutting out the remembrance of a man being killed. Not the first death he’d encountered, by any means, but he hadn’t imagined it would be like that, that the enemy being shot in an ambush was a different matter from the knifing to death of one of your own.

  The agonizing cough rattled again in his chest, doubling him over. When it was finished, he leaned back and let his eyes close and when he opened them again a feeble light was trying to penetrate the murk on the soot-streaked skylight. He thought he felt a bit better for the sleep, and reached for the water on the orange box beside his bed. The pain sliced through his chest again.

  Coughing his damned lungs up was no damned good. He had to get shot of this lot, and soon. He couldn’t stay here indefinitely, imprisoned in this attic. He’d already been here too long – how long, he couldn’t work out and didn’t dare to try. He only knew he should have been away long since, shaken the dust of London from his feet, but he still had several more guns promi
sed, and if he wanted the good opinion of Leary, the cold man who led his cell in Ireland, then he had to stay here until he’d finished the job … even though it seemed to have taken a wrong turning somewhere along the way.

  Gone wrong in the same way as the plan Lennie had hatched, which might have brought them all to disaster, and only by luck that it hadn’t.

  No use thinking of that now. Instead, he tried to focus on the news that Tooley had brought him – was it one, or two nights ago? Only his mind wasn’t functioning as it should. He kept floating off. Did he remember rightly what Tooley had said, yesterday, the day before … or when? That the matter was being taken out of their hands by a great plan to smuggle weapons to Ireland that would make his own efforts look like nothing. Or was he hallucinating again? Tooley wasn’t what you’d call reliable. A greedy bastard, and stupid with it. But what he’d said was the truth, it would account for the murderous thoughts Daniel kept having. He broke out in a thick sweat. God, he should try and pull himself together. He couldn’t afford weakness like this now.

  It was too much effort even to light another cigarette. The house was only a one-up-and-one-down, plus this attic, and he could hear the sounds from below, Maureen’s husband’s cough nearly as bad as his own, herself in the kitchen, clattering pans about in her slapdash way as she cooked, every now and then flinging the door open and yelling to the kids playing outside to go and make their bloody noise somewhere else, the kids cheeking her back. Other street noises floated up through the cracked pane in the skylight, a horse and cart rumbling on the street cobbles, the striking of a church clock. Our Lady’s, that would be, not Father Finucane’s …

  Daniel O’Rourke had been born here, in the East End. He hadn’t had much schooling and had never had a trade, but had worked wherever he could find a job, lining up for work as a docker when there was any to be had, as a porter at Smithfield, navvying, anything he could get. The jobs had come and gone, but he’d mostly been lucky, usually one of the first to be taken on because he was a big strong fella, standing out in the crowd of hopefuls who turned up to be hired. East Enders were poor specimens on the whole, underfed and puny; poverty and living conditions here were not calculated to produce a race of he-men. Daniel had been lucky in that his parents, first-generation immigrants from Ireland, had been a thrifty pair, determined against odds to sustain a decent living for themselves and their only child. His father had worked all his life for the same company as a brewer’s drayman, and his mother, who was a skilled needlewoman, had even managed to save the odd shilling now and then from what she earned working for the Jews in the garment trade. Remembering only too well what they’d left behind in Ireland, they’d made something of a life for themselves here, settled and dug themselves in with no intention of ever leaving. Daniel himself had never set foot out of London until the day, six or seven years ago, when he’d been forced to flee to Dublin after the business of Cathleen Hennessy. He had broken his mother’s heart with that, they said. She died a year later and Daniel had not come home for the funeral. His father still worked for the brewery but he hadn’t been to see him either since he came back.