Frankie's Letter - By Dolores Gordon-Smith Page 0,63

forward and make a grab at a woman, a Mrs Ollerenshaw, who screamed fit to bust. She thought she was being assaulted and so did a good few others. When he collapsed, everyone thought he’d been taken ill, Mrs Ollerenshaw wouldn’t stop screaming, the conductor was bellowing at everyone to clear the car and the platform and so on and, what with one thing and another, our man calmly turned on his heel and walked away without anyone lifting a finger to stop him. I’ve never come across anything like it. If he really is the same bloke who killed your Lieutenant Warren, the sooner we get our hands on him the better, but it’s going to be hard.’

‘Why?’ asked Anthony. ‘Why should it be especially hard, I mean?’

Superintendent Rothley looked at him morosely. ‘Think about it, sir. A man who can stand on a tram platform, gun down another and stroll away as cool as kiss-your-hand isn’t going to go shouting his mouth off in the pub about it or come and own up, which is how we usually get on the right track.’

The superintendent pulled a long face. ‘Add to that, I presume, because you gentlemen are involved, there’s something hush-hush about the whole affair.’ He tapped the briefcase. ‘I’ve brought all the evidence with me, as you requested. Do you want to look at it now?’

‘I’d rather see the body first,’ said Sir Charles.

‘Just as you like, Mr Monks.’

The attendant ushered them into the mortuary. They were silent as the sheet was pulled back from the body on the slab, then Anthony gave a gasp of surprise. ‘Good Lord, it’s the Weasel.’

Sir Charles looked at him sharply. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Certain.’

The bullet had gone through the back of his head but the face was unharmed. Anthony stared at the dead man. The jaw had fallen open and the upper lip curled away from his teeth in a weaselly snarl. He was unmistakable.

‘So you recognize him, Colonel?’ asked the superintendent, brightening.

‘He broke into my rooms.’

The superintendent nodded. ‘That ties in. He was a thief, all right, a real pro. He had a record as long as your arm.’ He stared at the figure on the slab. ‘I don’t know why he was mixed up with the likes of Lieutenant Warren’s killer. I wouldn’t have thought that was his cup of tea at all. He’s been found in possession of a firearm before now, but he’s never used one, to the best of our knowledge. Like most professional crooks, he avoided violence if he could.’

‘A lovable rogue, Superintendent?’ asked Anthony with a lift of his eyebrows.

Superintendent Rothley gave a snort of disagreement. ‘There was nothing lovable about Chapman, sir. Not on your life. He avoided violence because he was a sight too fond of his own skin. He’d do down a pal if he thought he’d get something out of it. He’s no great loss, that’s for sure.’

They went back into the anti room where they pulled up chairs to the table. The superintendent opened his briefcase and handed a cardboard folder to Sir Charles. ‘That’s a copy of Chapman’s record, sir, with a note of his last known address and associates.’

‘Did he have anything on him?’ Anthony asked. ‘Money, papers, that sort of thing?’

‘He had a few bits and pieces, including a watch, a box of matches and a packet of Woodbines and nearly five pounds in notes and loose change. That wasn’t much to shout about, but this was a bit out of the way.’ The superintendent reached in the briefcase once more and took out a cardboard-backed envelope.

Sir Charles opened it, took a photograph from the envelope. He stared at the photograph for a moment, then handed it to Anthony.

Anthony felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up as he recognized the photo.

It was a studio portrait of a little girl about five years old, the same child whose picture they’d found in Veronica O’Bryan’s room. Then she’d been holding a toy cat; now she had a doll. Anthony took the photograph and once again looked into the child’s solemn eyes. As before, an adult had written across the bottom of the picture. ‘To Mummy’.

‘Veronica O’Bryan,’ said Sir Charles softly. ‘It’s a link to Veronica O’Bryan.’

Superintendent Rothley looked at him enquiringly but Sir Charles didn’t explain. ‘It’s a puzzler, isn’t it?’ he said, putting the photograph back in the envelope. ‘I couldn’t figure out why Chapman had it on him. It was in that