Authors: Laura Wilson
Stratton's War (30 page)
Sighing, she opened her suitcase and began to unpack. She could have left it to the maid, but it was something to do.
‘It’s all nonsense,’ she said aloud. ‘Pie in the sky.’ She dumped a pile of clothes on the bed, looked at them for a moment, and suddenly felt that she didn’t even have the energy to work out what she ought to do with them. She sat down again and lit a cigarette. It occurred to her that if Evie were to see her now, sitting on her bed smoking - she’d be horrified. ‘Oh, who cares?’ she said aloud. ‘Who bloody well cares?’
THIRTY-ONE
Stratton had a telephone call from Maynard at the Holloway police station the following afternoon. ‘Your man Gannon’s there, all right. Nasty piece of work - ugly, too. Living with a woman called Beatrice Dench. Frankly, it’s a wonder that one woman could fancy him, never mind two.’
Well, that was that. He spent most of the rest of the day trying to get some sense out of the bishop’s son who had assaulted the girl in the nightclub. He was terrified, contrite, and hysterically over-cooperative. After two hours, during which he’d confessed everything he’d ever done, from scrumping apples to nocturnal fumblings in the dorm, Stratton was beginning to despair of ever getting a straight story when Ballard put his head round the door. ‘If I could have a word, sir?’
Stratton followed him outside. ‘What is it?’
‘The guv’nor, sir. Theirs, I mean. Wants a word, sir.’
‘Right.’
DCI Machin was looking uncomfortable again. ‘This young chap you’ve got . . . Cockcroft. He can go.’
‘Go?’ echoed Stratton, adding a belated ‘Sir?’
‘We’re not taking this any further. I’ve been speaking to the bishop, and I’m assured that his son is a young man of good character who has never done anything like this before, so . . .’
‘That doesn’t mean he won’t do it again, sir, if he thinks he can get away with it.’ Privately, Stratton didn’t believe this - he doubted if Cockcroft, who was scared shitless, would do so much as ask a girl to dance, at least for a while - but that wasn’t the point.
Machin cleared his throat. ‘We have received assurances.’
‘From the bishop, sir?’
‘Yes. I’m told he’s a young man of great promise, so it wouldn’t be right to wreck his career because of a single boyish indiscretion. ’
‘Rape, sir. It’s not exactly an indiscretion.’
‘The bishop would like to speak to the girl’s mother.’
That, thought Stratton, meant an offer of money. How much, he wondered. £25? £50? ‘She was fifteen, sir.’
‘I know that,’ said Machin, irritably, ‘but we,’ - him and his new chum the bishop, thought Stratton - ‘think that is the best course of action, so I want you to tell Cockcroft that he is free to leave.’
‘But—’
‘Now, DI Stratton.’
Stratton left Cockcroft to sweat for as long as he reasonably could without actually being insubordinate, then let him go. On his way home he reflected that the bishop of wherever it was probably knew the Commissioner. Serve him bloody well right if the woman didn’t accept his offer - but that, he knew, was unlikely.
After supper, he went round to see Donald about the projector. He’d read the rest of the letters in the deed box - a lot more Pinkle-Wonkery but nothing useful - and although he was interested in seeing the films, he wasn’t convinced that they would yield anything, either.
‘I’ve been looking at the instruction book,’ said Donald, showing him the projector, ‘and I’m pretty sure I can get it running. We can look at some of them now, if you like.’
Stratton helped Donald to move some of the sitting room furniture out of the way, then went back to collect the films from the shed while his brother-in-law set up the projector and screen. Jenny had said she’d go with him because she wanted to talk to Doris. There was something about the way she announced this that made him wonder if the chat mightn’t be something to do with Johnny. She hadn’t repeated her suggestion about him talking to the boy, but Stratton knew it had been on her mind. He felt bad about not having done it, but there hadn’t really been an opportunity. Jenny had always been closer to Doris than Lilian. There was barely a year in age between the two of them, while Lilian was four years older, and they were similar in temperament as well as looks - Doris was a taller, darker version of Jenny.
Looking at the canisters under his arm, eleven in all, Jenny said, ‘You’re not meant to have these at home, are you?’
‘No,’ said Stratton, ‘so keep your lip buttoned.’
Jenny looked at him curiously. ‘You don’t normally bring things home.’
‘I don’t think this is normal,’ said Stratton.
‘Oh . . .’ Jenny looked as if she was about to ask him what he meant, then thought better of it. ‘It’s something to do with Mabel Morgan, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. Films.’
‘In those boxes?’
‘That’s how they store them.’
‘I never knew that.’ Jenny tapped one of the canisters. ‘Do you know which ones they are?’
‘No idea. There aren’t any labels.’
‘Won’t you get into trouble?’ she asked, as they walked down the road.
‘Nobody knows I’ve got them.’
‘But that’s . . .’ Jenny sounded worried. ‘That’s bad.’
‘It isn’t good,’ Stratton admitted, ‘and it’s certainly not the way we’re supposed to do things, but I’ve got a . . . a . . . sort of a feeling about it. What the Americans call a hunch.’
‘But you said she killed herself.’
‘I know, but I think there’s a bit more to it than that.’
‘I see,’ said Jenny, carefully, and again, Stratton had the impression that she wanted to say more.
‘Ooh,’ said Jenny, when she saw the sitting room. ‘It’s just like being at the pictures. The blackout curtains are just the thing. You could charge people for admission. I’ve always fancied being an usherette.’
‘Not likely,’ said Stratton. ‘All those men in the dark, they wouldn’t be able to keep their hands off you. Still,’ he sent her towards the kitchen with a pat on the bottom, ‘you can fetch us some tea, if you like.’
Donald prised the lid off the first canister and began to thread up the projector. ‘Where have you been keeping them?’ he asked.
‘In the garden shed.’
‘Fair enough. But I shouldn’t bring them into the house. This stuff is pretty flammable, and if you got an incendiary - ka-boom! Right, here we go.’
Stratton settled himself on the sofa as the screen flickered into life, and a title -
The Bat
- appeared across it, followed by Mabel Morgan’s face, mouthing silently, and, seated beside her on a sofa in a well-appointed room, a handsome man who kissed her hand and then got down on one knee.
Will you marry me, my darling?
read the caption. Mabel’s face alight with pleasure -
Yes! I will be your wife
. The man returned to the sofa with an elegant flick of his coat-tails and took her in his arms, and immediately a winged shadow fell on the wall behind them. They turned, and Mabel’s face appeared in close-up with an expression of exaggerated horror, fingertips on cheekbones -
The bat!
The man held up his arms as if to ward something off. There was more face-pulling from the pair, and then Mabel turned away from the camera, her hand to her forehead -
Our love is doomed
- while the man gazed at her with an expression of romantic agony, and then - then the image went from positive to negative and back again, and dissolved into a frothing patchwork of blotches, through which Stratton made out the words
I can never
- before the screen turned black.
The Bat
- appeared across it, followed by Mabel Morgan’s face, mouthing silently, and, seated beside her on a sofa in a well-appointed room, a handsome man who kissed her hand and then got down on one knee.
Will you marry me, my darling?
read the caption. Mabel’s face alight with pleasure -
Yes! I will be your wife
. The man returned to the sofa with an elegant flick of his coat-tails and took her in his arms, and immediately a winged shadow fell on the wall behind them. They turned, and Mabel’s face appeared in close-up with an expression of exaggerated horror, fingertips on cheekbones -
The bat!
The man held up his arms as if to ward something off. There was more face-pulling from the pair, and then Mabel turned away from the camera, her hand to her forehead -
Our love is doomed
- while the man gazed at her with an expression of romantic agony, and then - then the image went from positive to negative and back again, and dissolved into a frothing patchwork of blotches, through which Stratton made out the words
I can never
- before the screen turned black.
‘It’s perished,’ said Donald. ‘Like seeing ghosts,’ he added thoughtfully. Stratton looked at him in surprise. His brother-in-law wasn’t given to flights of fancy, but Stratton knew exactly what he meant, and seeing the dead woman disappear like that gave him the creeps. ‘Funny, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘That picture can’t be more than about twenty years old, but it seems like . . .’
‘History,’ said Donald. ‘A different time.’
‘Odd seeing it like that, without any music,’ said Stratton. ‘I never really used to notice it much - didn’t realise what a difference it made.’
Giggles from the kitchen heralded the entrance of Jenny, with one of Doris’s trays suspended rather precariously from her neck by a spare length of washing line.
‘Here we are. Ice cream’s off, cigarettes are off. Even sugar’s off.’ She caught sight of the blank screen. ‘Oh dear. Has it broken down?’
‘It’s not the equipment,’ said Donald, ‘it’s the film. Celluloid isn’t stable.’
‘Does that mean,’ Jenny handed him a cup of tea, ‘that in twenty years’ time people won’t be able to see the pictures from today?’
‘It’s all improved now. Modern stuff lasts longer.’
‘I shouldn’t think they’ll want to,’ said Stratton, accepting his cup. ‘They’ll want new ones, in colour . . . I wonder what the world will be like in 1960?’
There was a short pause as they contemplated this, until Donald sighed and said, ‘God knows.’
When Jenny had returned to the kitchen, he asked, ‘Want to try another one?’
‘Fire away.’ Stratton sat back on the sofa and drank his tea while Donald set to work. The next picture was a one-reel comedy -
Gertie and Bertie’s Day Out
. Mabel played a nursemaid who, distracted in the park by the attentions of a soldier, let the terrible twins out of her sight to make mischief. The film was in better condition than the previous one, and ended with the soldier lying in a horse-trough and Mabel covered in flour. After that, they watched a melodrama called
His Finest Hour
, and then Stratton suggested that Donald try the last canister in the stack.
Gertie and Bertie’s Day Out
. Mabel played a nursemaid who, distracted in the park by the attentions of a soldier, let the terrible twins out of her sight to make mischief. The film was in better condition than the previous one, and ended with the soldier lying in a horse-trough and Mabel covered in flour. After that, they watched a melodrama called
His Finest Hour
, and then Stratton suggested that Donald try the last canister in the stack.
The title,
The Waltz
, was followed by a film of two men, dancing together in an empty ballroom. Clean shaven, immaculate in tails, with glacé shoes and dark, slicked-back hair parted in the middle in the fashion of the Twenties - young sophisticates, enjoying themselves - they stared solemnly at each other through eyes ringed with kohl.
The Waltz
, was followed by a film of two men, dancing together in an empty ballroom. Clean shaven, immaculate in tails, with glacé shoes and dark, slicked-back hair parted in the middle in the fashion of the Twenties - young sophisticates, enjoying themselves - they stared solemnly at each other through eyes ringed with kohl.
‘Practising, do you think?’ said Donald sardonically.
‘They don’t need to,’ said Stratton. ‘They know the score already.’
Donald snorted. ‘This wasn’t shown at a cinema.’
‘No. Strictly private, this one.’
They watched in silence for a couple of minutes, Stratton trying to think where he’d seen the taller man before. He looked somehow familiar, but Stratton couldn’t remember when or where he’d seen him. When the dance ended, the men embraced in a parody of a screen kiss, the shorter man’s head thrown back with abandon, to receive the mouth of the other.
‘Bloody hell!’ said Donald. On the screen, the men parted, and, holding hands, bowed to the audience. It was at that moment, when he saw the taller man full face, that Stratton remembered where he’d seen him, and something about the way in which the head was inclined confirmed it. ‘That’s it!’ he said.
‘Someone you know?’ asked Donald.
‘Mmm,’ said Stratton, trying to sound non-committal.
‘Don’t worry, I shan’t ask awkward questions.’
Stratton and Jenny walked home in silence, lost in their own thoughts. The first sirens went just as Stratton opened the front door, and they rushed upstairs to change into trousers and jumpers and gather up eiderdowns, the torch and the bucket.
As they lay side by side on their wooden bunks in the darkness of the Anderson shelter, listening to the raids in the distance, Stratton reached across the narrow gap and took Jenny’s hand. She gave it an answering squeeze, and said, ‘Did you enjoy the show?’
‘What?’
‘Those old films. Did you find what you wanted?’
‘I found
something
,’ said Stratton, ‘but I liked the usherette best. She’s a knockout. I’ll be going back to that cinema - see if she’ll come out for a date.’
something
,’ said Stratton, ‘but I liked the usherette best. She’s a knockout. I’ll be going back to that cinema - see if she’ll come out for a date.’
‘Silly,’ said Jenny. She raised Stratton’s hand to her lips and kissed it. ‘We’d best try and get some sleep before they come any closer.’
Stratton lay back and thought about what he’d seen. He was positive he knew the identity of the tall man. It wasn’t good, and what was more, he’d need to keep it to himself, at least until he’d considered what to do. But what could he do? I can’t change anything, he thought, least of all the fact that the man in the film is - younger but, quite unmistakably - Sir Neville Apse. Rubbing a weary hand over his face, he closed his eyes.
THIRTY-TWO
A week later, violent stomach cramps woke Diana at quarter past three, and she sat up, confused for a moment. Then she realised, with an immense surge of relief that made her want to laugh out loud, what the pain meant. Pushing back the bedclothes, she saw the smudge of blood and thanked her lucky stars she hadn’t been in the shelter - the all-clear had sounded just after two, and she’d come back upstairs, changed her trousers and jersey for a nightdress, and gone to bed.
She got up and looked in the bottom drawer of the chest for a sanitary towel. Thank God, she thought. Three days late, but she wasn’t pregnant. She found the discreet velvet bag where she kept her things, donned her dressing gown, and tiptoed out to the bathroom.
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