Authors: Laura Wilson
Stratton's War (34 page)
‘Not at all. I didn’t know, either.’
‘Then how . . . ?’
‘I found the stuff afterwards. Somebody had to tidy up her flat.’
‘But her husband—’
‘Wanted nothing more to do with her. She’d left him.’
‘Yes, for you.’
‘No. She’d left him before that happened. I had nothing to do with it.’
‘Then why did Lally say you had?’
‘That was the story that got about. F-J wanted to keep the part about drugs out of it because of her people, and because it wouldn’t do the reputation of the service any good. There had to be some sort of explanation, and that was the obvious one.’
‘What about your reputation? Don’t you mind?’
Claude shrugged.
‘How can you be so blasé about it? Let go of my leg!’
‘Sorry. You shouldn’t be so hard to resist.’
‘Be serious, Claude.’
‘Oh, stop saying that.’ Claude got to his feet and patted his pockets for his cigarette case. ‘The fact is, Diana, that people always talk, and I don’t suppose it’s the worst that’s been said about me, by a long chalk.’
‘Well, I think it’s awful. I’m going to tell Lally that it wasn’t anything to do with you.’
‘No, you’re not.’
‘But—’
‘No!’ Claude stood over her, his hands on her shoulders. ‘I mean it, Diana. You’re going to keep your mouth shut.’
‘But if it’s the truth . . .’
‘It is. Which is why you’re not going to discuss it with anyone. In fact, you’re going to forget all about it.’
Diana, remembering Jock’s words, said, ‘What you don’t know can’t hurt you.’
‘Exactly.’ Claude kissed her on the forehead. ‘Now,’ he said, running the backs of his fingers down her cheek, ‘I suggest we make ourselves comfortable.’
‘Wait.’ Diana pushed his hand away, and Claude retreated to the bed.
‘What now?’ he said, irritably.
‘When you tidied up her flat, did you . . . I mean, surely whoever examined her would have known . . . ?’
‘For heaven’s sake! Pyke dealt with all that.’
‘Dr Pyke?’ asked Diana, surprised.
‘Yes. Now can we please—’
‘F-J’s Dr Pyke? But I thought he was just . . .’ A sudden, and horribly clear, image of F-J glancing down at his fly made her tail off.
‘I believe that F-J finds him very useful on certain occasions,’ said Claude, cryptically. ‘Look, darling, I did have an affair with the woman, and I didn’t exactly cover myself in glory, but it wasn’t my fault that she died. That would have happened anyway, sooner or later. Now, why don’t you come here,’ he patted the bed, ‘and we won’t say any more about it.’
‘You won’t say anything about Apse, will you? About what I told you.’
‘That entirely depends,’ said Claude, ‘on whether you’re prepared to be nice to me or not.’
‘Claude!’ Close to tears, Diana threw the blanket off her legs and leapt out of the chair. ‘For God’s sake, you can’t—’
‘Stop it.’ Claude got off the bed and took her in his arms. ‘I was joking.’ He rubbed her back while she cried, and made soothing noises, and plied his handkerchief. After a while, her resolve was swallowed up by tears, an overwhelming mixture of relief and anxiety, and a desperate need to be comforted, and she allowed herself to be undressed and taken to bed.
THIRTY-SIX
Stratton negotiated the three steps from his chair to the office door with difficulty. Space for storage, even for the small number of documents salvaged from West End Central, was limited at Great Marlborough Street, and most of the files that remained - water-logged, torn, and reeking of smoke - were now stacked around his desk.
The woman was waiting for him outside. Stratton didn’t hold out much hope, since the information they’d had to circulate about the unidentified body was pretty meagre, but at least someone had come forward. According to Policewoman Gaines, this woman, a Mrs Symmonds, thought that the missing man might be her husband.
She was a scrawny little thing with a thin, drawn face - forty, perhaps, but almost certainly younger than her looks suggested - scruffy and unkempt in a mangy-looking grey coat. Maybe, thought Stratton, giving her the benefit of the doubt although it was nearly eleven o’clock, she’d spent the night in the underground and hadn’t been home. In any case, she looked as though she could do with a cup of tea. Stratton arranged this, then escorted her to one of the interview rooms. ‘Arthur Symmonds,’ she said, without preamble. ‘My husband.’ She didn’t sound upset or angry, just tired and fed up.
‘When did you last see him?’
‘February sometime. Been gone ever since.’
‘Did you report him missing?’
‘Oh, no . . .’ Mrs Symmonds looked surprised. ‘He does go off sometimes. Business.’
‘What business is that?’
‘Oh . . .’ She looked intently at the wall behind Stratton’s head, as if expecting the answer to be written there. ‘Just business. Dealings,’ she added, nodding as if this clarified the matter. ‘He had to go away sometimes, you see.’
‘Away where?’
‘Round and about. I don’t know, really. It’s been over six months now, so I thought perhaps . . .’ She looked at Stratton expectantly.
‘Where do you live, Mrs Symmonds?’
‘Poland Street. Number fourteen. Above the grocer’s.’
‘How old is your husband?’
‘Forty-five. Forty-six, now.’
‘What date is his birthday?’
‘The sixteenth of April.’
‘How long have you been married?’
‘Oh, a long time . . .’ Mrs Symmonds screwed up her face in thought. Unusual, noted Stratton. In his experience, it was men who had difficulty remembering, not women.
‘Eighteen years, now.’
‘The date?’
‘Nineteen twenty-two. Fifth of May.’
She’d remembered that fast enough. Perhaps it was just the way he’d phrased the question. ‘Can you describe him for me?’
‘Well, like it said, really. Quite ordinary. Brown hair, you know . . .’
‘Straight, wavy?’
‘Oh, straight.’ She said this as though wavy hair was a particularly revolting aberration.
‘Eyes?’
‘A browny colour.’
‘Hazel?’
‘No, browny, like I said.’
‘What about his teeth? Had he been to a dentist, that you know of?’
‘Oh no, nothing like that.’ After a moment she added, with obvious pride, ‘He had his own teeth.’ Leaning forward, as if about to make a confession, she said, ‘I’ve been worried about his feet.’
‘His feet?’ echoed Stratton, disconcerted by the sudden transfer from one end of the body to the other.
‘Yes. They were hurting him. Terrible corns, he had. I kept telling him he should see a foot doctor.’
‘Did he?’
‘I don’t know. He wasn’t keen on doctors. The money, you see . . . I got some stuff from the chemist. Green plaster. I’ve been keeping it for him.’ She stared at the wall again, and then finished, pathetically, ‘I told him I was going to get something. I thought he might come back for it.’
Stratton said gently, ‘Was there anyone else?’
‘Another woman, you mean?’
‘Yes.’
Mrs Symmonds shook her head, firmly. ‘Nothing like that. I’m sure of it.’
‘But he did go away from time to time?’
‘For business.’ she said, sharply. ‘I told you,’
Stratton made some notes, wondering if there might be another Mrs Symmonds tucked away somewhere, also with a corn plaster, waiting patiently for her husband to return. Assuming Symmonds was the man’s real name, of course . . .
‘Did your husband,’ he asked, ‘know anyone by the name of Apse?’
‘Apse? I don’t think so. Funny sort of name - I’d remember.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Oh, yes. He never mentioned anyone of that name.’ She hesitated for a moment, then said, ‘Can I have a look at him?’
‘The thing is, Mrs Symmonds, that...’
‘If I could see him, I’d know, and then . . . Well, I’d be easier in my mind if I knew.’
‘I understand that, Mrs Symmonds, but unfortunately the body is not . . . not suitable for viewing.’ For Christ’s sake, Stratton told himself, we’re talking about a human being, not a house for sale. ‘It’s been buried, you see, for several months, so it’s not . . . well, not recognisable.’
‘Oh.’ Mrs Symmonds turned pale. ‘I didn’t know.’
‘Of course not. Now, why don’t you finish your tea, and I’ll send in a policewoman to take a statement.’
‘Statement?’ Mrs Symmonds rose from her chair in alarm. ‘But I haven’t done anything wrong. I only—’
‘Of course you haven’t,’ said Stratton, soothingly. ‘No-one’s saying you’ve done wrong. It’s just so that we can have an official record. It’ll help us find your husband.’ Or, he added mentally, tell us if he’s now our mouldy old corpse.
When Mrs Symmonds left, half an hour later, Stratton told Policewoman Gaines to check the Records Office for an Arthur Symmonds, born on April the sixteenth, 1894. ‘Start there,’ he said, ‘and if necessary, follow it up. And find out if Symmonds attended a local chiropodist.’
‘A what, sir?’
‘Foot doctor.’
‘Oh. Yes, sir.’
Gaines departed, and Stratton sat at his desk, smoking and worrying, as he’d worried on and off every day that week, about how he was going to tell DCI Machin about Sir Neville Apse’s film appearance. Perhaps the man could be persuaded to look past his deference to SDI Roper and decide that the thing needed looking into. On the other hand, perhaps he’d get another slapped wrist and be told that he was not, under any circumstances, to frighten the horses. It had to be done, he knew that - now it was merely a question of working out the best way to do it, and it would be a lot easier before DCI Lamb came back and started planting his great feet on everything.
‘I think there might be a link between an apparent suicide we had at West End Central back in June and the body that was found in the church, sir, but it’s rather delicate, so I thought I ought to have a word.’
DCI Machin looked at him warily, and shifted about in his chair. ‘You’d better go on, then.’ Stratton, who already had a feeling that it was going to be the bishop’s son all over again, outlined his discovery of Mabel Morgan’s box and its contents. Machin listened, looking more miserable by the minute. When Stratton mentioned the film, he actually groaned.
‘There’s always the risk of blackmail, sir, and I wondered if Miss Morgan’s death might not be connected in some way. She might have been after him for money - there were several things about her death that struck me as odd at the time, and we know she’d had a visit from a couple of thugs just before she died. When we found Sir Neville’s handkerchief on the corpse in the church, I did think there might be more to it, and—’
The DCI raised a hand to stop him. ‘All right. You’ve made your point.’
‘If I might question Sir Neville again, sir, it would help.’
‘Yes, yes,’ Machin said, testily. ‘I understand that. But you are not to approach Sir Neville until I give you permission.’
‘When do you think that might be, sir?’ Stratton knew he was sailing close to the wind, but he couldn’t help himself.
‘I don’t know. But you are not - and I mean not - to do anything until I tell you.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And what were you doing removing evidence from the station and taking it home?’
‘It wasn’t at the station, sir, it was given to me when—’
‘That’s not the point. It’s the principle of the thing. I want that box - with everything in it - on my desk by tomorrow morning.’
With a sinking heart, although he hadn’t really expected anything else, Stratton said, ‘Yes, sir.’
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