“It must be quite a burden.” What if Jouveau had been injured or killed during an air raid? A far likelier scenario thanthe one blackening Hugh’s thoughts. And yet ... “Might I speak to your detective inspector?”
Annoyance sparked in the man’s broad face.
Hugh made a show of tucking his BBC card back into his breast pocket. “For a story?”
The spark transformed to a sparkle. “Of course. Right this way.”
He led Hugh down a bustling hallway into an office. A middle-aged man in a brown suit sat behind a desk teeming with paperwork.
“DI Clyde?” the constable said. “This is Hugh Collingwood with the BBC. He’d like—”
“I don’t have time for the press.” DI Clyde flopped back in his chair and ran his hand into fair hair in need of a trim. “Make an appointment.”
“I won’t take but a moment.” Hugh held his hat before his stomach in a penitent pose. “A friend of mine is missing, and it might be connected to the murder of Elliott Hastings.”
“The MP?” The detective inspector sat forward.
“Mr. Collingwood filed a missing person’s report.” The constable presented it to the DI.
Clyde read it, then sighed. “François Jouveau. A Soho address.”
“Yes, sir,” Hugh said even as he tensed at the loss of interest. “He’s a reporter for the BBC European Services. A few months ago, he broadcast an interview with Mr. Hastings, in which the MP inadvertently mentioned the departure date of a ship repatriating French troops. The ship was sunk. The police are convinced the murderer is French, but Jouveau disagreed. The last time I saw Jouveau, he had an appointment that evening, in which he expected to solve the murder.”
The detective inspector rolled a pencil on the desk. “Who was he meeting?”
“I don’t know. It was a scoop. We reporters can be rather secretive about such matters.”
“That isn’t much of a lead.”
Hugh measured his next words. “I believe the case has to do with censorship.”
“Censorship?” DI Clyde drew back his square chin.
“Both Mr. Hastings and Mr. Jouveau were known for speaking somewhat brashly and critically. They each had enemies in the Ministry of Information and the BBC.”
“Censorship isn’t much of a motive for murder.” He slid the report aside on his desk. “The Hastings case is outside my constabulary, but I’ll look into Jouveau’s case. Good day, Mr. Collingwood.”
Hugh swallowed his disappointment. “Thank you for your time, Inspector.”
He followed the constable back to the front desk. Hugh had failed to convince the man, and the case of one missing refugee would be of little importance in a city reeling from air raids.
Outside, the haze had thickened into fog, blurring the damaged buildings into gray.
Perhaps he should have mentioned his suspicions, but they seemed circumstantial.
Albert Ridley had almost come to blows with Uncle Elliott and had been furious with Jouveau for professional indiscretion and for allegedly flirting with his wife. Except Ridley was in London the day of Uncle Elliott’s murder.
Gil had been in the country that day, and he’d argued with Jouveau the night before the Frenchman disappeared.
What about Fletcher? Perhaps Hugh shouldn’t have dismissed him as a suspect. The police had cause to question him, Uncle Elliott had pressed the BBC to fire him, and Ridley had unfairly criticized him for Jouveau’s reporting. And hadn’t Fletcher ordered Jouveau to drop the story?
Why would he do so?
Fog pressed around Hugh, cold and clammy.
Censorship was indeed motive for murder.
21
