Authors: Laura Wilson

Stratton's War (58 page)

BOOK: Stratton's War

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‘Not me. Never met the man.’

‘I think you have,’ said Stratton. ‘You’ve been selling him stuff you’ve knocked off. And in February or March, you helped him with something else as well, didn’t you?’

‘Not me, sir. I’m telling you, I’ve never heard of him.’

‘Come off it,’ said Stratton easily. ‘I appreciate that you might be a little worried about talking to me, Thomas, but I can assure you it’ll be better in the long run.’

Curran didn’t even look up, just shook his head. Feeling an utter shit, Stratton said, ‘Where are you from, Thomas?’

‘Camberwell.’

‘Not here. Your family, in Ireland.’

‘County Clare, but my father fought in the last war. London Irish, First Battalion.’

‘Good for him.’

‘He was at the Battle of Loos.’

‘Kicking a football over the top, was he?’ Stratton stared at Curran, who blinked and lowered his eyes. ‘People can change their minds, Thomas. If we look hard enough, we might find that you’re pals with the IRA as well as with Mr Marks.’

Curran looked up, eyes wide with alarm. ‘You can’t do that.’

‘Oh yes I can. New rules, Thomas. Defence of the Realm. Regulation Number 18B to be precise. We don’t need to charge you, we just get our friends in high places to sign a piece of paper, and then we’ve got you for as long as we want. And don’t tell me you’ll be safe in prison. Marks has friends in there, too, and you’ll be a sitting duck. You’ll be walking like a duck, too, when they’ve finished with you. If you’re walking at all, that is.’

Curran stared at him. His face had taken on a greenish tinge. ‘You wouldn’t.’

‘I shouldn’t bet on it if I were you.’

‘You bastard,’ said Curran, thickly. ‘You fucking bastard.’

Stratton looked shocked. ‘Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?’ he asked.

‘My mother’s dead.’

‘Died of shame, did she?’ He put his head on one side and looked at Curran. After a moment, he squatted down beside him, and took out his notebook. ‘Now, you just cast your mind back to February, and tell me what happened with Mr Marks.’

Curran glared at him, and for a moment, Stratton thought he was going to chance it. ‘The church,’ he prompted. ‘Eastcastle Street. The body.’

‘Look,’ pleaded Curran. ‘I had to help, didn’t I? Mr Marks come to fetch me himself, said I had to go with him.’

‘Where was this?’

‘Holloway Road. About nine o’clock. I was on my way to the Nag’s Head, pitch dark and I never spotted the car till Mr Marks comes and tells me I’ve got to go with him.’

‘Did he threaten you?’

‘Didn’t need to, did he?’ Curran looked resigned. ‘You don’t argue with Abie Marks.’

‘Do you remember what day it was?’

‘Friday night, but I don’t remember the date. We’d been on the church job for a week - started on the Monday so it must have been . . . sometime round the beginning of March. That’s as near as I can remember.’

‘What happened?’

‘I went to the car with Mr Marks and he told me to get in. I asked where we was going, and he said I’d see when we got there, or something like that, so I thought I’d better keep quiet.’

‘Was anyone else there?’

‘No. Just him. We went up through Camden to the West End, and I thought we was going to McIntyre’s yard. I told him I didn’t have no keys or nothing, but he said it didn’t matter. Then we go into Soho, and he stops in Romilly Street. I asked what was going on, but he just said to get out of the car, so I did, and he takes me to this flat . . .’

‘What number was it?’ asked Stratton.

‘Don’t know. It was too dark. Middle of the street somewhere. First floor. Small place, poor looking.’ Curran ran his hands over his face. ‘I’ll never forget it,’ he muttered, staring at the ground. ‘It was horrible. I’ve never seen anything like it.’

‘Like what?’

‘Horrible.’ Curran shook his bowed head slowly. ‘We’d gone up there in the pitch dark. Wasn’t no light on the stairs. Then we get inside, and the blackouts was done, but when Mr Marks turns on the light, I can see there’s a man in there. There was some chairs and a table at the side of the room, and he was sort of wedged up in one of the chairs, slumped against the wall. I could see he was dead. I must of said something - “What’s going on?” - and Mr Marks said, “You’re going to give me a hand with this.” I thought I was going to be sick when I see the top of the bloke’s head, all slimy looking, like liver or something. Horrible.’

‘He’d been hit on the head, had he?’

‘I suppose so. I don’t know. It looked like it must have been done with something big.’

‘You didn’t see a weapon?’

‘No, but it must of been an iron bar or a spade, something like that. There was blood on the wallpaper, all round his head.’

‘Was there any sign of a struggle? Other bloodstains?’

‘Not really. I saw some blood on the skirting under the table, and on the floor, but apart from that . . .’

‘Was the other furniture disturbed?’

‘There wasn’t much in the room. Just an armchair, and that looked all right to me. I asked Mr Marks what we was doing, and he said he wanted to get the body down into the car. I was shaking. I didn’t know what to do - I mean, I’d seen it, hadn’t I? I thought if I didn’t help Mr Marks it would be me next, my head bashed in. I couldn’t . . .’ Curran swallowed and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Next thing, Mr Marks went into the other room, that was off to the side - a kitchen or something - and he come out with a couple of blankets.’

‘What sort?’

‘Brownish. Khaki. Army blankets, I thought . . . I don’t know. Mr Marks tossed one of them over the bloke’s head, sort of wound it round. You know, for the blood, so it wouldn’t . . .’

‘Was the blood fresh?’

‘Not really. Sort of dull. Not dripping, nothing like that.’

‘Did the body smell at all?’

‘I didn’t notice it.’

‘What did the man look like?’

‘Just an ordinary bloke. He was wearing a suit. I was trying not to look. His hat was on the floor - it was just boards, no lino or nothing - Mr Marks picked it up and put it on the table. Upside down.’

‘Then what?’

Curran swallowed again. ‘Christ . . . Mr Marks told me to stand him up. I got my arms round him and pulled him upright.’

‘How did the body feel, when you were holding it?’

‘Jesus . . . Lumpy and heavy. Like a sack of potatoes. Flopping all over me it was. Mr Marks put the blanket round him. I said, what about his feet, because it wasn’t long enough and they were sort of sticking out. He said it was all right - told me to get hold of the ankles. He give me some rope to tie them together, and he took the head end . . . We got him across the room and down the stairs. Then Mr Marks said to leave him by the door and he’d check it was all clear. The car was stopped right outside, so he went and opened the boot and we got him in there.’

‘Did anyone see you?’

‘No-one about. Even if there was . . .’ Curran didn’t bother to finish the sentence: even if they had seen something, none of the locals would dare to let on.

‘Mr Marks told me to wait in the car while he went back up, so I sat there. He come back down and opened the boot again, for the bloke’s hat, then he got in and just drove off. Never said anything. We went across Oxford Street, and when he stopped I could see the church where we’d been working, so I knew . . . There was this hole in the wall, where we’d put planks across to get in and out—’

‘So Marks knew you were working in the crypt of Our Lady and St. Peter?’

Curran nodded. ‘He come there the week before, when I was delivering the tools. I was by myself, thank God. I thought he wanted something, but he never said - just looked around a bit, asked me what we was doing . . . He put some money in the box - a note. I thought that was a bit odd with him being Jewish. I thought maybe it was for good luck or something, but after what we done I thought it was more his idea of a payment.’

‘What happened next?’

‘Mr Marks told me to move the planks, then we get the body out - that took a bit of doing. We get it through the gap and down the bit of slope to the crypt. There’d been a door there, but we’d had it off its hinges before because of the job, and it was propped against the wall. Then Mr Marks said to put the . . .’ Curran gestured at an invisible corpse at his feet, ‘on the floor, and go and get the shovels. He gives me a torch to go and fetch them, then he showed me the slabs he wanted digging up.’

‘In the dark?’

‘He was holding the torch first, then he saw I need help, so he’s put the torch on the ground. They was big slabs, heavy, and it took a while. I don’t know how I done it - I’m shaking, and there’s this thing lying there on the ground . . . We done it in the end. There was soil underneath so I dug a hole, then Mr Marks said he wanted lime putting in. I said it wouldn’t work—’

‘What do you mean?’

‘He wanted it destroyed, didn’t he? I tried to tell him it wasn’t the right sort of lime, but he said to shut my trap and get on with it, so I did. Then we took the blankets off . . . Couldn’t see too clearly, thank God, just touching him was bad enough . . . We got him covered up with earth, and put the slabs back, but it was like I could still see him. I thought I’d never sleep again, after.’

‘What happened to the blankets?’

‘Mr Marks told me to put them back in the boot. Said he was going to burn them. And the hat. He said . . .’ Curran stared at Stratton, hollow-eyed. ‘Said he’d burn me, too,’ he whispered, ‘if I told anyone.’

‘He won’t,’ said Stratton. ‘Did he say anything else?’

‘No. He drove off. I took a bus home.’ Curran put his head in his hands. ‘What the fuck do I do now?’

‘Have you got a family?’ asked Stratton.

‘Two boys. Just babies.’

‘What about brothers and sisters?’

‘Two sisters. One here, one in Liverpool.’

‘Then I suggest you go and stay with her.’

‘What about the wife and kids?’

‘Take them with you.’

‘Mr Marks’ll come after me.’

‘No he won’t. You have my word.’

Curran shook his head.

‘Don’t you trust me?’

‘You?’ Curran looked incredulous. ‘Joking, are you?’

‘No.’ Feeling even more of a shit, Stratton added, ‘You may not believe it, but I’m sorry about all this. Needs must, I’m afraid. You go up North for a few months, and I guarantee you’ll come to no harm.’

‘You can’t guarantee nothing,’ said Curran.

‘On this occasion, I can,’ Stratton hoped this sounded as true as he desperately wanted to believe it was. ‘But you’d better piss off sharpish. And when you come back, no more pilfering, or I will have you.’

‘No choice, have I?’ said Curran sourly. ‘What about my work?’

‘Hand in your notice,’ said Stratton. ‘There’ll be work in Liverpool, if you decide to stay. In any case, you’ll probably be called up with the next lot, won’t you?’

Walking away, Stratton felt sick with self-disgust. He wasn’t a saint, and God knows, he’d threatened enough people, done enough deals - that was commonplace to get a result - but
this
? . . . Fucking hell. He had no illusions about being a copper but the Regulation 18B business really stuck in his craw. Forbes-James, he thought, wouldn’t have turned a hair, but it made him sick. Needs must, he’d said to Curran. The end justifies. Does it really, he wondered, shaking his head. I’m buggered if I know.

Suddenly feeling he couldn’t bear to go back to Dolphin Square without having a bit of time on his own, he went into a café on Monmouth Street and ordered a cup of tea. Curran had said that the dead man flopped all over him, so the body must have been fairly fresh. Abie, presumably, had lured him into the flat in Romilly Street on the pretext of receiving money from Sir Neville, and bludgeoned him to death. Wallace hadn’t mentioned any blankets in the car, or a hat, but perhaps Abie had disposed of them before taking the car to him for cleaning. He wouldn’t have had to burn them - just dump them on a bomb site somewhere and no-one would be any the wiser. Wallace had said the car seat was dirty, but he’d denied seeing any blood. There must have been traces, and unless Abie had organised a clean-up job there would be blood at the Romilly Street flat, too. Not that he held out much hope of being authorised to go and check. Perhaps he should go on his own. No, he thought. I landed myself in this because I used my initiative, and I’m buggered if I’m going to do it a second time. It occurred to him then that he could, quite legitimately, return to Great Marlborough Street to check on Ballard’s progress with the Sussex dentists. At least it would put off his trip to Dolphin Square for another hour, which was better than nothing.

SIXTY-EIGHT

Jones broke off his conversation with the desk sergeant as Stratton entered the station. ‘Had a good time with Wallace, did you?’

BOOK: Stratton's War

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