Authors: Laura Wilson
Stratton's War (60 page)
‘You can’t do that,’ said Abie, hoarsely.
‘My dear fellow,’ said Forbes-James, silkily, ‘I assure you I can.’
Abie cast a pleading look at Stratton, who nodded. ‘You must ask yourself,’ continued Forbes-James, ‘whether it is worth taking such a gamble. If everything I have been saying is, as you say, balls, then you have nothing to fear. But if it should - as it will - turn out to be true, then . . .’ Forbes-James shrugged. ‘It is, of course, entirely your decision.’
‘That’s bending the law. Perverting the course of justice.’
‘We are at war, Mr Marks. The course of justice has altered. It’s a serious decision and we shall be happy to wait while you consider. However,’ he added, as Marks stood up, ‘We would prefer it if you were to remain seated.’
Watching Abie, who had resumed his seat and had his head in his hands, Stratton felt almost sorry for him. He glanced at Forbes-James, who was staring impassively ahead and, feeling that he couldn’t just sit there - apart from anything else, sitting the wrong way round was crippling him - he got off the chair and wandered across the room to lean against the wall. Feeling in his pocket for his cigarettes, his fingers closed around the little scarf that Monica had knitted for her doll. A scarf and knickers to match, he thought, eyeing the doll on Abie’s filing cabinet and remembering his visit to his daughter’s room. Except that this doll probably had silk knickers . . . Like its predecessor, Abie’s doll had yellow hair and blue eyes - perhaps all dolls did, but the hard pink sheen of the skin seemed less glossy. Perhaps it was made of a different material. Moving closer, he saw that it was covered with dust, which had settled in the folds of the frock and clung, in a grey film, to the face and the pudgy, toddlerish limbs. Noting, out of the corner of his eye, that Abie had lifted his head and was watching him, he raised his hand and, very deliberately, ran a finger over the wooden surface of the filing cabinet before holding it up for inspection: clean. Then, reaching over, he picked up the doll and, smoothing the dust from its skirt, which was made from some sort of stiff material, raised it a modest half-inch to look at the petticoat beneath, and the - yes - silk bloomers. Not a bad hiding place, thought Stratton.
Slowly, with the doll in his arms, he turned to face Abie. ‘Nothing but the best, indeed. Only she’s not very clean, is she? I think she’s been here for quite a while.’ He thought afterwards that he wouldn’t, for the life of him, have been able to describe Abie’s expression at that moment, but it certainly made the hairs on the back of his neck stand to attention. He was aware, also, that Forbes-James, who had been staring at him with incredulity, had become very still. ‘Oh, you beautiful doll,’ he murmured, ‘you great big beautiful doll.’ Raising his voice, he said, ‘Shame you’ve let it get so dirty, Abie. You really ought to buy that boy of yours a feather duster.’
‘Take your hands off that!’ Abie rose to his feet and stood, puce and rigid with fury, his eyes bulging. ‘It’s for my little girl. You’ve got no right.’
‘Oh,’ said Stratton, turning the doll upside down so that its skirts fanned out around its midriff and its legs stuck up in the air, ‘I think I have. This might have started off as a present, but now - if I’m not very much mistaken - it’s evidence.’
‘You dirty bastard!’ Abie stormed round the desk towards Stratton and was about to lay hands on the doll when Forbes-James stood up and said calmly, ‘Sit down,’ and Stratton saw that he had a gun in his hand. Astonished, he looked from the gun to Forbes-James’s set face. He’d been quite prepared to restrain Abie, and, if necessary, slap him about a bit, but he had no idea that his new superior carried, and was prepared to use, firearms.
Forbes-James motioned with the gun for Abie to return to his chair, which he did, walking backwards, his face draining of colour until it was the shade and sheen of unflavoured junket. ‘You going to shoot me?’ he asked.
‘Not,’ said Forbes-James, in a matter-of-fact voice, ‘unless it becomes necessary.’
Stratton waited until Abie was seated - Forbes-James had remained standing - then reached under the doll’s skirts and pulled down her drawers. Underneath, he found several pieces of thick, buff-coloured paper: identity cards and a ration book. ‘Well, well,’ he said, holding them up. ‘Full house! In the names of Eunice Holroyd, Gordon Marchant, and . . . one Arthur Symmonds. And a ration book for him, too.’ He glanced at Forbes-James, and received an almost imperceptible nod telling him to continue. ‘I’ve been hearing quite a lot about Mr Symmonds lately, Abie. What do you know about him?’
Abie shook his head. ‘You’ve got the man’s papers hidden in your office,’ said Stratton. ‘Or did they just fly up the doll’s skirt when you weren’t looking and tuck themselves in of their own accord?’
Abie’s breathing was audible now. ‘Well?’ said Stratton. ‘Let’s have it.’
‘I don’t know anything about him.’ Abie coughed. ‘Chap I know sells identity cards . . .’
Stratton returned the doll to the filing cabinet. ‘Pack it in, Abie. You made a big mistake keeping Symmonds’ documents. You should have burnt them along with the hat and the blankets, but you got greedy, didn’t you? Thought you’d make a little extra by selling them on.’
‘I don’t know what you mean. Bloke wanted to sell, so I obliged him. Same as the others.’
‘I’m not interested in the others, Abie - though,’ Stratton added, pocketing the cards, ‘I’ll keep them all the same. Just tell me about Mr Symmonds.’
Watching the man’s face, Stratton was reminded of how, as a boy, he’d seen the body of a decapitated hen continue to run around the farmyard, the movements - or, in Abie’s case, the words - purely reflexive. Even the threat of death didn’t stop him ducking and weaving; the habit was too ingrained.
‘We know,’ said Forbes-James, ‘that you killed Cecil Duke, also known as Arthur Symmonds, sometime in March, and buried his body under some slabs in the crypt of the church of Our Lady and St. Peter in Eastcastle Street. Sir Neville’s handkerchief was found on the body. He’s told us all about it. So, Mr Marks,’ Forbes-James glanced momentarily at the gun in his hand, ‘I shall not ask again: what have you got to tell us?’
Abie’s face, which had turned from junket to an unhealthy cheesy colour, was sweating, but his tone was still insouciant. ‘He asked me for help,’ said Abie. ‘Friend in trouble . . . What would you do?’
‘When,’ asked Forbes-James, ‘did you become acquainted?’
‘At my club.’ Forbes-James coughed. ‘Nightclub,’ added Abie.
‘Would that be the Blue Lagoon?’ asked Stratton.
Abie inclined his head. ‘That’s right. We got talking.’
Forbes-James looked pained. ‘What was he doing there?’
‘What anyone does at a nightclub. Enjoying himself.’
‘What did you talk about?’ asked Forbes-James.
‘Mutual interests,’ said Abie.
‘Such as . . . ?’ asked Forbes-James. ‘I can’t imagine you found much in common.’
‘Oh . . .’ Abie shrugged. ‘This and that. You know how it is, gentlemen.’
Even when he’s cornered, thought Stratton, he still can’t resist . . . Any more front and he’d need a pier. ‘Goods and services?’ he suggested.
‘I believe that came into it.’
‘Boys?’
‘Now, Mr Stratton.’ Abie assumed an expression of the utmost virtue. ‘You know I’ve never had nothing to do with that.’
‘With what?’
‘Kiddies.’
‘Young men, then. At a price.’
Abie shook his head in a sorrowful manner.
‘Stop pissing about, Abie,’ said Stratton. ‘Did you, or did you not, procure boys for Sir Neville Apse?’
‘I never—’
‘The truth, Mr Marks, if you will,’ said Forbes-James. ‘As you know, we already have a full confession from Sir Neville, and I’m sure you’ll agree that his word is likely to carry rather more weight than yours. So . . .’ he gestured for Marks to speak.
‘We had some . . . mutual acquaintances, yes.’
‘Mutual acquaintances as well as mutual interests?’ said Stratton. ‘Very cosy.’ Deciding to step up the pace, he strode to the desk and thumped it with his fist. ‘This isn’t a fucking Rotary Club!’ Leaning towards Abie, he grabbed his tie and yanked it so that the man’s face was an inch from his own. ‘Get on with it!’
Released, Abie fell back into his seat, coughing.
‘Did you, or did you not, supply Apse with male whores?’
Spluttering, Abie nodded.
‘Yes or no?’
‘Yes.’
‘You had an arrangement?’ asked Forbes-James.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And did you send George Wallace and John Booth to collect a box from Miss Morgan on Sir Neville’s instructions?’
‘Yes.’
‘And, also on his instructions, did you kill Arthur Symmonds - whose papers we have here - and dispose of his body?’
‘On my life . . .’
‘Your life, Mr Marks, will be entirely worthless unless you tell us the truth. After all,’ Forbes-James’s voice softened, ‘it’s Sir Neville we’re interested in, not you. As you yourself said, you would never knowingly consort with an organisation such as the Right Club. In fact, you mentioned that you are regarded as something of a . . . Champion, I believe you said, amongst your own people . . .’ Forbes-James paused to make sure that Abie had registered this. ‘I am sure that they, more than most, would wish you to help us in removing the Nazi menace, and in the absence of Sir Neville I am sure you will appreciate having other friends in similarly advantageous positions. After all, who knows what benefits might accrue . . . ?’ Forbes-James waved his hand airily, as if summoning imaginary ranks of dignitaries to lay honours and privileges at Abie’s feet. Very clever, thought Stratton. First the big stick, then the promise of a carrot. ‘As I said,’ continued Forbes-James, ‘we are your friends.’
‘Friends,’ Abie repeated sourly. ‘You’re no friends of mine.’
‘I understand your distrust, Mr Marks,’ said Forbes-James, gently. ‘You’ve told us Sir Neville was your friend - or that you thought he was - but it has proved otherwise. We, on the other hand, share a purpose. We are all acting in the national interest against a common, and very dangerous, enemy. Your help in such an endeavour would not be forgotten.’
For a moment, Stratton thought Forbes-James’s appeal wasn’t going to work - after all a confession was a confession, however you dressed up the reason for it, and Abie wasn’t stupid . . . As he watched the man’s face, he almost fancied he could hear his thoughts: knowing he was fucked both ways, Abie was trying to disregard his instincts and calculate which was the lesser of two evils.
Finally, he spoke. ‘I don’t know about you two gentlemen, but I could do with a drink.’
Recognising this as capitulation, Forbes-James said, ‘Of course. Mr Stratton, would you mind?’
‘Scotch,’ said Abie.
‘Make it a double,’ said Forbes-James, generously. ‘And I’ll have the same, if I may.’
As he went to the filing cabinet and poured the drinks, including one for himself (thanks for asking), Stratton reflected that this was as strange as it got.
‘Excellent,’ Forbes-James sniffed his whisky appreciatively. Stratton slid Abie’s glass across the desk, where it was seized and gulped, and took a sip from his own. It was, unsurprisingly, as good as Forbes-James’s. Stratton wondered, briefly, if it came from the same source, albeit by a circuitous route. Forbes-James produced his cigarette case and offered it first to Abie, and then to him.
‘Now,’ he said, ‘if we’re all quite comfortable, I think we may proceed. You were telling us about Mr Symmonds.’
‘Sir Neville asked me as a favour,’ said Abie. ‘Back in February. Symmonds had been to see him. They’d been friends in the past. Close friends, if you take my meaning. Sir Neville told me Symmonds had been in films, and he’d gone to America to try and get work because he wasn’t doing any good here, but he never had no luck there either, so he come back. He gives Sir Neville this sob story, how he was broke and all the rest of it, you see?’ That, Stratton thought, must have been when Sir Neville gave him the handkerchief. He could just imagine the man regarding his washed-up old lover down his long, patrician conk and flicking out the linen square with the very tips of his fingers in the man’s direction. ‘Well,’ Abie continued, ‘Sir Neville wasn’t having it, so this Symmonds got shirty, saying he’d got letters and some old film - evidence of the two of them - and he’d make things nasty for him if he didn’t cough up. Sir Neville sends him packing, but then he gets worried, and that’s when he comes to me and asks me to sort it out.’
Abie stopped for another slurp of whisky, and Forbes-James said, ‘How did he intend you to sort it out?’
‘Said he’d leave that to me.’
‘Did he pay you?’
Abie nodded.
‘How much?’
‘Three thousand. It wasn’t hard to find Symmonds - the silly bastard had only told Sir Neville where he was living, hadn’t he, cause he thought he was going to help him - Sir Neville led him on a bit, see, at first . . . So I find out where Symmonds drinks and arrange to run into him, and I tell him Sir Neville’s changed his mind and I’ve got what he wants, and he comes along with me, good as gold. We go to this place I’ve got in Romilly Street - I’ve told the girls I don’t want them around for the night - and then I get down to business.’
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