‘Yes,’ said Chatfield, offering a rare compliment. ‘I thought you handled them very well.’ He added a caveat. ‘Though there was no need to be quite so friendly towards them.’
‘We need the press on our side, sir. We should never antagonise them.’
Chatfield bridled. ‘Are you suggesting that that’s what I did?’
‘Of course not — you’ve had far too much experience.’
‘I certainly have.’
He inflated his chest and pulled himself upright. Marmion waited while the superintendent struck a pose, lost in thought about what he considered to be the triumphs in his career, the latest of which was his promotion to a higher rank. He seemed to have forgotten that anyone else was there. When he finally noticed Marmion, he snapped his fingers.
‘I’ve been remiss,’ he confessed. ‘Do forgive me. Not long before you came, there was a telephone call for you.’
‘Did anyone leave a message?’
‘It was Sergeant Keedy.’
‘Then he probably yawned down the line at you,’ said Marmion.
‘On the contrary, Inspector — he sounded almost chirpy. As a result of an incident during the night, he’s made an arrest. It’s a man who was caught trying to paint something on a wall.’
‘Why did you do it?’
‘Somebody had to, Sergeant.’
‘Did you know Cyril Ablatt?’
‘I knew of him — that was enough.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘My wife uses the library. She saw him there lots of times and heard him arguing with people about why he didn’t join the army.’
‘How did you know where he lived?’
‘I followed him one evening.’
‘And is that all you did, Mr Gill?’
‘You know it isn’t. I let everyone know what sort of person he was.’
‘Forget your antics with the paintbrush,’ said Keedy. ‘I’m wondering if you followed him when he came back from a meeting in Bishopsgate. I’m wondering if you decided that calling him names on a brick wall wasn’t enough so you killed him out of hatred for his beliefs.’
‘No!’ exclaimed Gill. ‘I never touched him. I swear it.’
‘What were you doing on the evening before last?’
‘I was at home with my wife and my son. You can ask them.’
‘I’ll make a point of doing that.’
‘I never went anywhere near Ablatt,’ said Gill, squirming.
‘Did you go out at any stage during the evening?’
‘Only for an hour — I went out for a drink.’
‘Which pub would that be?’
‘The Weavers.’
‘That’s very close to where the body was found.’
‘So?’
‘Are you sure that you didn’t go into the pub to get some Dutch courage to commit murder?’ asked Keedy. ‘You don’t look like the sort of person who’d have the nerve to do it otherwise.’
Gill was desperate. ‘All I did was to have a pint of beer,’ he said, shifting uneasily in his chair. ‘Talk to Stan Crowther, the landlord at the Weavers. He’ll tell you how long I was there. I had a drink, played a game of darts with Horrie Waldron, then left. I was back home by nine. My wife will confirm that.’
Keedy could see that he was telling the truth. Robbie Gill was not the killer. Since the body was dumped in the lane much later than nine o’clock, he could not have put it there. On the other hand, the fact that he knew the gravedigger raised the possibility that he might somehow have been party to the murder. Gill could not be removed entirely from the list of suspects.
They were in a cold, featureless room at Shoreditch police station. Gill sat on the opposite side of the table from Keedy. When he greeted the sergeant at his front door, he was almost pugnacious, but the arrest had sobered him. A plumber by trade, Gill had the shifty look of someone who never expected to be caught. He saw what he was doing as a public duty, exposing a conscientious objector who had the gall to try to justify his position. Every time he heard about Ablatt pontificating at the library, he felt a simmering disgust and felt impelled to strike at him somehow.
‘What were you going to paint?’ asked Keedy.
Gill glared at him. ‘Does it matter now?’
‘I’d like to know.’
‘I was going to add two words — “good riddance”.’
‘Was that a kind thing to do, Mr Gill?’
‘That yellow-bellied conchie deserved it!’
‘Did his father deserve it?’ asked Keedy. ‘He didn’t agree with what his son was doing. Did his aunt deserve it? She’s not a conscientious objector. Mrs Dalley is simply a heartbroken woman who’s lost someone she loved. Then there’s Cyril Ablatt’s uncle. When we picked him up at his forge yesterday, he told us quite openly that his nephew should have gone into the army. All three of them were in that house yesterday, mourning the death of a murder victim. Did you think it would help them in their bereavement if you taunted them with your jibe?’
‘If you’re trying to make me feel sorry,’ said Gill, recovering something of his confidence, ‘then you’re wasting your time. I’d do the same thing again.’
‘You won’t get the chance.’
‘Everyone in the Weavers thinks the same as me — conchies are scum.’
‘But they don’t all sneak out at night and deface someone else’s property, do they? That’s a criminal offence, Mr Gill.’ Keedy sat back and appraised him. ‘Do you know what I think?’
‘What?’
‘I think that I’ll send a policeman to your house to check your alibi. We’ll find out if you really were there, as you claim, at the time in question. We’ll also discover if your wife approves of what you do with a tin of paint in the middle of the night.’ He saw the sweat break out on the other man’s brow. ‘I can’t believe that Mrs Gill would be proud of a husband who did what you did.’
‘Keep my wife out of this!’
‘It was you who wanted to call her as a witness.’
‘I acted on my own. Mabel wasn’t involved in any way.’
‘Indirectly, she was,’ noted Keedy. ‘It was her visits to the library that drew your attention to Cyril Ablatt. My guess is that you probably asked her to find out as much about him as she could.’ Gill’s forehead was now glistening. ‘To some extent, Mrs Gill aided and abetted you.’
The plumber winced. He had set out during the night to assuage his hatred of a conscientious objector by leaving a taunt in large letters on the side of his house. Gill had not only been violently attacked, he was now under arrest and being accused of murder. The thought that his wife would be questioned by the police when he was not there to control her answers made him quiver.
‘Do you know what you should do?’ asked Keedy. ‘If you have a shred of decency, you should apologise to Mr Ablatt then paint over those words on the wall of his house. But you’re not going to do that, are you?’
Gill folded his arms in token defiance. ‘No, I’m not.’
‘Mr Ablatt will be told about your arrest and he’ll see the report about you in the newspaper. If he needs a plumber, I don’t think he’ll be turning to you somehow.’
Gerald Ablatt had slept only fitfully during the night and was up before dawn. After a breakfast of toast and tea, he went into his son’s bedroom and gazed at all the books. They symbolised the education that a caring father had provided by working overtime at his shop. Ablatt had grave misgivings about that education now. Had his son become a blacksmith or even taken up his father’s trade, he might well be alive now. He slammed the door shut and went downstairs. Joe Keedy had paid a surprise visit to the house but Ablatt was too preoccupied to take in everything he said. He thanked the detective without quite knowing what he’d achieved. Ablatt brooded on the news after Keedy left. It was still relatively early when Jack Dalley brought his wife. Nancy felt that she had to be with her brother so that they could share their sorrow. As soon as they met, they embraced warmly and she began to weep.
‘I’ll stay for a while,’ offered Dalley, ‘but I have to get over to the forge at some point. Perce can’t do everything on his own.’
‘Go when you need to, Jack,’ said Ablatt. ‘I’ll look after Nancy.’