other hand he tried to manoeuvre a bucket into the line of fire. They waited in embarrassment for him to finish. The morgue attendant produced a glass of water which Harris knocked to the floor. “Don’ want no bloody water. Don’ wan’ nothin’ but fer you people to leave me alone. No ’uman dignity in there, is there? Jus’ a slab of meat. Poor lil’ Joanie.”
He’d seen plenty of dead bodies of course. Plenty of messy ones too. In the Somme he’d seen scores of men blown to smithereens by shells or shot to pieces. One of his best mates had had his head blown off right next to him. One second Archie was shaking his head with laughter at some awful joke Merlin had made and the next he had no head to shake. He’d seen all sorts of death in his years as a policeman – men and women strangled, knifed, poisoned, battered to death. From the physical viewpoint, as bodies went, Joan Harris’ wasn’t too awful – the ravages of a few days in the river, some bruises and now of course the stitched-up incisions of a pathologist. Even so, it never got any easier, and the young ones were the most upsetting, however damaged. Most upsetting of all, of course, was Alice’s. She’d lost weight but in fact she hadn’t looked that bad at the end. A good-looking corpse, if there was such a thing.
Merlin shook his head, slapped his left hand with his right and refocused on his plate. He gazed unenthusiastically at his meat and veg. His appetite had disappeared. The Sergeant, however, seemed to have had few difficulties with his steak and kidney pudding and was now polishing off a large piece of treacle tart, oblivious to his boss’s self-flagellation. Merlin took a deep breath.
“So what do we know about this poor woman, Joan Harris? A nice, cheerful, country girl, betters herself by taking a secretarial course and elocution lessons. Escapes a poor country family. Obtains what, for her, must have been a very exciting job with the American Ambassador, which she gets just after Mr Kennedy takes up his post in, er, when was that?”
“March nineteen thirty-eight, sir.”
“Right. And despite her humble background, she turns out to be a star turn of a secretary. A Paganini of the typewriter in fact.”
“Paga – who sir?”
“A virtuoso violinist, Sam. Never mind. Anyway, she lives in what I guess are modest lodgings in Hammersmith.”
“Yes, sir.” Bridges finished off the last piece of tart and sighed with satisfaction.
“She’s sociable. She’s pretty ‘in a common sort of way’, as Miss Edgar puts it. I’d be surprised if she didn’t have a boyfriend or boyfriends. Being good at her job, senior Embassy officials request her specifically for typing work, and she’s fully cleared in security terms, so will no doubt have seen a lot of confidential stuff.”
“Think there’s a security angle here?”
“The girl must have had access to some very interesting information. Information that people might pay a lot of money for, or information that people might be very unhappy to see revealed.”
The bear-like owner of the café moseyed up to the table. “I might have to charge you two gentlemen rent, the amount of time you’re spending in my place. You need anything else, no?”
Tony bent to mop the table, brushing remnants of the day’s food into Bridges’ lap.
“Hey!”
“Sorry, Mr Sam. I give you two teas on the house. Is alright?”
“Another time, thanks.”
Merlin started to make notes. “Johnny Morgan. He should be useful. Bit of a ladies’ man, I should think. He could help us as regards Joan Harris’ love life, as could her friend Kathleen Donovan. We’ll need to interview all Miss Harris’ colleagues in the typing pool and any other work friends we identify. Also the people she worked for.”
“All of them?”
“Let’s make it simpler for ourselves to begin with and just identify the ones who particularly requested her services. That Norton chap for a start. He seemed a
He’d seen plenty of dead bodies of course. Plenty of messy ones too. In the Somme he’d seen scores of men blown to smithereens by shells or shot to pieces. One of his best mates had had his head blown off right next to him. One second Archie was shaking his head with laughter at some awful joke Merlin had made and the next he had no head to shake. He’d seen all sorts of death in his years as a policeman – men and women strangled, knifed, poisoned, battered to death. From the physical viewpoint, as bodies went, Joan Harris’ wasn’t too awful – the ravages of a few days in the river, some bruises and now of course the stitched-up incisions of a pathologist. Even so, it never got any easier, and the young ones were the most upsetting, however damaged. Most upsetting of all, of course, was Alice’s. She’d lost weight but in fact she hadn’t looked that bad at the end. A good-looking corpse, if there was such a thing.
Merlin shook his head, slapped his left hand with his right and refocused on his plate. He gazed unenthusiastically at his meat and veg. His appetite had disappeared. The Sergeant, however, seemed to have had few difficulties with his steak and kidney pudding and was now polishing off a large piece of treacle tart, oblivious to his boss’s self-flagellation. Merlin took a deep breath.
“So what do we know about this poor woman, Joan Harris? A nice, cheerful, country girl, betters herself by taking a secretarial course and elocution lessons. Escapes a poor country family. Obtains what, for her, must have been a very exciting job with the American Ambassador, which she gets just after Mr Kennedy takes up his post in, er, when was that?”
“March nineteen thirty-eight, sir.”
“Right. And despite her humble background, she turns out to be a star turn of a secretary. A Paganini of the typewriter in fact.”
“Paga – who sir?”
“A virtuoso violinist, Sam. Never mind. Anyway, she lives in what I guess are modest lodgings in Hammersmith.”
“Yes, sir.” Bridges finished off the last piece of tart and sighed with satisfaction.
“She’s sociable. She’s pretty ‘in a common sort of way’, as Miss Edgar puts it. I’d be surprised if she didn’t have a boyfriend or boyfriends. Being good at her job, senior Embassy officials request her specifically for typing work, and she’s fully cleared in security terms, so will no doubt have seen a lot of confidential stuff.”
“Think there’s a security angle here?”
“The girl must have had access to some very interesting information. Information that people might pay a lot of money for, or information that people might be very unhappy to see revealed.”
The bear-like owner of the café moseyed up to the table. “I might have to charge you two gentlemen rent, the amount of time you’re spending in my place. You need anything else, no?”
Tony bent to mop the table, brushing remnants of the day’s food into Bridges’ lap.
“Hey!”
“Sorry, Mr Sam. I give you two teas on the house. Is alright?”
“Another time, thanks.”
Merlin started to make notes. “Johnny Morgan. He should be useful. Bit of a ladies’ man, I should think. He could help us as regards Joan Harris’ love life, as could her friend Kathleen Donovan. We’ll need to interview all Miss Harris’ colleagues in the typing pool and any other work friends we identify. Also the people she worked for.”
“All of them?”
“Let’s make it simpler for ourselves to begin with and just identify the ones who particularly requested her services. That Norton chap for a start. He seemed a
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