Murder at the Ritz Page 27

  Allison hesitated, then said in an apologetic tone: ‘Wister Gormley.’

  Coburg stared at him, then burst into harsh laughter. ‘First, he takes my car off me, now he comes to the aid of one of the most dangerous gangsters in London. As far as I’m concerned this shows he’s hand in glove with Barnes and McGuinness’s mob. I wonder how long he’s been protecting their interests?’

  ‘That may well be the case, Chief Inspector, but we are the law. We have to obey the rules as set down. For the moment, until you produce concrete evidence against Barnes, it looks as if we’ll have to let him go.’

  ‘He’ll be dead before nightfall,’ said Coburg grimly. As he said it, a new thought struck him. ‘Which constituency does Gormley represent, sir? It’s Westminster, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Allison.

  ‘North of the river,’ said Coburg. ‘I don’t think he’s working for Charley Barnes, even though Barnes may think he’s acting for him. I think Gormley’s doing it for Danny Bell.’

  ‘If you’re right, what do you suggest we do?’ asked Allison.

  ‘We do as our bosses say. We abide by the law. But, from now on, I’ll be keeping a close eye on who Wister Gormley MP associates with.’

  Lampson mounted the stairs of the lodging house where Xhemel had his room, two uniformed constables following him. Lampson held his pistol behind his back, ready to use. As he’d told the two constables, PCs Andrews and Penny, they suspected the man they were going to bring in had already killed two men. ‘He uses a knife,’ Lampson had told them. ‘But he may also have a gun. He’s dangerous, so be on your guard.’

  They reached the door of Xhemel’s room, and Lampson knocked at it. The door opened a crack and a moustached man looked out at them suspiciously, the same man in the photograph that Anna Gershon had picked out.

  ‘Police,’ said Lampson. ‘Anton Xhemel?’

  The man shook his head. ‘Not here.’

  ‘Nice try, but I’ve seen your photo,’ said Lampson. As Xhemel began to close the door, Lampson put his boot against it and produced the pistol from behind his back. ‘Step back and put your hands above your head.’

  Xhemel hesitated, then did as he was ordered. Lampson pushed the door open, but waited until he was sure that Xhemel was standing with his hands in the air and that there was no one else in the room.

  ‘Back up, nice and slow.’

  Slowly Xhemel walked backwards into the room, stopping in the middle of it. Lampson and the two constables followed him in.

  ‘Right, you’ll keep your hands behind your head while the constable searches you. And if you try anything, I’ll shoot you.’ He nodded towards PC Penny.

  The constable patted Xhemel down first, then felt inside his pockets, before stepping back.

  ‘Nothing, sir. He hasn’t got any weapons on him.’

  ‘Good,’ said Lampson, and he slipped the pistol back in his pocket, then produced a pair of handcuffs. ‘Right, Mr Xhemel—’

  That was as far as he got. Suddenly Xhemel produced a knife that he’d hidden inside the back collar of his shirt and he lashed out with it, the blade slicing through PC Penny’s neck, sending a spray of blood. Lampson, momentarily stunned, gaped, then he moved, leaping towards Xhemel while at the same time reaching for the pistol in his pocket, but even as he was pulling the gun out Xhemel had turned on him, striking out with the knife, and Lampson felt a punch in his chest, followed by an intense pain that seemed to go through his whole body. As Xhemel pulled the blade out, Lampson saw blood gushing out from his chest, and then a terrible darkness began to close in on him and he felt himself falling …

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  His hand firmly holding the butt of the pistol in his jacket pocket, Coburg and the two constables followed the directions they’d been given at the cemetery office to the plot for the Bassett family. As they neared it, they saw the hunched figure of a man sitting on the grass next to a headstone. Keeping his distance, Coburg signalled for the constables to each move to one side and hold their positions, then he produced the pistol and held it aimed at the man.

  ‘Mr Bassett,’ he called. ‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Coburg from Scotland Yard. Please kneel and put both your hands in the air.’

  The man turned and looked at Coburg, and even from a distance Coburg saw the expression of weary hopelessness on his face.

  ‘On your knees, please, Mr Bassett. With your hands in the air,’ he repeated.

  Bassett shuffled into a kneeling position and raised his hands.

  ‘The constables will approach and will search you. Do not attempt to resist them or attack them, or I will be forced to use this weapon. Do you understand?’

  Bassett nodded.

  ‘All right, go and check him out,’ said Coburg. ‘But keep to different sides, Edwards take his left and Johnson his right, and stay out of my line of fire.’

  The constables nodded and walked warily towards Bassett, who remained kneeling on the grass. They reached him and Johnson stood back while Edwards went through his jacket pockets.

  ‘Nothing, sir,’ called Edwards. ‘No weapon of any sort.’

  ‘Stand up, please, Mr Bassett,’ called Coburg. ‘Keeping your hands in the air.’

  Bassett rose to his feet and stood while Edwards stepped back, and Johnson took his turn to go through Bassett’s trouser pockets and patting down his legs for any hidden weapons.

  ‘Nothing, sir,’ called Johnson.

  Coburg took a pair of handcuffs from his pocket and approached, still holding the pistol aimed at Bassett. ‘Turn around and lower your hands. Put them together behind your back.’

  Bassett did as he was told. There was no resistance of any sort from him. His whole body posture was that of a man who’d given up.

  Coburg handed the handcuffs to Edwards. ‘Slip those on him,’ he said.

  Only when Bassett was securely handcuffed did Coburg put his pistol away.

  ‘Michael Bassett, I am arresting you on suspicion of the murders of Melvyn McGuinness and William Thackeray—’

  ‘I did it,’ said Bassett, his voice sombre. ‘I did both of them. And I’m glad!’ As he said these last words, he suddenly seemed to come alive and he glared defiantly at Coburg.

  ‘Mr Bassett, you don’t have to say anything,’ said Coburg, cautioning him, ‘but anything you do say will be—’

  ‘I did it!’ repeated Bassett, almost exultant. ‘They took everything, and they laughed at me!’ Suddenly he dropped to the ground and turned on the grass to look at the headstone and the grave. There were three names carved on the stone but done at different times. ‘When they went, all I had left was my business. My warehouse. And those bastards took that when they stole my sugar. I thought I had them because my warehouseman recognised the pair who did it: Billy Thackeray and Joe Williams. But when he got a visit from that bastard McGuinness, he backtracked, and the next thing I know, Thackeray and Williams are back out on the street.’ He looked up and Coburg could see that the man was crying, tears rolling down his cheeks.

  Bassett nodded towards the gravestone. ‘See the names?’ he said. He looked back at Coburg, a challenge giving fire to his eyes. ‘Those bastards, McGuinness, Thackeray and Williams did nothing for their country, and both my boys died. And the thing that really got me was when Thackeray and Williams came round my house after they’d been released and laughed at me. Then Thackeray slapped me, hard, round the face and said: “We’ll be back to your warehouse and we’ll take whatever we want. And you’d better not try and stop us, or grass us to the Old Bill, or we’ll carve your face into bits.” And he produced this old-fashioned cut-throat razor which he opened and waved it in my face, before shutting it and putting it back in his pocket.’ Bassett shook his head. ‘It was the last straw. I’d lost everyone I loved, but I’d decided to keep on going with the warehouse for the memory of Sonia and the boys. But Thackeray and Williams saying and doing what they did and getting away with it because they were McGuinness’s me
n; it tainted everything. I had to get rid of them.

  ‘Thackeray was the first. I went round his place when I knew he’d be dead drunk and helpless, because I’d been watching him. I half-carried him out to an alley where I did him with a leaded stick. Then I dumped him in the river. I went looking for Williams, but I couldn’t find him. Then later I heard he’d been killed at the Ritz, so someone else had done for him. The next one was McGuinness himself. Again, I watched him, saw his routine. He was regular as clockwork. But before I did him, I wanted him to suffer. Which was why I torched one of his pubs. His pubs were precious to him, like my warehouse was to me. I wanted him to know he wasn’t safe; he could be got. And then I got him. A bullet in the head.’

  ‘Where did you get the gun?’ asked Coburg.

  A ghost of a smile appeared on Bassett’s face. ‘From Billy Thackeray’s room. He had it in his bedside table.’ He chuckled. ‘It didn’t save him, though.’ Bassett pushed himself up off the grass. ‘So that’s the story, Inspector. You’ve got your man. And I’m glad I done it.’ He turned towards the gravestone with the three names on it and said proudly: ‘I did it, Sonia! I got them!’

  As Coburg walked into the reception area of Scotland Yard with Mike Bassett and the two constables, he saw the duty sergeant gesturing him to come to the desk. Coburg knew immediately from the look on the man’s face that something terrible wrong had happened.

  ‘Take Mr Bassett to the cells,’ he ordered the constables. ‘I’ll talk to him later.’

  He hurried over to the desk.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘It’s Sergeant Lampson, sir. He’s been stabbed. And one of the constables who was with him is dead, throat slashed.’

  Coburg stared at him, then demanded urgently. ‘What about Ted?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir. He was just about alive when they took him to the hospital, but he was in a very bad way. They reckon it’s touch and go.’

  ‘What about the other constable?’

  ‘He’s downstairs, sir, in the medical room, being sewn up. Superficial knife injuries, the doc says.’

  ‘Which hospital was Ted taken to?’

  ‘St Thomas’s.’

  ‘The constable who’s being sewn up, what’s his name?’ he asked.

  ‘Andrews, sir. Pete Andrews.’

  Coburg nodded and headed for the medical room. PC Pete Andrews was stripped to the waist, his wounds being stitched by a nurse.

  ‘DCI Coburg,’ he said to the nurse. ‘Can I talk to your patient?’

  She nodded and continued with her needlework, PC Andrews wincing as she pushed it through the flesh of his hands and arms.

  ‘What happened, Pete?’ asked Coburg.

  ‘We did all the right things, sir, by the book,’ Andrews told him. ‘Sergeant Lampson held his gun on him while PC Penny searched him. The suspect had his hands behind his head the whole time he was being searched, but there were no weapons on him. At least, that’s what we thought, so Sergeant Lampson put his pistol away and started to take out a pair of handcuffs, when the bloke pulls a knife from inside the collar of his shirt, at the back. Before we could move he’d sliced it across Dave Penny’s throat, then stabbed Sergeant Lampson. It went right into his chest. I tried to stop the prisoner, but he slashed at me and then ran. I was going to go after him, but I thought it was more important to see if I could save Sergeant Lampson.’

  ‘You did the right thing,’ said Coburg.

  As Coburg headed for the door, PC Andrews called after him: ‘Will Sergeant Lampson be all right, sir?’

  ‘That’s what I’m going to try and find out,’ said Coburg.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Coburg drove to St Thomas’s Hospital, where initially he received a rather frosty reception from a staff nurse and was told that visiting hours were strictly enforced, until he produced his warrant card and identified himself as a detective chief inspector from Scotland Yard, the immediate superior of Sergeant Edward Lampson who had been admitted to the hospital with serious knife wounds sustained in an attack, which the police were investigating. At this, her attitude changed.

  ‘I’m sorry if I seemed officious,’ she apologised, ‘but we have a great many people being brought in, especially from some areas of Kent where the local hospitals are being overwhelmed.’

  ‘I undestand,’ said Coburg. ‘But I would be grateful if you could let me know what Sergeant Lampson’s chances are.’

  Her hesitation gave Coburg his answer.

  ‘Look, I know how protocol works,’ he said. ‘As a detective chief inspector, we also have to stick to the rules and regulations. But if you’re not allowed to tell me, I’d be grateful if you could find someone who can. Sergeant Lampson and I have worked closely together for some years. He’s more than a colleague, he’s a friend, and I want to know whether I’m looking for his assailant or his murderer.’

  ‘At the moment, it’s too early to say,’ she told him. ‘He was brought in and taken immediately to the operating theatre, where he’s undergoing surgery as we speak. His injuries were very serious. I understand he could be in theatre for some time. If you’d like to leave your telephone number, I’ll do my best to get someone to phone as soon as he’s out of surgery.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Coburg. He gave her his extension at Scotland Yard, and his home telephone number. ‘And, if you don’t mind, I’ll return later, in case there’s any news.’

  His next visit was to Lampson’s parents’ house in Somers Town. Mr and Mrs Lampson were surprised, and also worried, to see Coburg, who they’d met a few times before.

  ‘What’s happened?’ asked Mr Lampson as they ushered him to the parlour, the front room that was never used except for special guests.

  ‘Is Terry around?’ asked Coburg.

  ‘Terry!’ exploded Mr Lampson angrily. ‘Is this about something he’s been up to? He’s getting out of control with that gang he hangs around with!’

  ‘No, nothing like that,’ Coburg reassured them. ‘I just wanted to know if he was here.’

  ‘No. He’s out with his mates.’

  ‘In that case, I’ve come to tell you there’s been a … bad situation.’

  ‘Ted’s not dead!’ gasped Mrs Lampson urgently, and she grabbed her husband’s hand.

  ‘No,’ said Coburg quickly. ‘No, he’s not dead, but he’s been injured.’

  ‘How?’ asked Mr Lampson.

  ‘He went to bring in a man for questioning, and the man stabbed him. He’s at St Thomas’s hospital, being operated on right at this moment.’

  ‘How is he?’ asked Mr Lampson.

  ‘Is he going to live?’ pleaded Mrs Lampson.

  Coburg hesitated, then said: ‘I have to say I don’t know how badly he was hurt. I wasn’t with him when it happened. I only heard about it when I got back to the Yard. I’ve just come from the hospital and they couldn’t tell me anything except the fact that he was being operated on. I’ve asked them to contact me as soon as he’s out of surgery, and when I hear I promise I’ll come and tell you what I know.’

  Mrs Lampson began to cry. ‘First my sister, now this!’

  ‘St Thomas’s is one of the very best hospitals in the country,’ said Coburg. ‘If anyone can help him recover, they can.’

  The couple nodded, Mr Lampson with his arm around his wife as she struggled to stop crying.

  ‘Thank you for coming, Chief Inspector,’ said Mr Lampson.

  ‘I’ll be back as soon as I know anything.’ Coburg promised them.

  He left the Lampsons and made his way to Paddington and the home of PC Penny. Unlike with Mr and Mrs Lampson, he didn’t know any of Penny’s family, or whether the constable had been married. As it turned out he’d been single but engaged to be married. Coburg was told this by Penny’s mother in between her tears as she sat on the sofa in their living room in a state of shock and then painful misery, while PC Penny’s father – himself a former policeman – watched impassively. Mr
Penny walked him to the front door after Coburg felt there was little more he could add.

  ‘Thank you for coming to inform us personally, sir,’ said Mr Penny. ‘In the old days the best you could hope for was a visit from the station sergeant, but even that was a rarity.’

  ‘Your son was a brave man who died doing his duty,’ said Coburg. ‘My calling to let you know was the very least I could do. He deserved better, and I promise you I’ll track down the man who did it and bring him to justice. Once again, Mr Penny, my deepest sympathies to you and your wife, and your son’s fiancée.’

  On his return to Scotland Yard, the first thing Coburg did was set in motion a mass search for Anton Xhemel, making sure the photograph of the wanted man and his description was circulated to every police station. Then he telephoned Sir Vincent Blessington at the Foreign Office.

  ‘We’ve identified the man who committed the murders at the Ritz,’ he told him. ‘He’s Anton Xhemel, an Albanian. Unfortunately, when my sergeant and two constables went to his address to bring him in for questioning, he attacked them. One of the constables is dead and my sergeant was seriously injured. They’re not sure if he’s going to survive.’

  ‘My God!’ said Blessington. ‘Is there anything I can do?’

  ‘There may be,’ said Coburg. ‘Would you come with me to see Inspector Hibbert at MI5? My hope is that if we pool our knowledge we might be able to work out where he’s lying low. There’s a police search on for him, but the longer it goes on, the more chance there is he’ll get away. I want to bring him in now, within the next few hours.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Blessington. ‘Have you spoken to Inspector Hibbert about this?’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Coburg. ‘I wanted to check with you first. I’m going to call him now.’

  ‘In that case, give me a while to make some phone calls. I was supposed to be meeting some people, so I need to rearrange that. Then I’ll meet you at Hibbert’s office. He’s still at Wormwood Scrubs, I assume.’