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Authors: Laura Wilson

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BOOK: Stratton's War
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As if reading his mind, Forbes-James leant forward and said, ‘You can trust me, you know. We understand you’ve been doing some digging on your own account, and we thought we might as well put you to good use.’
Stratton had half a mind to ask who ‘we’ were, but decided it would be pointless. Here, ‘we’ meant people in power, who could do things - people more commonly known to him and his ilk as ‘they’. Still, no suggestion of any kind of threat - yet.
‘So,’ said Forbes-James, ‘tell me what’s been going on.’
‘Well, sir,’ said Stratton, ‘I don’t know if you’ve ever heard of a film actress called Mabel Morgan . . .’
Forbes-James listened attentively while he talked. When Stratton had finished, he said, ‘I see. And that’s everything, is it?’
‘Yes, sir. I gave the deed box containing the films to DCI Machin, at his request.’
‘Mmm. And you didn’t recognise the dancing partner?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Neither did we, unfortunately.’
‘You mean you’ve seen the films?’ asked Stratton in surprise. ‘I mean, sir, they haven’t been destroyed?’
Forbes-James shook his head. ‘We’re holding onto them,’ he said, ‘for the moment, at least. Does anyone, besides DCI Machin and your brother-in-law, Donald . . .’
‘Kerr, sir.’
‘ . . . Donald Kerr, know of their existence?’
‘My wife, sir. Or rather, she knows that we were watching some of Miss Morgan’s films, but she has no idea what they were.’
‘And Mr Kerr, what does he know?’
‘Nothing, sir. I didn’t mention Sir Neville’s name.’
‘Can you write down Mr Kerr’s address for me - his home and his business.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Stratton jotted down the details in his notebook and tore out the page to hand to Forbes-James.
‘It’s just a background check, you understand. We shan’t be questioning him - unless it’s necessary, of course.’
‘It won’t be, sir.’
‘That’s good. What about the man who gave you the box?’
‘Constable Ballard, sir. He has no idea what was in it. I broke the padlock myself, at home. He knew I’d been making some enquiries, and he thought it might be of use.’
‘Well, that all seems pretty straightforward. We’ll need copies of all your notes - Mrs Calthrop can see to that while we have a spot of lunch. There’s a little place near here that’s not bad at all.’
 
Stratton, having marked the relevant pages of his notebook for Diana’s attention, accompanied Forbes-James to the restaurant. Uneasy in the unfamiliar surroundings, which were a good deal smarter than he was used to, with a waiter whose French accent would have put Maurice Chevalier to shame, he chose Dover Sole as being the simplest (and most recognisable) item on the menu. It turned out to be very good, although it would have been a lot nicer if he had been eating it with Jenny, and not Forbes-James who was gently but persistently questioning him about his background, family and work. He said little about Johnny other than that he’d been rejected for the services and was a bit of a tearaway, and hoped he’d delivered this information in the same matter-of-fact tone as everything else. Forbes-James paid close attention, occasionally prompting him with questions. The man must have a formidable memory, Stratton thought, because he hadn’t taken a single note - unless, of course, he was equipped with some sort of listening device. Stratton had never heard of such a thing - rooms could be wired, of course, and telephones, but he’d never heard of anything small enough to be carried by a person.
Alone in the Gents, he took a moment to compose himself. Of course Forbes-James didn’t have a listening device. Such things did not exist. All this cloak-and-dagger stuff was making him neurotic and, in any case, someone must surely have looked into his background a bit before they’d summoned him over? He couldn’t pretend he wasn’t excited about the prospect of the raid on the American chap’s home, but all the same . . . One step out of line, and they’d have his balls in the wringer before you could say Jack Robinson, and then he could say goodbye to his career all right. Watch it, chum, he told himself. Just bloody watch out.
FORTY-FIVE
‘Blast!’ Diana yanked the paper out of the typewriter for the third time. Hopeless. Damn F-J, he knew she was no good at typing. Glancing at the clock, she saw that he and the policeman, Stratton, would soon be back from their lunch. Grabbing another piece of paper, she started feeding it into the machine, then remembered she’d forgotten the carbon. She wished she could ask Margot to help, but the stuff was confidential. She had read through Inspector Stratton’s notes with mounting astonishment, especially when she’d come to the bit about Apse’s handkerchief being found on an unknown corpse . . . That had been the real reason for Stratton’s visit to him. Apse had denied all knowledge, but evidently he hadn’t been believed. But could he really be associated with criminals, as the notes seemed to suggest? Thieves and murderers? She tried to imagine what these men - Marks and Wallace - might look like, but her mind could only conjure up a pair of large, hairy brutes with guns in one hand and bags marked ‘Swag’ in the other.
She re-aligned the paper and carbon and began again, wishing her hands weren’t shaking so much. For heaven’s sake, she told herself, get a grip. You’re not going to be at Wymark’s flat. Of course it would blow her cover as far as the Right Club was concerned, but she’d served her purpose, hadn’t she? F-J was planning - indeed, had been given permission - to round up everyone concerned, so she’d be quite safe, apart from the fact, always in the back of her mind, of what she’d told Claude . . . He’d said he wouldn’t tell anyone about Apse, but was it true?
Stop it, she said to herself. It was no good thinking about what
might
happen when she needed to get on with the task in hand. In any case, it wasn’t as if she’d even have to see anyone from the Right Club again, except in court. Lally had got hold of the necessary information about Wymark, and she’d been instructed to give Mrs Montague a false address (a flat belonging to a fellow agent) for any post, so none of them - apart from Apse - knew where she lived. But he could tell them . . .
Casting around for a way to steady her nerves, she fixed on DI Stratton. She had not really noticed, when he came to see Apse, how big he was (but then she hadn’t noticed much that morning, she’d been too busy thinking about having lunch with Claude). There was something solid about him, solid and comforting and all together right in a way she couldn’t quite explain but which was very reassuring. He didn’t seem like an ordinary policeman, but then, Diana reflected, she did not really know what ordinary policemen were like because she’d never met one - at least, not properly.
F-J hadn’t been pleased when he’d discovered that Stratton had been digging about and found a film of Apse dancing with another man. He hadn’t said much to her all week, deflecting any questions with a weary, preoccupied air. Surely, she thought for the umpteenth time, he must have had some suspicions about Apse? She supposed that her information had meant that he could no longer have it both ways - like pretending you thought someone was joking even though they weren’t. Or sincere when you knew they weren’t . . . Was Claude sincere when he said he loved her? Did he even know if he was being sincere or not? And now she really had broken her promise to F-J.
‘Damn!’ She’d typed a ‘v’ instead of a ‘b’. That was - she counted - the fifth mistake in two lines. Telling herself to concentrate and not think of anything else until the thing was finished, she managed to peck out the rest of the page correctly and then, half way through the next one, found herself typing ‘mp=pmr pg yjsy ms,r’ instead of ‘no-one of that name’ because she’d been wondering whether Inspector Stratton was married and, if so, what his wife might be like. Big and solid like him, probably. Perhaps they had children . . . he looked as though he’d be a good father . . . As she put a line of x’s through her mistake, she pictured him in a big old armchair with a small daughter on his knee. The only knees she’d ever sat on as a child were the bony protuberances of a succession of nannies, which was fine as far as it went but hardly the same as the comfort and security of a constant lap. She tried to imagine herself, a child again, sitting on her father’s knee, but this, as far as she could remember, had only happened once, and then only for the duration of a photograph.
These musings were interrupted by the slam of the front door. Hell! They were back from lunch, and she hadn’t finished. Determined that they shouldn’t think her inefficient, she set about typing as fast as she could. Fortunately, F-J didn’t call for her for another hour, by which time she had done almost all of it. When she’d handed him the copies and returned the notebook to Inspector Stratton, F-J told her she could go home, even though it was only quarter past four. She’d half expected this, but still felt downcast and rejected, as if she’d been dragged away from a party before the fun had really started. In spite of having no conscious desire to have anything to do with the raid on Walter Wymark’s flat, she walked back to Tite Street knowing that she’d be too restless to settle to anything, and that the evening would be a time to get through, rather than enjoy.
Sitting alone in her bedroom, she picked up Guy’s letter of the previous week. He was planning to come down to London for a couple of days before the regiment went overseas, and was - surely this couldn’t be as ominous as it sounded -
looking forward to hearing what you’ve been up to
. She’d tried to put him off -
the flat is simply too tiny
- but he’d written back to say that he would be staying at his club - which, she supposed, must still be possible, because she’d heard nothing to the contrary.
There was another problem, too. Her doctor, who’d bent the rules for her once already, by giving her a contraceptive device without her husband’s permission, was not likely to be so accommodating a second time.
It was overwhelming, and she was far too tired to think about any of it. The best way was to shut it out, to try and get some proper rest - at least until the raids started. She poured herself a small whisky - bad habit, drinking on one’s own, but never mind - and curled up on the bed, cradling the glass.
FORTY-SIX
No-one spoke as the Bentley, the thin beams from its shuttered headlamps barely penetrating the blackout, nosed its way north past Hyde Park towards Walter Wymark’s flat in Gloucester Place, tailed by a Black Maria. There were muffled bangs and crumps from raids in the distance, but nothing too close. Stratton sat between Forbes-James and a man from the American Embassy called Ritter, who sat, shoulders hunched, twisting a ring on his little finger.
Stratton and Forbes-James led the way to Wymark’s flat, which was on the third floor of a large mansion block, with three constables in tow and Ritter and a policewoman bringing up the rear. The men lined up in the passage, truncheons at the ready, as Forbes-James knocked. There was no response. Forbes-James knocked again, and this time, there was a shout - ‘Go away!’ When he knocked a third time, the voice - male - called out again, ‘I told you, I’m busy. Come back later!’
‘Police!’ shouted Stratton. ‘Open the door.’
‘No!’ The voice was louder now. ‘You can’t come in here!’
‘Open the door, Mr Wymark.’
‘No! I’m protected - you can’t come in.’
‘Mr Wymark, if you don’t open this door, I’ll have to—’
‘No! Go away!’
Stratton looked at Forbes-James, who nodded. The last time Stratton had broken a door down his shoulder had ached like hell for a week afterwards, and he was buggered if he was going to let that happen again in a hurry. He beckoned to the largest of the constables. ‘Off you go, lad.’
The man charged and burst the door open. A woman screamed shrilly, and, over the din of policemen’s boots on the tiled floor of the hallway, Stratton heard a man’s voice - ‘Shut up!’ - and the crack of a slap, followed by the sound of a window being raised somewhere towards the rear of the flat. Barging past the constables, he dashed down the long central corridor, Forbes-James at his heels, and charged into the end room. Wymark, barefoot with pyjamas flapping, was straddling the window-ledge, and in the bed a dishevelled girl, blankets pulled up to her chin, was sobbing, a livid red wheal across one side of her face.
Stratton marched across the room and grabbed Wymark by the arm. The man tried to shrug him off, lost his balance and nearly fell out of the window. Stratton leant over and hauled him back inside. ‘I wouldn’t if I were you,’ he said. ‘It’s a hell of a long way down.’
BOOK: Stratton's War
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