War Damage by Elizabeth Wilson

anyway.’
    â€˜Why did they dash round to Buckingham’s house like a couple of electric rabbits when the gate goes up?’
    â€˜To get hold of the will? He’s the executor.’
    â€˜That’s what he says . Tearing round like that – it looks suspicious. And now it turns out there isn’t a will, and he isn’t the executor! Very fishy. Did he just cook up the story as some kind of explanation? And why? What were they bothered about? Possibly they wanted to get their hands on something – incriminating material – the dead man was a criminal himself, remember. Don’t ever forget that. Everything about his private life was against the law. There may have been letters – we may get wind of others like him – a whole network of perverts. They may have suppressed all kinds of evidence. Have you thought of that?’
    Murray hadn’t.
    â€˜The dead man was a photographer, wasn’t he. Maybe some of the pictures he took weren’t just portraits and ballet. The prints we looked through were harmless enough, but that doesn’t prove anything. That one in his bedroom, for instance. Now why would a flaming pervert have a photo like that in his bedroom?’
    Murray felt he was going red. ‘It was just a portrait,’ he said. ‘You’re not suggesting—’
    â€˜I’m not suggesting anything. But there is something I don’t quite like about it all. A queer’s shot dead. His wallet’s stolen, only it isn’t. The Milners rush round to his house. No signs of disturbance, but no sign of a will either. Photographs missing – and an address book. That says blackmail to me – bearing in mind his private life. Nothing else stolen, so far as we know, although there were plenty of valuables. And what about Milner just happening to meet him by accident? I think he was keeping something back. What was all that about?’
    Murray shook his head. ‘D’you think he was trying to cast suspicion on someone else? After all, what was he doing wandering about at that time – more or less the time of the murder?’
    Plumer nodded. ‘We need to find out more about that lot. Where’s the list then?’
    Murray brought it out, unfolded it and spread it on the low table in front of them. ‘I’ll check their backgrounds, sir. The name Alan Wentworth strikes a chord. I think he was mixed up in that trial where some commie was up for murder; got off on appeal earlier this year. You remember the case. I’ll have a word with a chap I know in Special Branch. I have a feeling the name was Wentworth – bit of a fellow traveller before the war. But there can’t be anything suspicious about him now. She’s put down here he works for the BBC.’
    â€˜All these long-haired, arty Hampstead types, don’t trust any of ’em. The BBC’s full of pinks and pansies. Keep away from Special Branch too, we don’t want them poking their noses in.’
    â€˜Yes, sir.’ He hesitated. ‘They’ve no reason to, though, have they?’
    â€˜I’m just saying, on principle.’ As they went down the list, Plumer seemed disappointed that the Milners’ guest list wasn’t more exciting. ‘It’s not politics we’re interested in, it’s blackmail,’ he said. ‘With a man of this kind, that’s what you always want to look out for.’
    â€˜But – if you’re suggesting the stiff was being blackmailed, shouldn’t he have been the killer, not the victim?’
    â€˜Perhaps that was the intention. Perhaps someone turned the tables on him. Blackmailers are a nasty breed, very nasty.’
    After a further round of bitter, they emerged into the chilly night. Scarves of mist gathered along the trees.
    As they drove away Plumer repeated: ‘Between ourselves, we’ve got a problem. The chief isn’t keen on having us upset a lot of