Authors: Laura Wilson
Stratton's War (18 page)
Jenny stopped knitting and glared at him. ‘Pete and Monica aren’t here,’ she said. ‘In case you hadn’t noticed.’
Here we go, thought Stratton. What had Donald said in the pub? All the time we’re not talking about it, I know she wants to and she’s biting her tongue . . . And now it was out in the open. He wondered what he should say next, then thought of the other thing Donald had said before that stupid fucker Reg had lumbered over and interrupted them: Can’t blame the women, it’s a lot harder on them.
‘I don’t like it any more than you do,’ he said, gently, ‘but there’s nothing we can do about it, you know that.’ He paused for a moment, to see how this was being received - not too badly, judging from the fact that the glare had been replaced by a sort of all-purpose scowl - then turned back to the paper.
‘There’s good news about Roosevelt. He’s going to give us all the help he can, according to this. “Franklin Roosevelt, the only man in the history of the United States to be nominated as presidential candidate for a third term, said in his historic broadcast: “I do not regret my persistent endeavour to awaken this country of ours to the menace for us. So long as I am President I will do all I can to ensure that that remains our foreign policy . . . We face one of the great choices of history. It is not alone a choice of government, government by the people versus dictatorship. It is not alone the choice of freedom versus slavery. It is not alone the choice between moving forward or falling back. It is all of these rolled into one.” Blimey.’
Jenny nodded approvingly. ‘He’s a good man.’
‘So we’re not all no-hopers, then.’
Jenny rolled her eyes, then said, ‘Do you think that means America’s going to enter the war?’
‘I don’t know. It sounds as if Roosevelt wants to, but there’s a lot of Americans who oppose him.They don’t want to get involved.’
‘I suppose you can’t blame them,’ said Jenny. ‘I mean, we didn’t want to get involved, did we? Not at the beginning, at least.’
‘Well, we’ll be in trouble if they don’t,’ Stratton said, gloomily. ‘I wish they’d get on with it.’
Jenny put down her knitting, rose from her chair and gave him a kiss on the cheek before taking the cups through to the kitchen. Stratton wasn’t sure if it was meant as an apology for snapping at him or an attempt to cheer him up or a bit of both, but whatever it was, he thought, it was nice.
Being bollocked, Stratton decided, would be a lot easier to cope with if DCI Lamb didn’t look so much like George Formby. How were you supposed to take someone seriously if they looked like a human being reflected in a tap? At least, being a Londoner, he didn’t sound like George Formby as well, but the facial resemblance - jug ears, weak chin, protruding teeth and tiny bull-terrier eyes - was quite enough to be going on with.
It was 9.30 on Monday morning, and he was standing in front of Lamb’s desk, trying to concentrate while his superior tore a strip off him, but his attention was riveted by Lamb’s blunt, square forefinger jabbing his desk for emphasis. For some reason, he kept finding himself wondering where else the finger had been that morning - up his nose? Up his wife’s—Stop it, Stratton told himself, for God’s sake. What’s wrong with you?
‘What’s wrong with you?’ Lamb shouted. ‘I thought you were a good copper, Stratton, but this’ (pock!) ‘isn’t’ (pock!) ‘good enough!’ (Pock, pock!) ‘We need results, and fast.’ He stopped bashing the desk long enough to pick up a piece of paper and wave it in Stratton’s direction. ‘Mr Fuller died on Friday!’ It took several seconds before Stratton remembered that Mr Fuller was the chap who’d been injured in the jewel robbery and Lamb, seeing his momentary puzzlement, said, ‘For God’s sake, man! The jeweller’s shop.’
‘I’m sorry, sir. I wasn’t notified.’
Lamb snorted. ‘You should have been keeping tabs on it.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I don’t suppose you’ve come up with anything, have you?’
‘Not yet, sir.’
‘Well, get on with it!’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And that business with the gangs ... What was the man’s name?’
Mercifully, Stratton didn’t have to think about that one. ‘Kelland, sir.’
‘Any further forward with that?’
‘No, sir. We’ve interviewed everyone concerned, but none of them are prepared to admit they saw anything.’
Lamb sighed. ‘No surprise there, just keep trying. And stop wasting your time with that dead actress, or whatever she was.’
‘Sir?’
‘You know what I’m talking about - Miss . . . What was it?’
‘Miss Morgan, sir.’
‘Yes, her. Suicide, pure and simple. No more to be said.’
Stratton very much wanted to ask Lamb how he knew about the enquiries he’d been making into Mabel Morgan’s death and - possibly - the subsequent happenings at Joe Vincent’s flat, but he kept quiet. Dr Byrne, the pathologist, perhaps? Maybe they’d met at some dinner or other and Byrne had complained about him. Joe himself was out of the question, as was Wallace, and Abie Marks was hardly more likely.
‘Well,’ said Lamb, ‘Make sure you get onto the Fuller business straight away.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Before Stratton had the chance to say anything else, Lamb had swept out from behind his desk and was removing his hat and coat from the stand. ‘By the way,’ he said, ‘there’s another one just come in - found dead in Ham Yard, sometime this morning. Strangled, apparently. Don’t waste too much time on it - concentrate on the other matter. Think you can do that?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good. Now, I must leave. I’ve got a meeting with the Sub-Divisional Inspector.’ Stratton held the door open for him, muttering, when Lamb was a safe distance down the corridor, ‘And you can stick your ukulele up your jacksie while you’re at it, sir.’
Back in his office, Stratton felt the beginnings of a headache. He wondered if Fuller’s widow had made a complaint. Even taking into account the fact that she would be very upset, it was a bit soon for that sort of thing . . . It couldn’t be anyone at the station - apart from the other DIs, he out-ranked everyone except Lamb, so . . . Was Lamb in line for a promotion, or something? He hadn’t heard any rumours, but that didn’t mean it was impossible. And now there was this woman killed in Ham Yard. Stratton picked up the paperwork that had been left on his desk. At least he’d be able to do the poor cow the courtesy of setting a few things in motion before he got stuck into the Fuller business. He began to read: Half past three this morning - PC 14 - Victim identified as Maureen Mary O’Dowd, common prostitute, 28, known as Big Rita . . .
Stratton rubbed his hands over his face. Something was, very definitely, going on.
It was half-past ten when he left the station. He’d managed to make quite a lot of headway on Maureen O’Dowd, which was good - except, of course, that it wasn’t the case Lamb wanted solved. The man had never given a toss about dead tarts, unless they appeared in the newspaper headlines. Fuller was going to be altogether more difficult to solve - the absence of witnesses, for one thing, and no fingerprints on anything because the bastards had worn gloves. However, the lateness of the hour meant that he’d be able to catch Joe Vincent as he was leaving the Tivoli without arousing the suspicion of the cinema’s manager. He’d telephoned Doris at half past six and asked her to give a message to Jenny that he’d be late, so he wasn’t worried about that, although Jenny - and you couldn’t blame her - would undoubtedly have something to say about it when he finally did get home. It was a relief, he thought, that someone in the family had a telephone. He wished he’d got one before the war - there was no chance of it now.
He exchanged greetings with the Indian doorman as he went past Veeraswamy’s, and made his way up Regent Street towards Piccadilly Circus. Reaching the cinema, he estimated that Joe wouldn’t finish work for at least ten minutes, so he had a smoke and hung about peering at the dimly-lit display outside the building. The week’s offering was
Strange Cargo
, starring Clark Gable and Joan Crawford, along with
Arouse and Beware
with Wallace Beery, John Howard and Dolores Del Rio. He admired the poster - well, the Dolores Del Rio part of it, anyway - and ignored the photograph of Joan Crawford, who didn’t appeal to him. It was a shame he never had time to go to the pictures any more. He used to enjoy them when he and Jenny were courting.
Strange Cargo
, starring Clark Gable and Joan Crawford, along with
Arouse and Beware
with Wallace Beery, John Howard and Dolores Del Rio. He admired the poster - well, the Dolores Del Rio part of it, anyway - and ignored the photograph of Joan Crawford, who didn’t appeal to him. It was a shame he never had time to go to the pictures any more. He used to enjoy them when he and Jenny were courting.
Preoccupied with these thoughts, he almost missed Joe, who’d left the Tivoli by a side entrance, and he had to run to catch up with him. Joe jumped as he felt Stratton’s hand on his shoulder. ‘It’s all right, Joe, it’s me - DI Stratton.’
Joe turned and peered at him. ‘Sorry, Mr Stratton. It’s the blackout. Makes you jumpy.’
‘I know,’ said Stratton. Even in the dim light, he could see that, even after two weeks, Joe’s bruises were still in evidence. ‘All right, are you? Not had any more trouble?’
‘No.’
‘Still at your sister’s?’
‘Yes. I’ll be called up any day, and I didn’t want to go back to Conway Street. Beryl doesn’t mind - she says it’s company, and we rub along. Besides, I’ll be going for basic training in a week or so.’
‘Army?’
Joe nodded. ‘Did you find him, Mr Stratton? The man. You said you knew him.’
‘I found him. He won’t be bothering you again.’
Joe grinned.‘That’s a real weight off my mind. I’m ever so grateful to you, Mr Stratton. I can’t tell you how much. It scared me silly, what they did.’
‘Well, they won’t be back. I wanted to ask you again about Miss Morgan, Joe, if you noticed anything odd about her manner on the day she died.’
‘You don’t think Mabel killed herself, do you, Mr Stratton?’ Joe’s voice was eager. ‘Beryl doesn’t. Nor do I.’
‘I don’t know. It could have been an accident.’
‘I don’t believe that, either. It was a normal day, Mr Stratton. I looked in to say goodbye - she liked to stop in bed, so I just used to put my head round the door and give her a cup of tea - and she was fine.’
‘Did she say anything to you?’
‘Nothing particular. Just said “Good morning”, and she asked me to get her a quarter of acid drops. I remember that . . . Last thing she ever said to me. Acid drops. But,’ he added, ‘that doesn’t sound like someone who’s going to do themselves in, does it?’
Stratton had to admit that it didn’t, but then again, perhaps Miss Morgan had been keen to preserve an illusion of normality. ‘Did she often ask you to get things for her?’
‘Sometimes. I mean, it wasn’t odd or anything. She liked acid drops.’
‘I see. Thank you, Joe. And good luck.’ Stratton clapped him on the shoulder. It felt awkward, and he wondered whether Joe was aware of it. ‘You’ll be all right. Look after yourself - and mind you give my regards to your sister.’
‘I will, Mr Stratton. And thanks again. I appreciate it, you taking all this trouble.’
‘My job, lad,’ said Stratton, sounding, even to his own ears, a shade too hearty. ‘You get along home.’
What a stupid thing to say, Stratton thought, as he made his way to the station. Good luck. The poor bastard would probably get his head blown off. And what did he, Stratton, know about it, anyway. He’d never been a soldier. But we have to say these things, he thought. Just as we can’t admit that we’re scared - because there’s nothing more frightening than fear itself.
It was a pity, Stratton thought, that Rogers hadn’t told him about letting in Wallace and the boy when he’d asked the first time, but there it was. And as for DCI Lamb . . . Lamb stew. Monday was washday, and they always had lamb stew - one of his favourites, the smell forever linked in his mind with damp clothes and Jenny, pink-cheeked, her face framed in tendrils of hair that had escaped from their pins . . . Stratton smiled. Lamb could wait. His cooked - and much nicer - namesake was a far happier subject altogether.
TWENTY
‘All beak and feet.’ Lady Calne prodded the game pie with her fork.
‘I know,’ murmured Diana, ‘but what is one to do?’ They were lunching at the tearoom in South Kensington, with Mrs Montague and Lady Calne’s twenty-year-old daughter, Helen Pender, who worked at the Red Cross Headquarters in Knightsbridge.
‘Of course,’ said Mrs Montague, ‘for some people, nothing has changed. One hears of Jews everywhere, buying up supplies and boasting about how they’ve evaded the call-up. And now that the bombing’s started, able-bodied Jewish men are pushing their way into the shelters in front of women and children.’
‘Dreadful,’ said Lady Calne. ‘They’re absolutely taking over London. How long do you think the bombing will continue?’
‘It might be three or four months,’ said Mrs Montague. ‘At least until Christmas. The Luftwaffe is very well equipped. Of course, we’ve only got ourselves to blame.’
Diana joined in the general murmur of agreement, and, while toying with her pie in the vain hope of finding an edible morsel, allowed her mind to drift. The talk everywhere was the same - the raids, and people’s experiences, and the experiences of people they knew, or had heard of - and besides, she was tired. Since the bombing started had begun on 7 September she didn’t seem to have slept much at all and she felt listless and weary. How long could you go without proper rest, she wondered. A week was bad enough, but what if Mrs Montague was right about it lasting for months? How on earth would she feel then?
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