Authors: Laura Wilson
Stratton's War (11 page)
‘The manager wasn’t very happy, but I’m not on show to the public, so . . .’ Joe shrugged. ‘I was worried about going to the flat - I didn’t really think they’d be there, but all the same . . . I just tidied up a bit, and packed a few things, and then I came here.’
‘So, was anything missing?’
‘There was one thing - it seemed a bit odd, and at first I thought maybe I’d just missed it, you know, it had gone under the bed or something, but I looked everywhere, and I couldn’t find it. A photograph of Mabel when she was a star. She had it in a frame, on the mantelpiece.’
‘Perhaps they were film fans. But that wasn’t what they came for, was it?’
‘No. I don’t know what they wanted. I swear it.’
‘I believe you,’ said Stratton. ‘Now then, suppose you tell me what this pair looked like?’
‘One of them was tall, with a big scar on his face, here,’ he ran one finger down his right cheek, ‘He was wearing a hat, so I couldn’t see his hair, but he was quite dark, and big. Bulky. He had a dark blue suit, and a dark tie, black shoes, gloves - both of them had gloves.’
‘How old would you say he was?’
‘About thirty. The other one was younger - more like a boy. Seventeen or eighteen, maybe. He was wearing a suit, too, similar sort of colour . . . brown hair, quite a pale face with freckles. I saw them when he was bending over me.’
‘What did they sound like?’
‘Ordinary. Londoners. Bit Cockney - like me, I suppose. They didn’t shout or anything, just hit me. That was mainly the big one. The other one was watching.’
‘The big one you told me about, with the scar. What did he smell like?’
‘Well . . .’ Joe hesitated. ‘Not very good.’
‘Needed a spot of Lifebuoy soap, did he?’
Joe’s face broke into a grin. ‘You can say that again. Why, do you know him?’
‘Yes.’ Stratton returned his notebook to his pocket. ‘I do.’
ELEVEN
George Wallace. Great gorilla of a man with a razor scar down one side of his face, and he ponged, all right. None of the tarts in Soho would touch him, even for extra money, and Stratton didn’t blame them. But what did a man like Wallace want with Joe? Wallace did most of his work for Abie Marks, the Yiddisher gang boss, but there was no reason why Abie . . . All right, he could get a bit sentimental when he’d had a few, everyone knew that, but Stratton honestly couldn’t picture him as the sort who’d go to such lengths just to steal an old photograph of a forgotten screen star, however beautiful she’d been. He was pretty sure Joe wasn’t lying when he said he didn’t know why he’d been beaten up, and it obviously wasn’t to do with being queer, or his attackers would have said so. Stratton had occasionally wondered if Abie wasn’t a bit that way himself. True, he was never seen without a well-dressed girl on his arm, but there were a lot of boys around him, too: cocky young toughs from the ring or the gym, and pretty, feral slum boys who’d turn their hands to anything (or anyone) for a bit of cash. Joe didn’t fit either of those types. And, Stratton thought, even if he had been excited by the apparent glamour of Marks’s world, Beryl would certainly have had something to say about such undesirable company. Remembering how the brother and sister stood together at the head of the stairs, waving him off, Beryl’s arm round Joe’s waist, Stratton thought: she’ll see he’s all right . . .
Funny, neither of them had commented on the unusual timing of his visit - almost as if they’d been expecting it. Or expecting something, anyway. Can’t blame the poor bloke for not wanting to talk to the police, thought Stratton. Given that advancement usually depended on the number of convictions a young officer could get, and that it was, on the whole, far easier to arrest a homosexual than a burglar, men like Joe knew jolly well that both their freedom and their reputation depended on keeping as low a profile as possible. Walking back up Theobald’s Road, Stratton checked his watch and decided that there was just time to look in on Mrs Cope before he caught a bus back to Tottenham. If she was no help, maybe he could speak to the other lodgers, but he’d have to make it quick . . .
Stratton stopped outside Goodge Street station to consult his notebook - Stockley and Rogers - before turning down Howland Street and then right, into the tangle of narrower streets that surrounded Fitzroy Square. Being Sunday morning, it was quiet - no businessmen, civil servants, flannelled men from the BBC, or posturing Bohemians - just a few elderly locals. Despite the June sunlight, the tall brick houses, closed shops and shuttered pubs looked drab and neglected. There was a faint odour of piss and fried food in the air; newspapers, spent cigarettes and broken bottles littered the pavement, and a couple of torn ARP posters stirred in the light breeze. On one corner, a black beret hung from a spike, as if its owner had, in a moment of drunken confusion, mistaken the railings for a hat stand. The whole thing gave Stratton the eerie feeling of a revel suddenly abandoned in the face of some approaching cataclysm, and he had a vision of the inhabitants of the slovenly houses slumped, lifeless, over their pots and dinner plates and basins, death having taken them on the instant, leaving them blue-faced, with wide open eyes and mouths and vomit on their chins . . . Would it be like that? Stratton glanced at his gas mask case. As a police officer, he carried it to set an example, but a lot of people didn’t bother. God help us all, he thought.
It soon became clear that Mrs Cope hadn’t let the two men in. ‘No, I wouldn’t, not unless Mr Vincent told me they was coming, which he didn’t, but even then you don’t know who it is, do you? Might be anyone. Might be a fifth column, you know,’ - she lowered her voice, ‘spying for the Germans. What did these people want with Mr Vincent?’ she asked. ‘Is he all right? I’d never forgive myself if anything had happened to him.’
After Stratton had reassured her that nothing had happened to Joe, and that she could, indeed, forgive herself - which she seemed to do remarkably quickly - Mrs Cope responded to his suggestion that they start at the top and escorted him two flights up the dingy stairwell to Mr Rogers’ rooms. Stratton was surprised that she waddled back down the stairs the moment his knock was answered, but soon wished he’d been able to follow her. Rogers was a small, plump and self-important man who said he had been out on Monday evening, but proceeded to give full vent to his theories about crime and delinquency, interspersing them with phrases like ‘It’s not for me to tell you how to do your job’ (too fucking right, thought Stratton).
After about five minutes of this, Stratton decided he’d put up with quite enough fanny for one morning, and he didn’t want to annoy Jenny by being late for lunch. He terminated the conversation and went down to the next landing in search of Mr Stockley, who was, in exaggerated contrast to his neighbour, tall, thin, and lugubrious. He came to the door in his shirtsleeves, and answered Stratton’s questions in monosyllables. No, he hadn’t seen any men on Monday, or let anyone into the house, and no, he hadn’t heard anything. ‘What were you doing?’ asked Stratton.
‘Playing my gramophone records.’ He glanced over the banisters before adding, sotto voce, with the air of one confessing a guilty secret, ‘Mahler.’
‘Oh.’ Stockley stared at him expectantly, and, feeling that some additional response was called for, Stratton tapped the side of his nose. ‘I shan’t tell anyone.’
On his way to the bus stop, Stratton reflected that, although both men had answered his questions, neither had shown any interest in why he was asking them in the first place. Clearly, they didn’t know Joe well. Stratton felt positive that if Rogers had been aware of his fellow lodger’s inclinations there would have been a lot more metaphorical digs in the ribs, but he supposed that the man was far too wrapped up in his own opinions to be pricked by curiosity. Stockley, on the other hand, was just relieved to get Mahler - who was, presumably, German, or at least Austrian - off his chest.
Fingerprints were pretty unlikely - Joe had said that Wallace and his chum were wearing gloves. And in any case, what with the gang murder and the jewel thieves taking up most of his time, his guv’nor DCI Lamb would bollock him from here to kingdom come if he discovered that precious working hours were being spent on something else. Especially if that something was - and Stratton could almost hear him say it - a confirmed suicide and a roughed-up bum-boy. All the same, he’d have a word with George Wallace tomorrow. The billiard hall in Wardour Street, or maybe the boozer up by the corner . . . Wallace wouldn’t have gone far.
Stratton just made it back in time for lunch. Donald, opening the door, grimaced and muttered, ‘Thank God you’re here. He hasn’t stopped.’ Stratton arrived in the kitchen to find Reg in the middle of a typical Sunday lunch performance, getting in the women’s way and hamming it up at every opportunity, before finally, when the baked apples appeared, breaking into song in what he imagined was the accent of Stratton’s childhood, accompanying himself by banging his spoon and fork on the table:
‘Puddin’! Puddin’! Puddin’!
Gi’ me plenty o’puddin’,
So pass me plate,
And don’t be late,
And pile it up wi’ puddin’!’
As usual, everyone ignored this and concentrated on handing round bowls and scraping the last of the rather watery custard from the jug. Up to that point, Stratton had felt too distracted by what Joe Vincent had told him to want to punch Reg more than about three times - which was several times fewer than average. Now, he glanced across at Johnny and saw, on the boy’s face, a snarl of undisguised hatred directed towards his father.
It had occurred to Stratton more than once that Reg had acted the buffoon so much and so often that his real self was now hopelessly submerged beneath a heap of comic songs, yarn-telling and lofty pronouncements. When he looked at Johnny, it struck him that, although someone as fundamentally ridiculous as Reg could never be called tragic, the consequences for his son might well be exactly that. While this thought was hardly comforting, it did serve to take his mind off talking to George Wallace, which he wasn’t looking forward to in the least.
TWELVE
It was only the third time Diana had been inside Forbes-James’s flat. Apart from the functional and phenomenally untidy office in which they were sitting, it was a perfect example of Edwardian masculinity. There were sturdy objects in ivory, brass and wood, pigskin coverings, gold stampings and crests on every surface, yet it wasn’t quite a typical bachelor flat. Its hearty manliness was relieved by a painting of flowers and another - rather surprising, this - of boy bathers, as well as toile de Jouy, petit point, and a small collection of Sèvres porcelain. Diana supposed that these items must be contributions from his wife, a lady of almost mythical status who was thought to reside in the country. Forbes-James never spoke of her, displayed no photographs, and no-one Diana knew had ever seen her.
She was jerked out of her reverie when F-J asked, ‘What do you know about Lord Redesdale?’ He took a cigarette out of his case and tapped it, waiting for her answer.
Diana collected her thoughts, thankful that she had done her homework thoroughly before meeting Mrs Montague. ‘Lord Redesdale’s acquainted with Montague. He’s a member of the Anglo-German fellowship with Domvile, the Duke of Wellington and Lord Londonderry. His daughter, Unity Mitford, was friends with Hitler, and Redesdale and his wife met him on several occasions. Unity tried to commit suicide when war broke out and the family brought her home.’
‘Good, good,’ said Forbes-James distractedly, shuffling things on his desk.
‘It’s here, sir.’ Diana pulled the silver table lighter from beneath a sheaf of papers and handed it over.
‘Thank you. Don’t know why she has to keep moving it about.’ He lit the cigarette and glared in the direction of the wall behind which Margot Mentmore, the telephonist, was sitting in her cubbyhole. ‘And?’
‘Well, I wouldn’t have thought he was dangerous, just misguided, like a lot of those people, but surely Montague is dangerous, and I don’t understand why he’s not in prison, Sir.’
‘The usual reasons.’
‘But Mosley—’
‘I know. We wanted the lot of them, but there you are. The people’s elected representatives . . .’ He sighed. ‘Can’t keep packing them off to Brixton. Looks bad.’
‘But surely it doesn’t matter what it looks like! I mean, now that they’ve changed the law, surely—’
Forbes-James held up a hand to stop her. ‘Defence Regulation 18B (1A),’ he quoted, wearily, ‘states that members of hostile organisations may now be arrested if they are likely to endanger public safety, the prosecution of the war and the defence of the realm, yes. However, as I believe I told you, there was a great deal of fuss when they tried bringing it in at the beginning of the war, which is why it was modified so that we were only able to detain those of hostile origin or associations and those involved in acts prejudicial to public safety, etcetera. It’s taken a lot of time and effort on our part to convince the Cabinet that wider powers are necessary. Rounding up Mosley and a bunch of pro-fascist East Enders is one thing, but we can’t keep frog-marching people off to gaol if we don’t like the look of them.’
‘Especially people in high places.’
‘Exactly. Makes a bad impression. Alarm, despondency and all the rest of it. People have to be able to trust, especially now . . . Anyway, what about this afternoon? How did it go?’
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