Authors: Laura Wilson
Stratton's War (40 page)
There is nothing I can do about it now, he thought. He took out his notepad and pencil, shut everything to do with Johnny firmly out of his mind, and began going through the points from his interview with Wallace.
Wallace and Johnny had turned over Mabel Morgan’s flat to find the box containing the films and letters because Abie Marks had asked them to do a favour for one of his friends. Given the subject matter of the films, that friend must either be Sir Neville Apse, or the unknown man with whom he was dancing. All right so far. If the friend was Sir Neville, whose handkerchief had been found on the body in the church, then it was a fair bet that Marks also had some connection with that murder. Although, thought Stratton, Wallace might not have; the man’s surprise when he’d mentioned the place had seemed real, and in any case, Marks had plenty of other people to help him do his dirty work. But where on earth would Sir Neville and Abie Marks come across each other? It wasn’t as if they moved in the same circles, unless . . . Boys, thought Stratton. That was certainly possible. Marks had a reputation for being able to get you anything you wanted - if you could afford to pay for it. And a man in Sir Neville’s position could hardly be seen hanging about in Piccadilly looking for male tarts . . .
Stratton made some notes, then paused for a cigarette and, finding his packet empty, chewed on the end of his pencil and thought longingly of Wallace’s van-load of fags, now presumably under guard at the garage.
Miss Morgan
, he wrote, and then,
Wallace?
The man may have been telling the truth about the church, but Stratton was damn sure he was lying about never having seen Mabel. If Sir Neville wanted those films enough, and was prepared to sanction murder in order to get them, why not ask his friend Marks for help? If Mabel had been blackmailing him, it made even more sense. Had she, perhaps, had an accomplice? The unknown man in the church - perhaps he had been the one behind the camera, or even the dancing partner? But then, why kill him so many months before? Unless it was a scare tactic that hadn’t worked, or the man had given the films to Mabel at some point before his death and Sir Neville hadn’t known she’d got them until she’d asked him for money, or . . . Stratton rubbed his hands over his face. There was no proof of any of it, and anyway, he had to decide what to do about Wallace before he did anything else. If he charged Wallace with the whole boiling, Marks would undoubtedly do him serious harm. Marks could hardly afford to let such a thing go without damaging his reputation, especially now, when all the gangs were fighting for control of the Italians’ old turf.
, he wrote, and then,
Wallace?
The man may have been telling the truth about the church, but Stratton was damn sure he was lying about never having seen Mabel. If Sir Neville wanted those films enough, and was prepared to sanction murder in order to get them, why not ask his friend Marks for help? If Mabel had been blackmailing him, it made even more sense. Had she, perhaps, had an accomplice? The unknown man in the church - perhaps he had been the one behind the camera, or even the dancing partner? But then, why kill him so many months before? Unless it was a scare tactic that hadn’t worked, or the man had given the films to Mabel at some point before his death and Sir Neville hadn’t known she’d got them until she’d asked him for money, or . . . Stratton rubbed his hands over his face. There was no proof of any of it, and anyway, he had to decide what to do about Wallace before he did anything else. If he charged Wallace with the whole boiling, Marks would undoubtedly do him serious harm. Marks could hardly afford to let such a thing go without damaging his reputation, especially now, when all the gangs were fighting for control of the Italians’ old turf.
Stratton didn’t give two hoots about Wallace himself, but without him, he seriously doubted that he’d ever be able to find out what had happened to Mabel. It was, of course, possible that her death was an accident, or that she’d been so terrified that she’d taken her own life, but the facts, so far as he knew them, didn’t point to either of those things. Besides, Joe Vincent’s description of Mabel in the days before her death hadn’t made her sound like someone who was about to do herself in. He could ask Johnny - lean on him - but he wouldn’t be much use as an informant, whereas Wallace, who’d been around longer and knew a great deal, would be able to yield far more.
He could choose to accept that Wallace had no idea of what was inside the van, and simply charge him with the theft of the vehicle. It was true that he hadn’t admitted knowing that the cigarettes were inside, but nobody would believe it - and he’d have to square it with Ballard, somehow. Catching Wallace was a major feather in the constable’s cap, and he wouldn’t be pleased if it came to nothing. Still, like Stratton, and every other copper before him, the kid had to learn that police work was less a matter of Sherlock Holmes-type detection and intuition than of trapping or coercing people into incriminating themselves and others. Not nice, but that was the way of it. He’d simply tell Ballard that he’d had instructions from higher up.
Stratton groaned. Higher up. He’d have to talk to Machin again. And if Machin put the tin hat on it, he might as well just throw the book at Wallace and forget the whole thing. For that reason, he told himself, it would be best to keep Johnny’s name out of it.
FORTY-TWO
As Stratton deposited the cabbage and the newspaper package of potatoes on the kitchen table, he spotted Jenny’s note. She’d gone round to Lilian’s, where she seemed to spend more and more time these days. Stratton felt relieved. He supposed he shouldn’t, but he was glad not to have to deal with all the things she wasn’t saying. She’d been tip-toeing round him all week - not literally, of course, but being more solicitous than usual about whether he’d had a nice day or liked his dinner or wanted more tea. She’d called him ‘love’ a great deal more often, too, which was a sign that she wanted him to talk to her about something. He knew damn well what it was, too - bloody Johnny - and there was absolutely nothing he could say without making the situation a hundred times worse.
On his way upstairs he spotted an envelope on the hall table, addressed, in Jenny’s handwriting, to the children. Turning it over, he saw that it wasn’t sealed, and wondered if this was deliberate. Pulling it out, he glanced through it and, spotting
Your Dad has been very busy with work so I have not seen much of him but he sends you his best
. . . decided it probably was deliberate. He didn’t blame Jenny - God knew, she wasn’t one to nag and fuss - but he felt irritated, all the same.
Your Dad has been very busy with work so I have not seen much of him but he sends you his best
. . . decided it probably was deliberate. He didn’t blame Jenny - God knew, she wasn’t one to nag and fuss - but he felt irritated, all the same.
He wondered whether to go round and see if Donald fancied coming down to the Swan. That, at least, would take his mind off his disastrous interview with DCI Machin, who had heard him in tight-lipped silence, and pointed out that Rogers’s evidence and Wallace’s confession (‘the circumstances of which are dubious’) did not conclusively link Sir Neville with Abie Marks, that Joe Vincent was not around to press charges for the assault, and that Stratton still hadn’t managed to discover the identity of the corpse found in the church. He had then reiterated that Stratton was not, under any circumstances whatsoever, to question Sir Neville, and that, frankly, he ought to be putting his time to better use. Added to which, he’d instructed Stratton to charge Wallace with the theft of both the van and its contents, which meant that he could kiss goodbye to any more information from that quarter.
Clearly, whichever bigwig Machin had spoken to about Sir Neville had sent him away with a flea in his ear. Still, not mentioning Johnny meant that at least he wasn’t known to have a criminal in his family - hardly a recommendation for future career prospects - for the time being, anyway. God only knew what the boy would do next. So far, he’d been lucky, but that wouldn’t last. Kids like him always got caught, and what that would do to his parents, and the rest of the family, didn’t bear thinking about . . .
I need a bloody miracle, thought Stratton. He put Jenny’s letter back in its envelope and stood for a moment, tapping it against the table. He wasn’t going to get a miracle, but a couple of jars and an uncomplicated hour with his brother-in-law might brighten things up a bit.
With a defiant glance upstairs in the direction of the bathroom, he took out his handkerchief, wiped his muddy hands on it, and, slamming his hat back on his head, left the house.
FORTY-THREE
‘Are you quite sure,’ asked Lally Markham as they refreshed their make-up in the Ladies’ Cloakroom at the 400, ‘that you’re not seeing Claude any more?’ Diana sighed. She’d been having such a nice evening, dancing and laughing and enjoying herself with Lally and Jock and the others, until he’d walked in, alone. She’d pretended not to see him, but it hadn’t worked - all the others had, and it was the work of a few moments to find him a seat at their table. She’d greeted him coolly, then carried on talking to Margot. She’d been painfully aware of his eyes on her and the memory of what happened on her last visit to the club - the raid, and going to bed with him for the first time - and of everyone else pretending not to pay attention but actually drinking everything in as if they were watching a play.
Finally, unable to stand the tension for a moment longer, she’d excused herself, only to find that Lally was following her. ‘He’s still pretty keen, isn’t he?’ she said, patting her hair back into place. ‘He can’t take his eyes off you.’
‘I hadn’t noticed,’ said Diana. ‘And I’ve
told
you—’
told
you—’
‘Yes, you have,’ said Lally calmly, ‘but I don’t believe you.’
Diana, who had expected to have to deal only with a spot of ragging from Lally, was disconcerted by the seriousness of her tone.
‘As I told
you
, Diana,’ she said, settling herself on one of the gilt chairs and lighting a cigarette, ‘the last time Claude pursued someone like this, it ended badly.’
you
, Diana,’ she said, settling herself on one of the gilt chairs and lighting a cigarette, ‘the last time Claude pursued someone like this, it ended badly.’
‘I know that.’ And I know a few things you don’t, Diana thought. Dropping her compact into her evening bag, she added. ‘I’m leaving. ’
‘He’ll follow you,’ said Lally.
‘No he won’t.’
‘Of course he will. He only came because he knew you’d be here.’
‘How?’
‘Jock let on that you were coming with us. Stupid man, I told him not to.’
‘Well, I’m going anyway. If he tries to come with me, I’ll send him on his way.’
‘Diana, wait. You don’t know how serious this is.’
‘I know perfectly well. That’s why I’m not—’
‘For heaven’s sake! It’s crystal clear to every single person round that table that he’s crazy about you, and - whether or not you admit it - you are crazy about him.’
Diana made for the door, but Lally beat her to it and stood with her back to the panels.
‘Please let me pass.’
‘Not until you hear what I’ve got to say.’
‘There’s nothing more to discuss,’ Diana said coldly. ‘If you’re saying these things because you’re in love with him yourself, then . . .’
‘Diana!’ Lally looked hurt. ‘That’s an awful thing to say. I’m not in love with Claude, and even if I were, this is far too important for some petty piece of jealousy.’
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. But you’re making a mountain out of a molehill, because there really isn’t—’
‘Please!’ Surprised by the raw urgency in Lally’s face, Diana took a step backwards. ‘You don’t know.’
‘Know what?’
‘Julia Vigo - that was the woman’s name - she didn’t commit suicide. She was killed.’
‘Oh, nonsense.’ Diana tried a laugh, but it was shaky. ‘Honestly, Lally, if you’re trying to put me off Claude - not that you need to bother - you’ll have to come up with something better than that.’
‘It’s the truth.’
Diana sat down. ‘How do you know?’
‘I overheard part of a conversation between Claude and F-J.’
‘F-J?’
‘Yes. I didn’t realise what it was about at first, but then I put two and two together, and . . .’
‘Why on earth would F-J want to kill her? Or Claude, for that matter? It doesn’t make sense.’
‘That’s why I didn’t realise. They were talking about her, and F-J said, “I’m afraid your Mrs Vigo will have to go.”’
‘He probably just meant dismissal. If she was . . . unreliable, or something.’
‘But then Claude said, “I’ll see to it.” If she was going to be dismissed, F-J would do it himself.’
‘But if he said “your Mrs Vigo” perhaps she was reporting to Claude, so surely he’d be the person to do it.’
Lally shook her head. ‘That’s not how it works.’
‘All right, but why kill her?’
‘I don’t know. Perhaps she was a double agent - working for them, I mean.’
‘But surely . . .’ Diana stopped. If Claude was telling the truth about Julia Vigo being a drug addict, she’d be a target for blackmail, or - if the drugs she craved were expensive - she might have been given them in exchange for information. Either was possible, and if either were the case, then silencing her might well be the only option. Presumably, an injection of drugs - obtained from the very-useful-on-certain-occasions Dr Pyke - would do the trick if it were strong enough. And if Claude had been lying and Julia wasn’t a drug addict at all, it would have been equally simple to make up that story afterwards . . . Could he really have done it? Bewildered, Diana thought back to their conversation. No, she told herself. I believed him. He was telling the truth.
‘What is it?’ Lally was staring at her.
‘It’s impossible to believe. Claude was having an affair with her - you said yourself that he was pursuing her.’ It struck her, then, for the first time, that Claude had expressed no remorse over the woman’s death. Judging from his behaviour, it seemed not to have affected him at all. ‘It seems so unnatural,’ she concluded, with a helpless gesture. ‘It’s not normal.’
‘None of this is normal. Having this conversation isn’t normal. Everything we’ve always taken for granted - rules and values - is changing in front of our eyes. Black, white, right, wrong - they don’t mean the same any more. Surely you understand that?’
‘Yes, but . . .’
‘You cannot afford to be naïve about this, Diana. Claude may be fond of women, but he doesn’t take them seriously. You must have realised that by now.’
‘I suppose I have.’ Diana put her head in her hands. ‘This is . . . It’s . . . I’m so confused, Lally. I don’t know what to think. I just want to go home. Would you mind telling the others? Say I’ve got a headache or something - apologise.’
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