Murder at Down Street Station by Jim Eldridge

Author:Jim Eldridge
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Allison & Busby
Published: 2023-08-15T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Lampson called at the offices of the Daily Globe, showed his warrant card to the receptionist, and asked, ‘Do you have a photograph of Bert Marsh? Your reporter who was murdered?’

‘Yes. We keep photos of all our regular reporters because sometimes we use them to let readers see who’s reporting their news. Readers like to see who they are.’

‘Can you let me have a copy of his photo? I promise I’ll bring it back.’

‘That’s alright, we’ve got some spare. We do that because sometimes fans want a signed photo of their favourite journalist.’

She left the desk and returned a few moments later with a photograph of Bert Marsh, which she handed to Lampson.

‘Thanks,’ said Lampson.

‘Have you any idea who did it?’ asked the receptionist. ‘Killed him?’

‘We’re still looking into it. But this will be a great help. I’m hoping it might even lead us to his killer.’

Lampson returned to the street where Betty Meadows lived, but instead of calling on her, he knocked at the door of the neighbouring house. A short, elderly lady in her sixties looked out at him. ‘Yes?’ she asked.

Lampson showed her his warrant card and introduced himself.

‘Scotland Yard,’ she said, impressed. ‘Well well! What’s it about?’

‘We’re looking into a man who’s vanished, and we’re checking the local area.’

‘Who is he? Would I know him?’

‘Albert Smith,’ lied Lampson glibly. He produced the photo of Bert Marsh and offered it to the woman. She took it and studied it thoughtfully. ‘I’ve seen him, but not for a while. It was a few weeks ago. He used to call on Betty next door.’

‘Was he a regular caller?’

The woman thought about it. ‘I saw him knocking at her door about four or five times, and they’d go out together. I don’t know where they went.’ She grinned. ‘He even stayed over a couple of nights.’ She gave a smile as she added, ‘But then she’s a widow and life is short these days, so you can’t condemn her. People have to find comfort where they can. And I thought it was nice for her to meet someone she got along with, after that misery of a husband of hers.’

‘Her husband?’

‘Yes. He was in the navy. He was killed when his ship was sunk. Miserable git, he was.’

‘What did he look like?’

‘Paul? Short, thin, with a face like a weasel. Never smiled.’

‘So he didn’t look like this bloke?’ asked Lampson, pointing at the photograph.

‘Paul?’ The woman chuckled. ‘That rat. No. Far from it. Like I said, he was short and thin. This bloke was big and cheerful.’

Coburg and Lampson sat in their office and reported on their experiences of talking to the different people on their lists.

‘The most interesting was my call on Lady Deirdre Pitstone,’ said Coburg.

‘A toff, eh.’ Lampson smiled. ‘In what way, interesting?’

‘She was drunk,’ said Coburg.

‘At that time of day?’ said Lampson, scandalised.

‘To a true alcoholic there is no separate time of day for a glass or two. Or ten.’

‘Let me guess, she came on to you?’

Coburg shook his head.

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