Authors: Laura Wilson
Stratton's War (55 page)
‘I doubt it’ll come to that. Not enough evidence. And if he can give them something else . . .’
‘Information, you mean?’
‘Yes.’
‘But he’s going to need a solicitor and all that, isn’t he? That’ll cost a bit.’
‘Yes, it will.’
‘We’ve got a bit put by, so perhaps we could . . .’
‘I was thinking that, only Reg might not take it from us once he knows.’
‘Where were you when Doris came round? Still at work?’
‘Pub near Victoria. Trying to get drunk.’
‘Don’t blame you.’
‘Couldn’t manage it. No spirits, and the beer was piss.’
‘Bloody typical.’
They were staring glumly into their respective glasses when the air raid warning started and Jenny called out to Stratton from the bedroom.
‘Bugger,’ said Donald. ‘I’d better go.’ He finished his drink. ‘Ted, I can’t go back to Doris and Lilian with this on my breath. You haven’t got any peppermints, have you?’
‘No, but there’s parsley.’
‘Parsley?’
‘Had the last of it from the allotment a couple of days ago. Jenny hasn’t got around to drying it yet. Cleans your breath.’
Donald raised his eyebrows. ‘If you say so.’
Stratton produced the bunch of parsley from the cupboard. ‘I’d better have a bit, too.’
They stood side by side, munching solemnly. ‘Christ, I feel like a horse,’ said Donald. ‘Oh, well . . .’ He went to the front door. ‘I meant what I said,’ he told Stratton, quietly. ‘I’m on your side.’
‘Thanks.’ Stratton expected Donald to open the door, but he stood on the mat and stared at him, clearly feeling that something more was needed. Stratton didn’t know what to say.
‘Pack up your troubles in your old kitbag, eh?’ Donald murmured.
‘There wouldn’t be room in an elephant’s kitbag for this lot.’
‘No . . . Stupid thing to say. But if . . . look . . . you know . . .’ Donald gave up and buffeted Stratton clumsily on the shoulder by way of explanation.
‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘I do know. I appreciate it.’ They looked at each other quickly, then down at their shoes, before Donald cleared his throat and said, ‘Well, best be off, then.’
‘Right you are.’ Stratton opened the door. ‘’Night.’
‘’Night, Ted.’
Stratton closed the door and stood for a moment in the hall, aware of feeling a little better, and quite relieved - he hadn’t realised how much Donald’s support would mean to him until he’d heard it voiced. He spent a further moment leaning against the door and trying, vainly, to marshal his thoughts into some sort of order, before trudging upstairs to resume comforting Jenny and prepare for whatever sleep he might be able to snatch in the shelter.
SIXTY-FOUR
In neither the basement shelter, where she’d spent half the night, nor in her bed, had Diana been able to sleep. The raids hadn’t kept her awake - she was used to them. It was her own fears, which had intensified into lurid paranoia as the small hours dragged on towards morning, that caused her to sit upright, sweaty and shaking with fear. The airless darkness, full of panic, seemed to close around her so tightly that she felt as if she could barely breathe. When the sun rose and the blackouts could be taken down, she told herself that she was being ridiculous, but she still couldn’t shake off the sense of dread. It was very early, but unable to bear the claustrophobia of the flat any longer, she decided to take herself off to work.
At least there had been no letter from Evie. Walking down Tite Street towards the river in the grey morning, she wondered if Guy had told Evie yet about his surprise visit to her flat. Any normal person would suppose that embarrassment would prevent this, but then, she thought sourly, any normal person wouldn’t have a mother who behaved more like a familiar than a parent. The image of Vinegar Evie, complete with yellow eyes and feline ears and whiskers cheered her up momentarily. Then the ever-present net of painful, confused feelings - anguish, anxiety and guilt - closed around her once more, and she began to speculate, as she had done countless times over the last twenty-four hours, about what nice Inspector Stratton - Edward - had said about Claude’s visit to F-J. When he’d asked her if she was in love with Claude, she’d been too amazed to be angry. He’d been so kind, so genuinely concerned, and it had been a relief to say out loud how she felt.
Why, she asked herself for the umpteenth time, had F-J summoned Claude? Of course, there were any number of reasons that had absolutely nothing to do with her, or it could have been a purely social call, but, no matter how much she tried, she couldn’t make herself believe either of these things. Could Claude have mentioned what she’d told him about Apse? He’d said he wouldn’t - promised, in fact. You’re not at school now, chided the jeering voice in her head. Promises mean nothing - like your marriage vows.
If F-J had ordered Claude to stay away from her, it would certainly explain why she hadn’t heard from him since the night of Guy’s surprise visit. It’s for the best, she told herself. And it probably wasn’t even true - after all, F-J had far more important things to worry about than her. And as for poor Inspector Stratton, who must be going through absolute hell because of his beastly nephew . . . Her problems were nothing in comparison to his. Or, she thought, as she stared at the wreckage of four or five houses on a small street adjoining Grosvenor Road, to the problems of whoever had lived there. Several rescue men in bluette overalls were crawling about in the rubble, listening for survivors, periodically shouting, ‘Quiet, please!’ at the gaggle of spectators who stood smoking on the opposite pavement, apparently oblivious to the strong smell of gas.
Tears pricked Diana’s eyes. Uncertain whether they were for herself, the people buried - possibly dead or dying - in the wreckage, or for humanity in general, she turned away towards the river so that no-one should see, and stared at the gulls on the mud flats and the grey bulk of Battersea power station on the opposite bank. This is what it’s about, she told herself firmly. London. People. Not you, but all this. In the great scheme of things, you are nothing.
All the same, she thought, surreptitiously wiping her eyes with a corner of her handkerchief, my problems may be insignificant, but they’re happening to me. And she had a feeling that they were about to get a whole lot worse.
She glanced at her wristwatch. It was half-past eight - earlier than she’d thought. Too early for Margot to be there, and too early for her, too, really, but it was getting nippy, and she had plenty of paperwork to sort out, so she might as well . . .
Diana was unlocking the door when she heard voices coming from F-J’s office. He didn’t usually arrange meetings so early in the day . . . She’d better start by making them some coffee. She put her handbag down on Margot’s desk outside the office door and listened for a moment. She frowned, then put her ear closer to the door. It was F-J, but sounding so emotional that she almost hadn’t recognised his voice . . .
‘Why, Claude? Why did he do it?’
Her eyes widened. ‘Why?’ F-J repeated.
‘Because,’ Claude spoke slowly, almost drawling, ‘he thought he could get away with it. After all, most of his friends do.’
Diana’s heart missed a beat. They must be talking about Apse, she thought. There’s no other explanation. Claude must have told him what I said . . . Except that couldn’t be right, because F-J sounded unhappy, not angry. There was silence for a moment, then Claude said, ‘They do get away with it, don’t they Charles?’
Charles! No-one, ever, called F-J by his first name. What was going on?
‘You’re being idiotic.’ F-J sounded waspish.
‘Not idiotic, Charles dear,’ said Claude in an affected tone. ‘Simply truthful. And while we’re on the subject of uncomfortable truths, you made damn sure that Evie Calthrop got to know about Diana and me, didn’t you? A word here, a word there. Very smart work. Your quickest yet, I’d say.’
‘For God’s sake, Claude,’ said F-J, sharply. ‘The woman’s married. I told you to keep your hands off her.’
‘Oh, yes, so you did. Silly me. But I don’t think you’re in any position to preach morality, are you? I know exactly why you like to surround yourself with beautiful women.’
‘You take advantage of them fast enough.’ F-J’s voice shook.
‘You shouldn’t put temptation in my way. But at least I’m honest, Charles. I’m not using them as camouflage.’
Camouflage, thought Diana. What . . . ? And making sure Evie knew. Why would F-J do that? He couldn’t . . . He couldn’t . . . A split second image, lit as if by a photographer’s flashbulb inside her head, came to her, of F-J looking down to check his fly buttons. Heart racing, she grabbed her bag, made for the front door, and ran down the stairs, through the garden, and back into Grosvenor Road, where she bolted round the corner and into the mews where the cars were kept. She looked wildly around, saw no one, and crept down a narrow passage beside one of the garages. She’d be safe there - no-one could see her.
Trembling all over, she leant against the brick wall and tried desperately to collect her thoughts. F-J hadn’t denied that he’d made sure Evie got to hear about her affair with Claude . . . And Claude said he’d done it before - your quickest yet. Everything F-J’d said about not wanting her to get hurt was nonsense. He doesn’t care about me, the person he cares about is Claude. He’s jealous. And Claude knows it. Why else would he take such liberties? Because he can get away with them. And whatever happens, F-J will protect Claude. And if Claude is a double agent, and not as reliable as F-J presumably thinks he is, then F-J is in a very, very dangerous position. Did Apse know that? Was that what he’d been about to tell her? My God, she thought, how must he be feeling now? Of course, F-J had no choice but to throw him to the wolves - in whatever form that might take - but F-J was at risk himself. Although - Diana shuddered, remembering what she’d overheard while hiding in Apse’s cupboard - surely F-J wouldn’t pay a young man to come home with him? And what about Dr Pyke? Where did he fit into it? Could he be F-J’s lover? If so, did he know about F-J’s feelings for Claude?
Head spinning, knees buckling, Diana slid down the wall and sat on her haunches in the filthy, narrow alleyway. If F-J ever found out she knew . . . The consequences can be fatal . . . His words at Bletchley Park. ‘My God!’ She clutched at her throat. Was that why Julia Vigo had died? Because, if so, it meant that Claude would have no hesitation in . . . ‘Help me,’ she whispered. ‘God . . . Have mercy on me. Lord, have mercy on me, Christ have mercy on me . . .’
SIXTY-FIVE
Stratton, walking towards the Tottenham High Road to catch a bus to work, was experiencing a similar feeling of dread, coupled with a dull, but persistent headache. Jenny, who had insisted vehemently that she would be fine and he wasn’t to worry about her, had almost pushed him out of the door. Stratton guessed that, despite her protestations that she agreed with him and supported him, she needed him to go out so that she could work out how best to deal with Lilian, Reg, and possibly - Donald’s affirmation notwithstanding - Doris as well.
After a journey that could have been far worse but was nonetheless quite irritating, uncomfortable and slow enough, he arrived at Dolphin Square and was admitted by Margot Mentmore. She ushered him into the office with a message to wait for Forbes-James, who had gone to Tottenham police station to interview Johnny. At his request, she put him through to Jones at Great Marlborough Street.
‘Have we still got George Wallace?’
‘Yes, we bloody well have. Came up yesterday, refused bail. Supposed to go to Pentonville, but they couldn’t get through - HE bomb or something - so he ended up at Brixton, and they sent him back here this morning. Fucking shambles. Don’t ask me why. I’ve spoken to them, but no-one seems to know what’s going on.’
‘Can you hold onto him?’
‘I suppose so,’ said Jones, wearily. ‘Another twenty-four hours, anyway. Machin’s fit to be tied as it is - one more thing’s not going to make much difference.’
‘What’s upsetting him?’
‘You, chiefly.’
‘But I’m not directly responsible for this.’
‘That’s not the point. It’s the fact that we’re up to our eyes in shit and you’ve swanned off to join the toffs - that’s what’s really put his nose out of joint. Enjoying yourself, are you?’
‘Not really. Tell you the truth, I’d rather be back at the station.’
‘I’m touched. Was that it?’
‘Not quite. Is Ballard around?’
‘No. Hang on, there’s a message somewhere . . . Here we are. He’s spoken to Dr Byrne - lucky chap - and now he’s gone to see him about some teeth. The lovely Miss Gaines is working on passenger lists. I haven’t got a clue what any of it means, but Ballard says you’ll know all about it.’
‘I do. Sounds like good news.’
‘Well, I’m glad you’re happy. Now, if that’s all, I’ve got to go and see Machin. I tell you, Stratton, I won’t half be pleased to see your ugly mug again.’
‘The feeling’s mutual. Can you let Ballard know he’s to telephone me as soon as he gets back?’
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