Authors: Laura Wilson
Stratton's War (59 page)
Stratton curled his lip. ‘Haven’t had so much fun since my Auntie Annie caught her tits in the mangle.’
‘Well, you’ve got more delights in store. Ballard was just asking for you. You’ll catch him if you’re quick.’
‘Thanks.’ Dashing down the corridor, Stratton heard laughter coming from his office, and, opening the door, almost collided with Ballard’s backside, which was sticking out because he was leaning over Gaines, who, seated in the desk chair, had her arms about his neck. Hearing the noise, they leapt apart, smoothing their tunics, scarlet with embarrassment.
‘I’m glad some people are enjoying themselves,’ said Stratton.
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ Ballard stammered. ‘We were just . . .’
Stratton raised an inquiring eyebrow. ‘Just . . . ?’
Ballard stared at the floor. Gaines coughed. ‘Actually, sir, we were celebrating.’
‘Celebrating what? Your engagement?’
‘No, sir. Constable Ballard’s made a discovery.’
‘Evidently,’ said Stratton, dryly. ‘But I’d prefer it if he didn’t examine his findings in my office.’
‘No, sir,’ said Gaines, who had turned, if possible, even redder than before. ‘It’s the dentist.’
‘Turn up for the books, sir,’ said Ballard, when Gaines had been despatched to fetch a cup of tea and Stratton, promising discretion, had delivered a short lecture about not carrying on like love’s young dream in front of all and sundry as he - or, more probably, Gaines - risked dismissal if found out. ‘I contacted the dentists in the Haywards Heath area and there was one - Joseph Dwyer - who’d had Cecil Duke as a patient. Recognised the photographs. Marvellous how they can do that, sir - know their own handiwork. It all matches up with the notes, so we’ve found our man.’
‘That’s excellent. Well done. Any luck with the passenger lists?’
‘Not yet, sir. Miss Gaines,’ Ballard’s cheeks, which had returned to their usual colour, turned slightly pink again, ‘is working on it. We’ve found your man from the barber’s shop, though. Mr Rogers. He’s in a boarding house in Bloomsbury.’
For all the good it’ll do, thought Stratton. Aloud, he said, ‘Splendid. Keep up the good work. But remember, no more canoodling.’
‘No, sir.’
‘No sir is right. Now bugger off.’ Ballard grinned and exited, leaving Stratton shaking his head. All right, he thought, Cecil Duke was killed by Abie Marks, who was acting on instructions from Sir Neville. And Marks had sent Wallace to retrieve the films from Mabel Morgan for Sir Neville. Damage limitation. But it hadn’t done any good because they’d failed, and in any case Bobby Chadwick had gone to Montague to get his revenge . . . Left to himself, Stratton would get to work on Sir Neville - tell him Marks had confessed and implicated him, and then sit back and watch the dominoes come down, one by one, but he was willing to bet that Forbes-James had no intention of giving him the chance to do any such thing. A surge of frustration at his impotence made him slam a fist on his desk, then jump up and kick it. ‘What’s the point?’ he said, between gritted teeth. ‘What is the fucking point?’
‘Inspector?’ Stratton turned to see Policewoman Gaines in the doorway, teacup in hand, looking startled. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean to interrupt.’
‘It’s all right.’ Stratton cradled his bruised hand. ‘Just . . . letting off steam, that’s all.’
‘I’ve brought your tea.’ Gaines held out the cup gingerly, as if offering a treat to a dog of uncertain temperament. Stratton told her to close the door behind her, and repeated the lecture he’d given Ballard, using slightly different words and with a good deal more awkwardness. He opted for what he hoped was avuncular jocularity in place of the men-of-the-world tack he’d taken with Ballard, but Gaines refused to meet his eye, and seemed to be near tears by the time he’d finished. ‘Don’t look so worried,’ he said. ‘This isn’t an official reprimand. Just be careful, that’s all. Ballard’s a nice chap,’ he added, and then, realising that if he wasn’t careful he’d turn into the father of the bride (I hope you’ll be very happy together), said, ‘It’s not the end of the world.’ Gaines, who clearly thought it was, stifled a sob and fled. Stratton collapsed in his chair, feeling that, despite the mildness of his tone and the rightness of his observations, he’d somehow been a bully and a brute. Men were so much easier to deal with . . . Apart from Forbes-James and his ilk, of course.
He was still wondering about the man who had died in the fire and been wrongly identified as Duke. He supposed he could ask the Sussex police to come up with a list of missing persons for 1935, but they’d probably never find out who the stranger was. It would remain a mystery, like the true cause of Mabel’s death . . . Bollocks. And he couldn’t even go and see Abie Marks without asking Forbes-James’s permission first . . . It was no good. He couldn’t put off Dolphin Square any longer. As he was swilling down the rest of his tea, the telephone rang.
‘I was hoping I’d catch you,’ said Forbes-James. ‘How did you get on?’
‘Curran confirmed Wallace’s story, and he said Marks asked for his help removing a body from a flat in Romilly Street in his car, burying it in the crypt of Our Lady and St. Peter. And it’s definitely Duke, sir. The dental records confirm it.’
‘In that case, I’d like to speak to Marks this evening. We need to get this wrapped up as soon as possible. Do you know where he’s to be found?’
‘He’s got a billiard hall in Soho. Does most of his business from there. Do you want me to bring him in?’
‘No. Wait for me at Great Marlborough Street. I’ve got a couple of things to see to, and then I’m on my way. We can discuss how to handle him when we’re in the car.’
SIXTY-NINE
Abie Marks looked as plump and shiny as ever as he ushered Stratton and Forbes-James into his office at the back of the billiard hall. Hastily altering the look of apprehension on his face to an overdone expression of eager friendliness, he despatched one of his boys for decent chairs and made a great play of offering drinks and telling them what an unexpected pleasure it was to have a visit from such company. He kept calling Forbes-James ‘Brigadier’, and would probably have promoted him to Field Marshal if Stratton hadn’t told him to put a sock in it. Forbes-James himself remained silent, managing to convey by his expression that he found all this mildly amusing, but not enough to bother with any sort of response. It reminded Stratton of Sir Neville, and he wondered, not for the first time, how it was achieved. Perhaps, he thought, it was something you learnt at public school, or maybe you inherited it from your parents in the same way as a lesser person might get, say, freckles or brown eyes.
While they were waiting for the chairs, he glanced round the office and noted, with surprise, that the large blonde doll he’d noticed on his visit back in June was still staring glassily from her position behind the bottles on the filing cabinet. ‘Got attached, did you?’ he asked Marks, nodding at it.
‘Eh?’
‘Goldilocks there. You told me your daughter’s birthday was back in the summer.’
‘That’s right. It’s a different one. For Christmas.’
‘Starting a collection, is she?’ said Stratton.
‘She likes them. Plays hospitals.’ Abie rubbed his hands together. ‘Nothing but the best for my baby girl.’
‘So I see.’
‘You got kids, Inspector?’
Stratton was prevented from answering by the arrival of a sulky looking youth carrying two gilt chairs. Abie made a great fuss of positioning them exactly and dusting the padded seats with a large silk handkerchief before inviting Stratton and Forbes-James to sit down. By way of a counter to this, Stratton twirled his chair round with a flick of his wrist and straddled it, as he had seen American cops do in films, arms across the top. It was bloody uncomfortable, but, he felt, worthwhile.
‘Now, gentlemen,’ said Abie, leaning back in his own chair, ‘What can I do for you?’
Forbes-James accentuated his faintly amused look by raising an eyebrow. ‘Actually,’ he said, pausing to take out a cigarette, and tapping it thoughtfully on the silver case before transferring it to his mouth, ‘at this point, it’s rather more a question of what you can do for yourself.’
‘Oh?’ Abie seemed nonplussed for a moment, then, looking around him, said, ‘It may not be a palace, but I rub along.’
‘Yes,’ said Forbes-James meditatively, ‘but for how much longer?’
‘We none of us know that, do we?’ Abie made an expansive gesture, then cast his eyes to the heavens, adding, ‘If it’s got your number on it, well . . .’ and shrugged. ‘These are troubled times, gentlemen.’
‘They are indeed,’ said Forbes-James. ‘However, I was talking about matters rather closer to home than the Luftwaffe.’
Abie chuckled. ‘A bomb in the bedroom is a bit too bloody close for my taste, Brigadier. If you don’t mind my saying so.’
‘I was referring to Sir Neville Apse. He is, I’m afraid, no longer in a position to protect you.’ Stratton, who’d been aware that this was coming, was none the less impressed by the finality with which it was uttered.
Abie stared at him. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘What I’m talking about, Mr Marks, is treason.’
‘
Treason?
’ The facsimile of bewilderment on Marks’s face was replaced by the real thing. ‘I may have pulled a few strokes in my time, but I’d never—’
Treason?
’ The facsimile of bewilderment on Marks’s face was replaced by the real thing. ‘I may have pulled a few strokes in my time, but I’d never—’
‘Aiding an organisation known as the Right Club, which—’
‘Here, wait a minute!’
Forbes-James held up his hand for silence. ‘Which is a pro-fascist body whose members are known to have engaged in acts prejudicial both to the public safety and the defence of the realm by abetting and giving succour to the enemy, Mr Marks.’
‘Pro-fascist? Listen, I don’t want nothing to do with those bastards. I fought them when they come in the East End in thirty-six. We knew they was evil before you lot did. I did time for it, too - for doing what the whole country’s doing now, fighting the Fascists! It was us and the Communists saw them off. Champion of the Jews, that’s what they called me.’ He thumped his chest with a fist.
There was a moment’s silence, and then Forbes-James said, almost to himself, ‘And what will they call you now, one wonders, when they find out?’
‘Find out what? There’s nothing to find out. I hate those bastards. ’ He put out his hands in a gesture of appeal. ‘Come on, Mr Stratton, you know that.’
Stratton, who did indeed know that, folded his arms, shook his head, and stared back in silence. ‘Surely,’ he lied, ‘you knew that Sir Neville was a leading member of the Right Club?’
Abie shook his head emphatically. ‘Course I didn’t. He’s not going to tell me that, is he? If I’d known, I’d never . . .’
‘You’d never . . . ?’
‘I wouldn’t have anything to do with him, would I?’
‘And what exactly did you have to do with him, Mr Marks?’ asked Forbes-James.
‘We was friends, that’s all.’
‘Friends?’ Really, thought Stratton, Forbes-James couldn’t have injected the word with more disbelief if Abie had claimed to be pals with the Pope.
‘Acquaintances, then. Business acquaintances.’
‘I see. And the nature of this business was what?’
‘I’ve had nothing to do with those bastards. You ask anyone.’
‘We’ve asked Sir Neville. He’s made a full confession.’
Stratton blinked, glad that Abie was fully occupied with staring at Forbes-James and so hadn’t noticed the astonishment that must have shown on his own face. Christ, he thought. He himself had played fast and loose with the truth often enough to get a confession, but he’d never have dared pull a stunt like that over a suspect with such connections. Unless, of course, it were true - which was, he reflected, entirely possible, but it would have been nice if Forbes-James had told him.
‘It’s lies,’ said Abie.
‘How do you know it’s lies when we haven’t told you what he said?’
‘If it’s anything to do with those fuckers, it’s lies. He’s a fascist, I’m a Jew. Of course it’s lies.’
Forbes-James put his head on one side, as if he were thinking. ‘That’s a point, of course. However, your best chance - in fact, your only chance - of avoiding a charge of treason, is to tell us the truth about your association with Sir Neville. You can’t save him - although, if what you’re saying is true, I can’t imagine why you should want to - but you can save yourself.’
Abie narrowed his eyes. ‘How do I know you’re telling the truth?’
‘You don’t. But I advise you to trust us, because right now, Mr Marks, we’re the only friends you’ve got.’
‘Balls!’
‘I wouldn’t be so sure about that. Inspector Stratton here is empowered to arrest you here and now, without charge, under Defence Regulation 18B, and to hold you for as long as we deem necessary. And if we do decide to charge you with treason, well . . . I’m sure I don’t need to tell you the penalty for that. Of course, we may not, but surely it’s occurred to you that once the news of your arrest - and the reason for your arrest - becomes common knowledge, your business interests will be, let us say, jeopardised at the very least. Inspector Stratton has been kind enough to furnish me with a few details of how your . . . enterprises . . . work, and it seems to me that your colleagues, or perhaps I should say, ex-colleagues, will, not unnaturally, wish to form other allegiances, and as for your competitors, well . . . I imagine, like all good businessmen, they will relish the opportunity of expanding their empires.’
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