Authors: Laura Wilson
Stratton's War (61 page)
‘Business?’
‘I’ve shown him the money, and then I ask him - nicely - where the film is, and the letters, and we banter a bit, and then he tries to get nasty with me and says he won’t hand the stuff over because it’s not enough. So then
I
get nasty, and, well . . .’ Abie spread his hands. ‘I think you know the rest.’
I
get nasty, and, well . . .’ Abie spread his hands. ‘I think you know the rest.’
‘Did he tell you where the stuff was?’
‘I didn’t give him much choice.’
‘You tortured him?’
‘I persuaded him.’
‘I see,’ said Forbes-James. ‘And what did he tell you?’
‘About the Morgan woman. So I do the necessary, and—’
‘You mean, you disposed of the body?’
‘I done that, then I go back to Sir Neville. I told him we ought to sort it out, but he says that the Morgan woman never knew about him and Symmonds.’
‘That’s what Sir Neville called him, is it? Symmonds?’
‘Yes. Why?’
Forbes-James shook his head. ‘Not important. Let’s keep to the matter in hand. You say Sir Neville wasn’t concerned about the fact that Miss Morgan had these things in her possession?’
‘Not then. That was later.’
‘When?’
‘May sometime. He said some other bloke had been on to him, and he wanted me to get the stuff from Miss Morgan, so I send Wallace and the boy.’
‘And Miss Morgan ends up dead,’ said Stratton.
‘I wasn’t happy about it,’ said Abie. ‘Not happy at all.’
‘Leaving that aside,’ said Forbes-James, ‘this “other bloke” . . . Did Sir Neville mention any names?’
Abie shook his head. ‘Not a dicky bird. I thought it must be a pal of Symmonds, and I asked him why not go after him, but he said it might happen again with some other bloke, and he wanted me to get hold of the stuff so we could destroy it.’
‘And he paid you?’
Abie nodded.
‘He can’t have been very happy,’ said Stratton, ‘when you told him you’d failed to get it back.’
‘He wasn’t. But I told him, that’s the way it is.’
‘You didn’t return the money?’
‘What do you think?’
‘I think you kept it, and you threatened him with what you knew.’
‘Mr Stratton! I told you, we was friends.’ Abie drained his glass, and was about to put it back on the table when a thought appeared to strike him. ‘Wait a bit. It wasn’t one of Symmonds’s chums, was it? It was that fascist lot. They done it.’
‘Now, Mr Marks.’ For a moment, Forbes-James looked almost roguish. ‘We really can’t discuss that. National security, and so forth.’ He turned to Stratton, ‘If you’ve finished your drink, Inspector, I think we can leave Mr Marks in peace.’
SEVENTY
Walking back to Tite Street, Diana barely noticed the ruins of the morning. She fled upstairs - no post, thank God - and stood in her tiny kitchen, lighting cigarette after cigarette with shaking hands. F-J had told her to go home at five, rest for a few hours, and be back at Dolphin Square by ten o’clock. He’d told Rosemary to collect her in the car. And - even more disturbing - he’d telephoned Claude again.
Could
he have heard her in the flat that morning? She’d asked herself this a thousand times in the course of the day. She’d thought she’d left quietly, but she couldn’t really remember. She’d just fled. If F-J had looked out of the window at the right moment he would have seen her as she ran across Dolphin Square, and it would hardly take a genius to put two and two together.
Could
he have heard her in the flat that morning? She’d asked herself this a thousand times in the course of the day. She’d thought she’d left quietly, but she couldn’t really remember. She’d just fled. If F-J had looked out of the window at the right moment he would have seen her as she ran across Dolphin Square, and it would hardly take a genius to put two and two together.
Or if Claude had looked out of the window . . . Diana desperately wanted to believe that if he’d seen her running across the garden he wouldn’t have told F-J, but she didn’t. Although it didn’t have to be Claude; someone else - Dr Pyke, for instance - could have seen her and told F-J. It had taken her the best part of an hour to summon up the courage to return to his flat, and Margot had been there when she arrived. She’d excused her lateness with a story about air-raid damage to the windows at Tite Street, which F-J had, apparently, believed. As soon as she’d had the chance, she’d asked Margot, as casually as possible, whether there had been any visitors. Margot had said no, but all that really meant was that Claude must have left before she’d got there.
It didn’t prove anything, Diana thought. If Dr Pyke did see me, he could have told F-J before Margot arrived. Why did F-J want her back at such a late hour? He’d said he was going to Soho with Inspector Stratton to visit the gangster Abie Marks, and then he’d be back. If he did know she’d been listening, that could only mean one thing . . . except that he’d told Rosemary to pick her up, hadn’t he? So if the worst happened and she disappeared into thin air (she’d been trying so hard not to imagine the ways in which this might be engineered that her entire upper body was rigid with tension), Rosemary would be a witness of sorts. At least, she’d be the last one to see her . . .
She’d been avoiding F-J as much as she could all day. He hadn’t said anything, or hinted - but he wouldn’t, would he? He wouldn’t want her to panic. She was cornered. She’d gone over and over the possibilities for escape in her head, but the plain fact was, there was nowhere to run. She couldn’t tell Lally because that would put
her
in danger, and in any case, it wasn’t as if Lally could do anything to help her. Claude was out of the question. Perhaps she should bolt, get on a train to Hampshire and throw herself on Evie’s mercy. Diana hauled her dressing case and valise from under the bed and started throwing bits and pieces into them, then remembered Claude’s accusation of the morning: You made damn sure Evie Calthrop knew . . . F-J hadn’t denied it. Even if F-J didn’t know Evie personally, he knew people who did, and he had influence everywhere. Running to Hampshire would simply delay the inevitable and, besides, it wasn’t as if she could offer a credible explanation for suddenly turning up out of the blue. Diana dropped the pile of clothes onto the armchair and went back to the kitchen for her cigarettes and a cup of tea.
her
in danger, and in any case, it wasn’t as if Lally could do anything to help her. Claude was out of the question. Perhaps she should bolt, get on a train to Hampshire and throw herself on Evie’s mercy. Diana hauled her dressing case and valise from under the bed and started throwing bits and pieces into them, then remembered Claude’s accusation of the morning: You made damn sure Evie Calthrop knew . . . F-J hadn’t denied it. Even if F-J didn’t know Evie personally, he knew people who did, and he had influence everywhere. Running to Hampshire would simply delay the inevitable and, besides, it wasn’t as if she could offer a credible explanation for suddenly turning up out of the blue. Diana dropped the pile of clothes onto the armchair and went back to the kitchen for her cigarettes and a cup of tea.
It occurred to her, as she waited for the kettle to boil, that the only person she hadn’t actually lied to was Inspector Stratton. Edward. How peaceful he’d looked, asleep on F-J’s sofa, the lines in his face smoothed out . . . Surely he was someone she could trust? But what good would it do - she barely knew him, and anyway, despite his rank and experience, he was just as powerless against F-J and Claude as she. He might not even believe her.
Not that she could blame him. The whole thing was fantastic. She paced up and down, and then abruptly turned off the gas. Tea was no good - she needed something stronger. She sloshed some whisky into a glass, took a large swallow and felt slightly calmer.
Perhaps she was worrying needlessly; perhaps F-J and Claude had no idea about her eavesdropping, but then why, she asked herself for the umpteenth time, did F-J want to see her at such a late hour? Perhaps it was something to do with Apse. She remembered overhearing F-J that morning, asking Claude why Apse had done it. Such a risk . . . But perhaps that was part of it. She turned the glass between her palms, thoughtfully.
The sound of the siren interrupted her reverie. The sheer helplessness of her situation - encapsulated by the relentless warbling tone - made her furious, and, looking heavenward, she said aloud, ‘You could make me stop loving Claude, at least. Even if you won’t do anything else.’
She drained the rest of her whisky. Ridiculous to blame God - if he existed - for something that was entirely her own fault. ‘For heaven’s sake,’ she muttered. Moving purposefully, she collected her things together, donned her fur coat and descended briskly to the basement shelter, where she sat in a deckchair and avoided eye-contact by opening a book and turning a page from time to time.
Returning to her flat at half-past nine - it was a moonless night and very quiet, and pretending to read when she couldn’t concentrate was making her head ache - Diana repaired her make-up and sat on the bed to wait for the car. By the time she heard the horn at quarter to ten, fear had given way to numbness. With the dead weight of resignation in her stomach, she left the house and settled herself in the Bentley’s passenger seat next to Rosemary Legge-Brock, who proffered a hipflask. ‘Want some?’
‘Thanks. I must say, it was jolly nice of F-J to send you.’
‘Nice for you, you mean.’ Rosemary started the engine. ‘I was supposed to be meeting my chap. When I’ve delivered you I’ve got to go back to Soho for F-J and the Inspector. Have you been listening to the wireless? Mr Chamberlain’s terribly ill. Such a pity. But Daddy always said he was too much of a gentlemen to deal with a lot of thugs and gangsters.’
‘I suppose he did his best,’ said Diana. ‘Poor man.’ Taking another sip from the flask, she added, ‘Munich seems such a long time ago, doesn’t it? A different world.’
Pulling up outside Dolphin Square, Rosemary said, ‘F-J says can you go up to Apse’s flat and—’
‘Apse’s?’ Diana’s stomach lurched.
If you’re lucky, they’ll give you a warning
. . .
If you’re lucky, they’ll give you a warning
. . .
‘Yes. To collect some documents he’s left on his desk. F-J says they’ll be clearly marked. I offered to go myself, but he said they wouldn’t be ready.’
‘Where is Apse?’ Diana asked. She thought she’d managed to keep any trace of fear out of her voice but Rosemary said, ‘Gone home for a few days. Why, what’s up?’
‘Nothing. But how will I get in? I don’t have a key anymore.’
‘Spares.’ Rosemary took them out of her handbag. ‘From F-J. Oh, and he said to tell you he’s quite sure this time. No idea what he meant, but he said you’d know.’
‘That’s what he said? That he’s quite sure?’
‘Yes. Is something the matter, Diana?’
‘Did he say anything else?’
‘No. Look, I can come up with you if you like.’
‘No, really.’ Diana opened the door.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes. I’m fine. Anyway, F-J’s expecting you, isn’t he?’
Walking slowly and feeling shaky, Diana followed the beam of her torch along the garden paths and hoped F-J was right about Apse not being there. The memory of their last meeting in the gateway made her shudder. She stood at the outside door of Frobisher House, took some deep breaths and tried to compose herself with only limited success. She let herself in and ascended the stairs, pausing on every landing because her heart was beating like a tom-tom and her throat was dry. It occurred to her, as she leant against the wall trying to calm down, that F-J might have asked Claude to follow Apse, hence the telephone conversation. That, she thought, would make sense. After all, Apse must know that the net was closing around him, so . . . Yes, that would be it. Claude was keeping an eye on him. That was how F-J could be sure that Apse was not at home. Relax, she told herself. You are being a silly girl. All you have to do is keep going up these stairs, one step at a time, and, when you get to the top, open the door and collect the package.
If you’re lucky, they’ll give you a warning
. . . Was it Apse’s confession she was being sent to collect? What would he do after that? Would he . . . Stop it, Diana, she muttered. It’s a simple task, no need to turn it into a melodrama. Head down, she began to climb the final flight. Reaching the top, she turned right to the corridor, and right again, until she was standing outside Apse’s front door. Sticky with perspiration, she squared her shoulders, took a deep breath, and fumbled, clammy-handed, with the key until she managed to insert it into the lock.
. . . Was it Apse’s confession she was being sent to collect? What would he do after that? Would he . . . Stop it, Diana, she muttered. It’s a simple task, no need to turn it into a melodrama. Head down, she began to climb the final flight. Reaching the top, she turned right to the corridor, and right again, until she was standing outside Apse’s front door. Sticky with perspiration, she squared her shoulders, took a deep breath, and fumbled, clammy-handed, with the key until she managed to insert it into the lock.
SEVENTY-ONE
‘Oxford Circus please, Miss Legge-Brock, then on to Dolphin Square.’ Forbes-James settled himself in the back seat of the Bentley and proffered his cigarette case as Stratton sat down beside him. ‘Well done with that doll. Very observant, and useful. I think we make rather a good double act, don’t you?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Stratton, remembering his parting glimpse of Abie’s face, wearing the intense, bitter expression of a man who knew he’d been well and truly done over. He felt sick. ‘Perhaps we ought to go on the halls,’ he said sourly, then, ‘I suppose there’s no question of charging Marks with anything?’
‘I know it goes against the grain, not bringing him in.’
‘He’s confessed to murder, sir. My job is to solve crimes, not sweep them under the carpet.’
‘I know that. But it’s a question of priorities. National security and public morale are more important.’
‘What about law and order, sir?’
‘Also important. But it’s not as if Mr Marks hasn’t broken the law before and got away with it, is it?’
‘With respect, sir, that’s hardly the point.’
‘Be that as it may,’ said Forbes-James, heavily, ‘we simply cannot have any more breaches of security coming to light. And this business about Apse is thoroughly sordid, boys and gangsters and so forth. We can’t risk it, Stratton.’
‘
Do
you have a confession from Sir Neville, sir?’
Do
you have a confession from Sir Neville, sir?’
Forbes-James waved a dismissive hand. ‘Let’s get back to the subject in hand. What have we got?’
Fuck it, thought Stratton, if he wants me to behave like PC Plod, I will. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘Marks admitted to procuring boys for Sir Neville. He’s also admitted acting on his orders by sending Wallace to fetch the incriminating films from Miss Morgan, and by killing and disposing of Cecil Duke, also known as Arthur Symmonds. Incidentally, sir, I believe Marks was telling the truth when he said he didn’t know Symmonds’s true identity, because there was no reason for Sir Neville to take him into his confidence - unless, of course,’ he added, pointedly, ‘Sir Neville has told you otherwise, sir.’
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