Authors: Laura Wilson
Stratton's War (12 page)
‘I think I’m making some progress. I saw Mrs Montague again - Lally thinks she’s taken a shine to me, she insisted on paying for our tea - and we’ve made an arrangement to meet on Friday evening at her flat. She’s going to introduce me to some of her friends.’
‘Good. What did you talk about?’
‘Well, she wanted to know where I grew up, and that sort of thing, so that was easy enough, and she told me about her house in Fakenham and we talked about the country for a while, walks and things, and I said I was missing it, and how dreary it was to work in an office when one was used to being outdoors. And then I thought I might go a bit further, so I said I thought the war was spoiling everything. She was very sympathetic, so then I said something about it being a mistake not to have gone on appeasing Germany, because it would lead to disaster, and that it was all right if one felt that war was morally defensible, because then one could put up with things better, but I didn’t - you know the sort of thing . . . Lally was marvellous, saying I had common sense about politics, but keeping it all quite general, as you said.’
‘Excellent. What else?’
‘She mentioned Sir Neville Apse.’
‘Apse?’ Forbes-James looked surprised. ‘Miss Markham did?’
‘Not Lally, sir. Mrs Montague.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, I was talking about how dull it was at the War Office, and she suggested I ought to apply for a transfer to something a bit more interesting, so I pretended I didn’t know much about it, and said I thought it would just be more of the same - filing and so on - and that’s when his name came up.’
‘Does Montague know him?’
‘She didn’t say, sir. It was all pretty vague, and I thought I’d better not ask too many questions, but she said she’d heard he was in the thick of it - those were the words she used.’
‘What else did she say?’
‘Not much, sir. Just that as we were at war, we should all do our bit. You know, the usual.’
‘Yes . . .’ Forbes-James shuffled more papers.
‘May I ask what Sir Neville does, sir?’
‘That’s the odd thing. He’s part of this section, but he’s responsible for looking into reports of Fifth Columnists. Enemy agents and so on. Poppycock, mostly, but we have to check. Old ladies with spies under their beds, parachutists dressed as nuns . . .’
‘Why nuns?’ asked Diana.
‘God knows. Sinister, I suppose . . .’ He waved a hand at her. ‘You know . . . flapping. I can’t imagine why the woman thinks you’ll be any use to them there, but as she’s mentioned it, I’d better see if I can arrange a transfer. Come to think of it, might be quite useful for Apse to have a woman about the place . . . You’ll carry on reporting to me, of course, that shouldn’t present any problems. Apse has a flat across the garden in Frobisher House. Works there, and stays there during the week. I’ll have a word with him tonight, say I’m overstaffed.’
‘What’s he like?’
‘Not bad. Bit of a cold fish.’
‘You don’t think he’s pro-fascist, do you?’
‘Heavens, no. But if that’s where she wants you . . . When you see her on Friday, tell her you’ve been thinking about it and decided to apply for the transfer. You can come here afterwards and tell me how it went.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good. Splendid. Scotch?’
‘Thank you, sir.’
Forbes-James rose, brushing cigarette ash from his suit as he did so, and went over to the filing cabinet, where there was a tray with glasses and a decanter. ‘Soda?’
‘No thank you.’
‘Sensible girl. Come and sit on the sofa.’
‘I think I’d better tidy it first, sir.’
‘Good idea. You can put all those’ - he indicated a slew of bulging files, the partially disgorged contents of which were papering the cushions - ‘on the desk.’
‘I don’t think there’s room, sir.’
‘On the floor, then.’ He sighed as Diana picked up the bundles of paper and dumped them by the fireplace. ‘She’s supposed to tidy up, but she never does.’ Diana took this to refer to Margot the telephonist and said, ‘Do you ever give her the chance, sir?’
‘I suppose not. Oh, well . . .’ He settled himself on the sofa and handed over her glass. Diana took it, and sat down on the other end. ‘No, no,’ he said, irritably, patting the cushion next to his own. ‘I shan’t bite.’
‘No, sir.’ Diana moved nearer.
‘That’s better.’ She jumped as Forbes-James put a hand on her knee.
‘No need to behave like a virgin in a troop ship,’ he said crossly, taking it off again. ‘You’re quite safe with me.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Diana smoothed her skirt. ‘Of course. I’m sorry.’
‘However,’ Forbes-James continued, ‘I understand you met Claude Ventriss at Jock’s party.’ He stared at her.
‘Yes, I did.’ Diana hoped her voice sounded neutral.
‘Took you out to dinner, didn’t he?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Enjoy yourself?’
‘I . . .’ For an insane moment, Diana thought of telling him the story of the evening, but, realising how it might sound, said merely that it had been very pleasant.
‘Pleasant, was it?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘What do you know about him?’
‘He works for you, sir.’
‘That’s right. But be careful. He isn’t safe.’
‘Sir?’
‘You’re a beautiful woman, my dear,’ Forbes-James said, rather gruffly, ‘Don’t need me to tell you that. Ventriss has something of a reputation.’ He sounded disapproving.
‘So I understand, sir.’
‘Your business, of course, what goes on . . . things happen, and so forth . . . Don’t want you getting hurt, that’s all.’ He looked into his glass. ‘Had any more letters from that husband of yours?’
‘Not recently, no. I expect I shall soon.’
‘And the flat? That’s all right, is it? Happy there?’
‘Yes,’ said Diana. ‘I love it.’
‘Excellent.’ He stared at his glass again, and said, ‘I seem to have finished this rather quickly. Fancy another?’
Diana, taking this as her cue to leave, declined. ‘I should say goodnight, sir.’
‘Of course.’ Forbes-James stood up, and, to her surprise, pecked her on the cheek. ‘Mind how you go.’
‘Yes, sir. Have a nice evening.’
In the hall, Margot turned from her bank of telephones, stretched her long legs, and said, ‘Finished?’
‘Yes.’
‘Like a drink?’ She reached into her handbag for her compact, and inspected her face. ‘We’re going round to Leo’s.’
‘Who’s Leo?’
‘Leo Birkin. You know,’ she added, impatiently, ‘from A section. Jock’s going, and Lally.’
‘No thanks. Think I need an early night, for a change.’
‘Jock said Claude might drop by later on.’
‘Claude?’
‘Ventriss.’ Margot gave Diana a knowing smile over her mirror. ‘Your dining companion.’
‘Oh, him.’
‘Yes, him.’
‘I don’t think so, Margot. He’s very charming, of course, and great fun, but I really have got to catch up on some sleep.’ Diana thought that she had, on the whole, managed to say this in a normal, down-to-earth sort of way. Margot, who’d been paying close attention while powdering her nose, grinned. ‘Well, if you’re absolutely sure . . .’
‘I am. But thanks, anyway.’ Diana walked back to Tite Street in the twilight with the uncomfortable feeling that Margot, as well as Forbes-James, had understood a great deal more than she’d actually said. Why did everyone persist in behaving as if the thing was a fait accompli? She’d had dinner with the man, that was all - she hadn’t committed herself to anything - and next time, if there were a next time, she’d just . . . Just what? Well, she wouldn’t fall into his arms, anyway. ‘I can look after myself,’ she muttered, angrily. ‘I’m not a complete fool.’ Aware that the words didn’t quite match what she was thinking, and that the irritation was, to an extent, manufactured, she felt suddenly foolish and ashamed, glad to be alone. She might deny it until she was blue in the face, but the attraction was there, all right. Determined to nip all thoughts of Ventriss in the bud, she walked faster, as if, by increasing her speed, they might be outpaced.
Opening the outer door, she saw there was a letter from Guy on the hall stand. This is more like it, she thought, sliding a nail under the flap immediately so she could start reading as she went up the stairs, knowing as she did so that it was less the action of a woman in love with her husband than a simple defence mechanism.
Dearest, We are still waiting for orders, very tedious. We have drunk all the wine, smoked all the cigars, and eaten most of the food. The troops are fed up with attending lectures, but on the whole behaving tolerably well, although last night there was the most fearful rumpus because some rowdy—
Reaching the landing, Diana saw, propped against her door, an enormous bunch of red roses. Shoving the letter into her handbag, she bent down to read the card:
Thank you for a wonderful evening. With love, Claude.
It was much later, just as she was about to drop off to sleep, that Diana remembered she hadn’t finished reading Guy’s letter.
THIRTEEN
Stratton entered the billiard hall and stood inside the door for a moment, adjusting to the gloom. It was a large rectangular room with peeling paint, kitted out with half a dozen green baize tables at one end and a scattering of small copper-covered tables by the door, each with its own Players ashtray, and flanked by an assortment of battered wooden chairs. There was a hush as he’d entered, and beneath the false ceiling of smoke, all heads turned to stare at him, stiff and alert as dogs that sense a threat - Alfie Swan, Danny Distleman, Mickey Horsfall, Johnny Mount. Stratton knew them all. Knew what was in their pockets, too - pieces of cork embedded with razor blades that could be strapped to the palm, the victim to be lulled into security by a friendly clap on the shoulder before a swipe with the other hand laid open half his kisser. Vitriol, too - one of them, Tommy White, had thrown that in his girl’s face and done five years for it. He was there, watching along with the others, holding a billiard cue by his side. Stratton wondered how many deals he’d interrupted. The place was far more crowded than usual - but then, if the villains could no longer make as much money at the races, it made sense that they’d turn to thieving to supply the growing black market. Food, booze, cigarettes, false ID cards - you name it - and there’d be a lot more to look forward to, as well.
The crowd parted, silently, as Abie Marks stepped out of a door at the back and walked towards him. He reminded Stratton of a film star playing a gangster: big, and handsome in a no-good way, with his smart suit and glace shoes, his blue-black hair shining like wet prunes, and his bright, white smile. ‘Care for a drink, Inspector?’
‘You don’t have a licence.’
‘Only keep it for friends, Inspector, such as your good self.’
‘No, thank you.’
‘Cigar?’
‘No, thank you.’
‘Something to eat, then? Anything you fancy - I’ll get one of the boys to fetch it in from next door.’
Stratton shook his head. ‘I’ve come for a word with George Wallace.’
‘Wallace?’ Abie’s smile vanished, leaving his eyes cold and vigilant. Without taking them from Stratton’s face, he said, ‘Fetch him.’ The young lad beside him - tough little face with a tight, closed expression - turned and melted into the crowd.
‘Like to step into my office, Inspector?’
Stratton considered for a moment. He’d never accepted anything from Abie, nor would he, but a bit of privacy might make things easier. ‘Thank you,’ he said.
‘This way.’ The crowd parted again, drawing further back this time, as if in fear of contamination, as he followed Abie across the room. Abie ushered him into the office with a flourish, and closed the door. ‘Make yourself at home.’ Stratton glanced round the small room, which was an odd mixture of scruffy and plush with lino and a boarded up fireplace, and a large desk with a big leather swivel chair behind it. The only other chair, in contrast, was a rickety wooden affair, doubtless intended to underline the inferiority of the sitter. A glittering phalanx of bottles stood on top of an elderly filing cabinet, and behind them, a large doll with golden curls and glassy blue eyes. Seeing the direction of his gaze, Abie asked, ‘Sure you won’t have anything?’
‘No, thanks,’ Stratton repeated, and settled himself on the swivel chair. ‘Present?’ he said, nodding at the doll.
‘My little girl - birthday tomorrow. It’s all above board, you know,’ Abie smiled - or rather, showed his teeth. ‘I got nothing to hide.’
‘I’m sure you haven’t,’ said Stratton, adding to himself, not here, anyway. There was a knock on the door and the boy stuck his head round. ‘He’s here, Mr Marks.’
Other books
Tierra de vampiros by John Marks
Deadly Diversion: A Medical Thriller by Eleanor Sullivan
One More Step by Sheree Fitch
Snowbound by Braden, MG
Blackmailed Into Bed by Heidi Betts
Finding the Right Girl (A Nice GUY to Love spin-off) by Duke, Violet
The Golf Omnibus by P.G. Wodehouse
Final Cut by Lin Anderson
Off the Record by Rose, Alison
The Fight for Lizzie Flowers by Carol Rivers