Chapter 20 Concocting Connections
It had come to Hilary suddenly while he was bathing, his mind partially elsewhere, the reason Saul Reznikov’s name was familiar.
He featured, of course, in the original case file for the murder of Laurence Cohen and the attempted murder of Naomi Cohen, for which Jack Shaughnessy, a.k.a.
James Sullivan, served fourteen years. Mr. Reznikov was Mrs. Cohen’s cousin.
Wasn’t that curious, that Mr. Reznikov and Mr. Sullivan ended up living under the same roof all those years later?
More than curious, in fact. Certainly beyond the bounds of coincidence.
Sitting at his desk at Scotland Yard, the contents of the file spread out in front of him, Hilary smoked contemplatively.
As witness statements testified, the money stolen by Shaughnessy and his brother-in-law—stolen and never recovered—was meant to have given the Reznikov family safe passage out of Nazi-infested Eastern Europe.
In the event, it seemed only Saul himself made it.
Indeed, hadn’t Miss Taylor said he lost his wife and daughter?
Hilary tried to put himself in Mr. Reznikov’s shoes.
So many murders were petty, impulsive acts by damaged people.
Pitiful people. But if this was the act of long-overdue vengeance Hilary suspected it to be—well, it had a sort of tragic grandeur.
He couldn’t honestly claim he wouldn’t have done the same, given such provocation.
It was Shaughnessy who remained a puzzle. Assuming he’d been able to track down Mr. Reznikov—a big assumption—why would he have wanted to? It didn’t make any sense. Unless it was the other way around, and Mr. Reznikov had somehow lured him to the house on Tregunter Road.
The telephone rang.
“It was found where? Hold on.” He reached for a pencil. “Got it. No, I’ll be right there.”
In less than half an hour, Hilary was sitting in a small back room in the police station on Bishopsgate, examining the contents of James Sullivan’s wallet. It had been found in the glove compartment of an abandoned motorcar by London Bridge, quite five miles from Tregunter Road.
“You mentioned,” he asked the young constable, “that the person who called it in wouldn’t leave a name?”
“That’s right, sir. He just wanted us to know about the motorcar. It was an eyesore, he said. Ought to be taken away and used for scrap metal.”
“What sort of a person was he, would you say?”
“Sort of a person, sir?”
“Young, old, well-mannered, gruff, anything that struck you?”
“Um. I’d say neither young nor old, sir. Sounded educated, if I’m any judge.”
“And you haven’t contacted the registered owner?”
“Not yet, sir. My gov’nor said that Scotland Yard had circulated the wanted man’s details, so protocol was that—”
“Good, good. You can leave all that to me. A cup of tea would be nice, Constable…”
“Abbott, sir. Constable Abbott. Coming right up, sir.”
The wallet contained no money save for a few pence. Otherwise, there was a National Insurance card, a couple of dog-track betting slips, a library card. Nothing revealing or useful. Well, he’d see what the vehicle owner had to say for himself.
Paul Linton was a tall young man with receding brownish hair and a strong brow. He’d be rather handsome, thought Hilary, were it not for his cowed expression, that vague air of persecution. Though it probably brought forth a certain instinct in women.
They sat in the tiny front room, Mrs. Linton relegated to the kitchen, the children in bed, and Hilary doing his level best to lull Mr. Linton into a trusting state.
“You’re under no suspicion,” he reiterated. “I just need your help in clearing a few things up. So, you were saying that your Ford Anglia is lost, but not stolen?”
Mr. Linton looked even more disheartened. “Anything that’s going on, can my name be kept out of it? The children…” He trailed off. “I haven’t been in trouble with the law since I was a kid.”
“Did you lend your motorcar to somebody?”
Mr. Linton glanced toward the door. “An old friend.”
“All right. Good. Your friend’s name?”
“Jack Shaughnessy. He’s not even really a friend anymore. We sort of grew up together, and then lost touch. Will I get the car back?”
It took a certain amount of gentle interrogation to get at the whole story, but eventually it all unspooled.
The two boys were friends from before they could walk.
Reading between the lines, Jack was the steelier, more confident child, who defended chubby, sensitive Paul from local toughs.
But when fifteen-year-old Jack was arrested for murder, Paul’s parents insisted he cut off contact with his friend.
Soon after, the Lintons moved to Walthamstow, and when Paul was eighteen, he was sent to the front.
He hadn’t heard from Jack again until recently.
“He needed the motorcar to get started with his new job,” he said. “I said he could have it for a few weeks. Margaret hated it anyway. I used to spend my Sundays fixing it. She said I was more interested in engines than in her and the little uns.”
“What was Mr. Shaughnessy’s job?”
“Delivering things? I’m not sure. But look, he said it was all a mistake, what happened back then. No one was meant to get hurt. That’s why they let him out early. Because the parole board believed it wasn’t his fault. Jack never got none of the money, neither. His sister took it.”
“This is Elizabeth Armstrong?”
“She stole the money and ran away with it, Jack said. That’s why it was never found. Elsie disappeared with it.”
Hilary jotted down some notes. “Did Mr. Shaughnessy mention anything to you about the victim’s family? Or about Mrs. Cohen’s cousin, to whom the stolen money belonged?”
Mr. Linton shook his head. “He only talked about his sister owing him the money.”
“Has he made contact with her?”
“I think so. I mean, he knew where she lived. He was planning to go sniffing around, talk to the neighbors and that. Find out what she was calling herself these days.”
“But you said she’d disappeared—how did he learn her current whereabouts?”
Mr. Linton pursed his lips guiltily. “I went to the house. You know, where it happened. On our old street. I was meant to ask Mrs. Cohen if she ever heard from Elsie. But Mrs. Cohen was dead. Another lady was living in the house. She said she used to look after Mrs. Cohen. We got to talking, and she said she had an address for Elsie. She wasn’t sure if it was up to date, though.
Elsie was wonderful to poor Naomi, she said. Visited her, paid for things.”
“Do you have the address?”
“I gave it to Jack. I don’t remember the name of the street. Southwest, somewhere.”
“Could you try a bit harder to remember? Really think.”
“I’m sorry, I…”
“Don’t worry. What was Jack’s state of mind when you last saw him? Was he unhappy, or worried about anything?”
“He was the same old Jack. Nothing ever really got him down. If I’d spent half my life behind bars, I’d be bitter, I reckon. Or depressed. But he wasn’t.”
The door opened, and a small boy toddled in, carrying a shredded blanket and sucking his thumb. He removed it to say, “Dada, Dada, story.”
“Sorry,” said Mr. Linton to Hilary. “Horace, I thought you were asleep. Dada’s talking to his friend just now.”
Horace considered Hilary. “We’re having a treat party, with cakes,” he informed him. “You can come,” he added with a benevolent dip of his chin.
“He means a street party,” said Mr. Linton.
“For the queen’s coronation. It’s all a bit of a silly fuss if you ask me.
But the children will enjoy it. When I was a boy, we had a street party for King George’s silver jubilee.
A photographer from the local paper was there, and me and Jack were on the front page.
My mum was tickled pink. It went straight in the scrapbook. D’you want to see it?”
“Certainly,” said Hilary politely.
“Maggie,” he called. “Mum’s old scrapbook. Where is it?”
“Just a moment,” Mrs. Linton shouted back. After a few minutes, she brought in a large wallpaper-covered book, handed it to her husband, and scooped up Horace, who began wailing at the injustice of being taken back to bed.
“Here we are,” said Mr. Linton. “Look at Jack. You’d think butter wouldn’t melt. And that’s me. Right little fatso, wasn’t I?”
The boys, aged around eleven, were sitting at the end of a long table decorated with twisted crepe-paper garlands. All the children, and some of the adults who stood behind them, wore party hats and were smiling at the camera.
“Who’s that?” asked Hilary, pointing to a young woman in a cinch-waisted jacket, her hair sculpted into regimented waves. Surely it couldn’t be… except it was, he’d almost swear to it.
Mr. Linton smiled. “Would you look at that. It’s only Elsie, isn’t it? I forgot she was in the photograph.”
“How old is Elsie in that photo?”
“Let’s think—twenty-five, twenty-six? She was quite a few years older than Jack. He was one of those unfortunate surprises. His mother used to say she’d shut up shop, and let her guard down just the once, after taking a drink to celebrate the British leaving Ireland. She was from Cork, you see.”
“So you don’t know anyone who keeps in touch with Elsie?”
“No one. We lived down the road from her for years. But when all that unpleasant business happened, she vanished. Never even visited her mother. It was a shame for Mrs. Shaughnessy. She was a widow. Then her son went to prison, and her daughter buggered off. Excuse me, ran away. Mrs. Shaughnessy died not that long after. She couldn’t have been much more than fifty. ”
Hilary took all this in, then said, “Do you believe Elsie stole the money?”
Mr. Linton shrugged. “I dunno why Jack would make something like that up. What would be the point?”
Mina got off the bus and spotted George coming out of the newspaper shop. “Hullo, George,” she said. “I haven’t seen you for days. Is everything all right?”
They walked along side by side. “I’ve been at Rory’s all weekend,” said George. “But I simply must change my clothes. Nothing’s happened, has it, at Tregunter Road?”
“No, nothing. Not since my encounter with the detective.” Mina paused. “George, why did he know before I did about you and—”
George cut her off. “There is no me and Jimmy. Was, I mean. So I take it Honor hasn’t told you about the barmaid? At the King’s Arms?”
“No, what about her?”
George looked at her wristwatch. “It’s past opening time. Come and have a drink at the Six Bells. My treat. I don’t know about you, but I’m fed up with secrets.”
Mina gaped at George. “Lovers?” She said the word as though for the first time, with not only skepticism but also bewilderment. “But Robbie isn’t like that, is he?”
“I’m afraid some men are, darling.” George took a large sip of her gin and mint. “They can’t help it, you know.”
“And…” Mina looked quizzical, then hesitated. “What about women? Are they ever…”
“Of course.” George was about to launch into some boarding-school stories, but the poor girl looked so discombobulated that she thought it best to change the subject.
“But, Mina, listen, I was wondering if you could explain—what is the history between Jimmy and Saul? Honor won’t tell me.
What did Jimmy do to him that was so terrible? ”
“Oh, George, it’s too awful. They never should have let Jimmy out of prison. And Honor shouldn’t have let him live with us. The lies that woman has told, I—” She stopped herself and sighed. “But none of it is my story to tell, I’m afraid. Not unless Saul says he doesn’t mind.”
The barman came over to them. “Excuse me, ladies,” he murmured apologetically. “The two gentlemen there wish to buy you a drink.”
They looked in the direction of his nod. The men were maybe thirty-five, officey-looking, with three-piece suits and ties. Harmless enough, thought George.
“One more for the road?” she said. “I think we deserve it, don’t you?”
When Mina and George came in from the pub at around seven thirty, they were met by a frantic Honor. “They’ve taken him!” she said. “They’ve taken Saul!”
“Who has?” said Mina.
“Comyns. He came with two other policemen. They searched the house—turned it upside down, from top to bottom—and then they arrested him. Oh, girls.” She grabbed George’s arm. “What have we done?”