Authors: Laura Wilson
Stratton's War (52 page)
He wasn’t aware of making a sound, but he must have done. ‘Oh . . . yes. I’m sorry. Just thinking aloud.’
‘That’s all right, sir. Be home soon.’
Yes, thought Stratton, and I’m going to lob a grenade into it. He wondered if ‘home’ would ever feel the same again.
FIFTY-EIGHT
‘I’m sorry, love.’
Jenny pulled her handkerchief from the sleeve of her cardigan and blew her nose. ‘Why didn’t you tell me before, Ted? You said there was nothing to worry about. Every time I’ve asked you about it, you’ve acted as if I’m fussing over nothing.’
‘I was hoping it would blow over. And I didn’t know for certain! Honestly, Jenny—’
‘You told Lilian it was just boasting. And me! Silly talk, you said.’
‘I thought it might have been boasting. I didn’t think there was any point in worrying you about it.’
‘Worrying me! Johnny could . . . He could be . . .’ Jenny started to cry again.
‘Please, love . . .’ Stratton leant across the kitchen table to touch her face, but she batted his hand away.
‘I knew there was something wrong!’
‘Then . . .’ Stratton felt bewildered. ‘Why didn’t you ask?’
‘I’ve tried! You wouldn’t talk about it! And you’ve been working late with this . . . whatever it is, and coming back in that big car, and telling me about having lunch in restaurants—’
‘Once.’
‘You’ve been so far away, Ted.’
Stung, Stratton said, ‘Well, you’ve been pretty busy yourself, working at the Rest Centre till all hours.’
‘That isn’t true! There’s always supper on the table - I haven’t neglected anything here, so don’t say I have.’
‘I wasn’t saying you had. Just that we haven’t had much time to talk, that’s all.’
‘It’s not just time, Ted. It’s because it was about Johnny, wasn’t it?’
‘Not entirely, love, I’ve had a lot—’
‘Don’t you care?’
‘Of course I do.’
‘And poor Lilian! What are we going to do? You should have told me, Ted.’
‘I had to be sure, love.’
‘You said he denied it.’
‘He did deny it, but he
knows
about it, Jenny. He knows this man George Wallace, he knows Miss Morgan. “Some old girl up West”, remember.’
knows
about it, Jenny. He knows this man George Wallace, he knows Miss Morgan. “Some old girl up West”, remember.’
‘But that could have been anyone - anything!’
‘He was there, Jenny. Even if he didn’t kill Miss Morgan, he certainly threatened Joe Vincent, and lent a hand beating him up, and helped Wallace turn over the flat. Wallace told me.’
‘And you’d take the word of a criminal over your own nephew?’
‘Wallace didn’t just pluck Johnny’s name out of the air, Jenny. And he doesn’t know he’s my nephew, either.’
‘How do you know?’
‘He’d have said so. A man like that, if there’s something he can use to his advantage, he won’t hesitate.’
‘But there must be lots of people called Johnny Booth. And you said this . . . Joe Whatsisname . . . is going overseas, so how can he say?’
‘There was another witness, love. One of the lodgers. He described both of them.’
‘But that was when they went to burgle the flat, not when the lady was killed.’
‘I know. But the two things are connected, and the same man - Abie Marks - is almost certainly behind both of them.’
‘But you don’t know that for sure, do you?’
‘No. We’ve been piecing it together. I wanted to be sure.’
‘But you’re not absolutely sure, are you? Not about this murder - if that’s what it is?’
‘It’s a bit more than just a few petrol coupons, Jenny.’
‘Johnny wouldn’t kill anyone! And anyway, they said it was suicide, didn’t they? You told me. The coroner said.’
‘Yes, but—’
‘This is all to do with those old films, isn’t it, and that man you had lunch with.’
‘I really can’t talk about it, Jenny.’
‘Why did you have to bring those things home? Why didn’t you just leave it alone?’
‘Believe me, I’ve been thinking the same thing. But that wouldn’t have been right. Miss Morgan deserves better than that. Everyone does.’
‘What about Lilian having her son branded a murderer? Doesn’t she deserve something, too?’
Stratton sighed. ‘Of course she does. But I’m afraid this is bigger than just one family.’
‘But it’s your own family!’
‘I know that. But if I know something about Johnny, and I don’t say anything, then I’m breaking the law. I’ve kept quiet for as long as I can.’
‘Supposing it was Pete?’
‘It isn’t Pete. It won’t ever be Pete, not if I have anything to do with it. This is Reg’s fault, Jenny, and mine as well.’
‘No!’ Jenny sat upright, her eyes glistening. ‘It’s not your fault. You’re always trying to be responsible for the whole world, and you can’t.’
Stratton didn’t know what to say to that. ‘I’ll have to tell them tomorrow. That’s why I’m telling you now. I shouldn’t, but I wanted you to understand the position.’
‘Will they arrest him straight away?’
‘He’ll be brought in for questioning. That’ll be the local police. It won’t be me doing it.’
‘That’s something, at any rate.’ Jenny blew her nose again, and said, more hopefully, ‘Then Lilian and Reg won’t have to know you had anything to do with it.’
‘I don’t think that’s going to work, love. It’s my case. Well, partly my case. It’s complicated.’
‘But you won’t have to carry on with it, will you? Not when it’s someone in your family?’
‘Ordinarily, I’d say not, but as I say, it’s complicated. If it came to court, I’d have to give evidence, and—’
‘Oh, Ted!’
Stratton went around the table and knelt down beside her. He hugged her, and stroked her hair while she sobbed into his shoulder. Hearing her weep, and powerless to comfort her, he felt like the worst person in the world.
FIFTY-NINE
Diana stopped beneath the gateway of Dolphin Square, her heart pounding, and feeling as if she had just been punched in the stomach. Apse was coming straight towards her, and he’d seen her. There was no doubt about that. She stood rooted to the spot, trying to think of something to say. Ever since that terrible night in his flat she’d avoided thinking about him as much as possible, but the reality, close to, haggard, with bitter eyes, shocked her and overwhelmed her with guilt. One more step, and he’d be beside her - she must speak. She worked saliva into her dry mouth. ‘Good morning,’ she managed, then ducked her head to avoid his gaze. Was he going to shout at her, too, and call her a bitch? She braced herself for the onslaught. If it happens, walk away, she told herself. Walk away, and keep walking. She raised her eyes to his.
‘Diana.’ He nodded curtly, and made as if to move past her, then stopped. ‘I thought I could trust you,’ he said.
Diana opened her mouth, realised she had nothing to say, and closed it again.
‘You know I’m not helping them by choice?’
Diana, taking ‘them’ to mean the Right Club, said, ‘Yes, sir.’
‘F-J sanctioned it, didn’t he?’
‘I don’t think,’ said Diana, trying to keep her voice steady, ‘that I ought to be speaking to you, sir.’
‘Probably not. But this is a dangerous game, Diana. You may think of yourself as F-J’s creature, but he won’t help you.’
Diana took a pace backwards. ‘Help me?’
Apse shook his head. ‘Nor will Ventriss. If you’re lucky, you’ll get a warning, but then you’ll be on your own and you’ll realise what a—’ He stopped, turning his head sharply as footsteps sounded on the path. Following his gaze, Diana knew she’d seen the man somewhere before, although she couldn’t think where.
‘Dr Pyke,’ said Apse, curtly. That was it - F-J’s neighbour, who’d taken his blood pressure. Who’d ‘dealt with’ the corpse of Julia Vigo. And God knows what else, thought Diana.
‘Sir Neville,’ said Dr Pyke, formally, ‘And Mrs Calthrop, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ said Diana, feeling slightly sick. ‘How do you do?’
‘Very well, thank you.’ Dr Pyke was looking not at her but at Apse, who was staring at him so intently that she had the impression he had forgotten her existence. She was aware of an almost tangible change in the atmosphere and stared, uncomprehending, from one man to the other. Apse’s curt, ‘Good morning’ sounded so harsh that she almost flinched at the words. Now, with another nod to her, he turned and walked away down Grosvenor Road in the direction of Westminster.
Dr Pyke remained beside her, watching Apse until he was out of sight. Diana cleared her throat. She wanted to thank him for rescuing her, but that wouldn’t be appropriate . . . or would it? Had he, in fact, rescued her, or had he been trying to prevent Apse from telling her something? He knew F-J, and clearly, he knew Apse: the way the two men had looked at each other suggested he might know rather a lot about Apse and, unless she’d imagined it, she’d had a sense of something shared between them. Her mind raced, picking up and discarding possibilities.
‘Mrs Calthrop?’
‘I’m so sorry,’ said Diana, ‘Wool gathering . . .’
‘I was merely remarking that it was a pleasant day for November.’
‘Yes, very - er - mild.’ She made a show of looking at her watch. ‘Oh dear, I must hurry along. F-J will be wondering where I’ve got to.’
‘I’m sure he will. Can’t expect him to do without his Girl Friday.’
‘Oh, hardly that.’ Diana forced a smile. ‘But I ought to be going.’
‘Of course.’ Raising his hat, Dr Pyke left the square. Diana paused long enough before walking across the garden to note that he’d gone in the opposite direction to Apse. On the face of it, it was more uncomfortable than actually important, but she had an odd, prickling feeling that Dr Pyke would inform F-J even if she didn’t. He obviously knew about her - the way he’d called her F-J’s Girl Friday - unless that was just an attempt to be pleasant . . . It occurred to Diana that perhaps it hadn’t been pure chance that he’d arrived at that exact moment. She didn’t know which flat he lived in, but perhaps you could see the gateway from the window? It seemed fanciful to think that he’d be looking out for either her or Apse, but nothing would surprise her. And what had Apse meant about F-J and Claude not helping her, and about getting a warning if she was lucky?
With a heavy heart, and the feeling that the waters were closing over her head, Diana made her way slowly towards Nelson House.
SIXTY
‘Remember that chap in the barber’s shop a couple of months ago? The business over the hairbrush and the spectacles?’
‘I’m not likely to forget it in a hurry, sir.’
‘His name’s Mr Rogers. He was one of the residents of the bombed house at Conway Street where Mabel Morgan lived. He’s a potential witness, so we need to find him.’
Ballard looked as if he’d like to ask several questions about this, but merely said, ‘I’ve got the details in my notebook, sir, but as to where he is now . . .’
‘Try the Wardens’ Post first. If they can’t help, try the Assistance Board. Someone must know.’ Stratton lit a cigarette, hoping it would help him concentrate. He was exhausted. He’d spent the night pent up in the narrow bunk in the Anderson, listening to Jenny weep and desperately searching for some reason, however slender, not to tell Forbes-James about Johnny. Around four o’clock in the morning, when Jenny’s sobs had subsided, he’d fallen into a troubled doze and dreamt that Jenny, Lilian and Doris were ranged in front of him like judges in a court, while he stood in the dock and Reg pronounced the death sentence, and Pete and Monica up in the gallery turned their backs and would not look at him.
He’d tormented himself during the bus ride to work, wondering what the children would say when they discovered their cousin had been arrested. Monica had never seemed to like Johnny much (‘He’s rude, Daddy. Rude and nasty.’) but Pete, he suspected, would be rather enamoured of the idea of becoming one of his gang. Several times, Stratton had caught him imitating Johnny’s swaggering walk, and he’d once pinched a packet of cigarettes for the purpose of currying favour with his cousin. Stratton had given him hell for that and he’d promised never to do it again, but all the same . . . Supposing his children never forgave him? That would be hardest of all. There was also, as Jenny had reminded him while they were preparing for bed, the matter of Mrs Chetwynd, who might well decide that she didn’t want the relatives of a criminal under her roof.
Thinking of all this made Stratton want to grab Johnny by the scruff of the neck and thrash him to within an inch of his life. The stupid little fucker had messed things up for everyone, himself included. He cast the whole issue from his mind - dwelling on it could do no good at all - and turned his attention back to Ballard.
‘How are you getting on with the rest of it? Gaines giving you a hand, is she?’
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