Authors: Laura Wilson
Stratton's War (62 page)
Forbes-James shook his head. Realising that he was not going to be told anything further, Stratton continued, ‘Wallace can’t have been telling the truth about there being no bloodstains in the car, but I suppose, as the body was wrapped, they might have been negligable. Marks said he killed Duke in the empty flat in Romilly Street. We know from Curran that he was then loaded into the boot, so there must have been something left in the car, blanket or no blanket. It’s a miracle no-one saw the two of them, but even if they did, it’s not surprising they didn’t come forward. Local shops and businesses know better than to get on the wrong side of Abie Marks. In the normal course of events, we’d take the car away for examination and inspect the flat for bloodstains and so on, but I assume it would be—’
‘Best to let the matter drop,’ finished Forbes-James. ‘We’ve got what we need. I know you don’t like it, Stratton, but it can’t be helped.’
‘And what about Sir Neville, sir? Presumably,’ said Stratton, sarcastically, ‘the national interest will not be served by allowing him to remain in his current position.’
‘That,’ said Forbes-James, ‘is being taken care of.’
Stratton was too angry to heed the little voice in his head that was telling him to button it. ‘May I ask how?’
‘I’m afraid not,’ said Forbes-James, calmly. The car slowed to a halt. ‘Oxford Circus, I think.’ As Stratton leant over to open the door, he added, ‘You may rest assured that we are giving the matter our full attention.’ Leaving the car, he heard Forbes-James say, ‘Dolphin Square, Miss Legge-Brock, quick as you can. We don’t want to keep Mrs Calthrop waiting.’
Stratton wondered what Diana might be doing at Dolphin Square at such a late hour. It wasn’t until he had bought a ticket and was standing on the platform, trying not to stand on the grimy blankets of the shelterers, many of whom were already asleep, that he began to wonder exactly what ‘giving our full attention’ to Sir Neville Apse might mean. The turn-up with the doll in Abie Marks’s office had pleased him, as had Forbes-James’s praise of it, but when he thought about the two men in whose company he’d spent the evening, Abie, despite his criminality, seemed the more human. With a feeling of dread, he considered what the news might be at Dolphin Square the following morning. He boarded the train and, swaying in a packed crowd of shabby, exhausted workers, turned his mind to the more immediate - and even more depressing - prospect of what would be in store for him when he eventually arrived home.
It had begun to rain while Stratton was walking from the tube station to the bus stop, and by the time he’d got off the bus and was walking home it was pelting down, drenching and relentless. The darkness made it almost impossible to avoid puddles, and by the time he reached his house, both his feet were soaked. He stood for a moment on the slippery pavement next to his sodden front hedge, afraid - despite a strong desire to be warm and dry - to enter. The late hour meant he had no alternative but to go in, since the pub was closed.
Jenny must have been listening for the creak of the gate, because she’d opened the front door before he was halfway up the garden path. She stepped out onto the porch, and, catching a brief glimpse of her face from the light in the hall before she pulled the door to, he saw fear.
‘Where have you been?’ she whispered. ‘It’s Reg. He’s in the kitchen. He came over after his Home Guard parade and parked himself at the table. He’s been here for hours, just sitting there, staring at nothing. I’ve tried talking to him, but he hasn’t said a word, and when I gave him a cup of tea it was as if he didn’t even see it. He’s not himself, Ted. He’s got this horrible look on his face, it’s like he’s not right in the head or something. I’m frightened. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want to leave him - he’s got that great big sword with him, and I thought—’
‘He hasn’t tried—’
‘Keep your voice down!’ Jenny hissed. ‘He hasn’t done anything with it, not threatened me or anything, but I’ve been so worried, I’m sure he’s—’
‘Where’s Lilian?’
‘I don’t know. I’d have gone round there, only—’ She grimaced and jerked her head in the direction of the kitchen.
‘It’s all right. You did the right thing staying here. Now listen, we’ll go into the kitchen - just act as if everything’s normal - then you go and fetch Donald and bring him back here. Tell Doris to go round to Lilian and make sure she’s all right.’
‘They’ll be asleep, Ted, it’s very late.’
‘Doesn’t matter. Tell Donald Reg’s here, and he’s in a bad way. And tell Doris not to say too much to Lilian. We don’t want to upset her more than we need.’
‘All right.’ Jenny opened the front door again, and launched into a fair, if slightly shaky, impression of concerned wifeliness, exclaiming over Stratton’s wet clothes, helping him off with his mac and fetching slippers and clean socks. During this, Stratton glanced several times into the kitchen, and saw Reg sitting inert, head bowed, apparently unaware of anything around him. ‘Got your torch?’ he asked, as she put on her coat.
‘Yes. I’ll be as quick as I can.’ Pulling her umbrella from the hall stand, she added, ‘Be careful.’
‘Don’t worry.’ Stratton pushed her out of sight of the kitchen, planted a quick kiss on her cheek and propelled her out of the door. ‘We’ll sort this out, I promise. Go.’
Reg didn’t look up when Stratton entered the kitchen. ‘Hello,’ he said, in a cheerful, glad-to-be-home sort of voice. ‘Coming down like stair-rods out there. Lucky you missed it. Any tea in the pot?’ Lifting the lid, he peered inside. ‘Bit stewed, but it’ll do. No sense in wasting it.’ He saw, with a slight shock, that Jenny had left her empty cup on the table, and it was this, plus the lack of a cloth and the sight of the milk bottle, that made him realise quite how frightened she must have been. He knew why: the sink was on the same side of the room as Reg, and she clearly hadn’t wanted to get too close. He sat down, picked up Jenny’s cup, poured what was left of the tea into it, added some milk and half a spoonful of sugar, then stirred and drank. ‘That’s better. Cigarette?’
Still, Reg did not respond. This was even more worrying - never, in all the years Stratton had known his brother-in-law, had he seen him refuse a smoke. He lit up and put the packet on the table, within Reg’s reach. ‘How was the parade? Still making good progress?’
He had no idea what was wrong with Reg, but the first thing to do, he decided, was to get him talking on some general and safe topic, and the second was to remove the sword. This, he thought, could be done without too much difficulty, even if it involved a modicum of force - Reg was, after all, older than he, smaller, and considerably flabbier. But where was the sword? He leant his elbows on the table and, continuing the small-talk about the Home Guard, deliberately shifted his right arm so that it pushed a box of matches to the floor. Still speaking, he bent to retrieve it, ascertaining at the same time that the weapon was leaning against Reg’s chair. ‘It’s a good job they’ve got chaps like you, with some experience,’ he concluded, righting himself.
Reg didn’t look up, but frowned slightly and pursed his lips. Stratton was beginning to wonder if Jenny’s comment about him being not right in the head was not, in fact, spot on. Could the business about Johnny have distressed him to the point of causing some sort of nervous breakdown? Stratton would have liked to be able to reassure him of Johnny’s imminent release without charge, but in the first place he didn’t want to alert Reg to the extent of his involvement, especially while the man was in this frame of mind; and in the second, until he had spoken to Machin (some fun that was going to be) and Machin had spoken to the Tottenham station, it wasn’t really on the cards. For all he knew, the local lads were taking advantage of Johnny’s presence to pursue their own enquiries. It was, after all, a fair bet that Johnny had rubbed up against some of the neighbourhood villains, and information was always welcome. He’d just have to hope that they didn’t come up with any reason to charge him with something.
He was considering what he might say next, something about the allotment, perhaps - though not much of a gardener himself, Reg could never resist giving advice - when he noticed that his brother-in-law was moving his head to one side in a peculiar corkscrew motion, ending in a place that Stratton thought must surely be uncomfortable, if not downright painful, with his nose almost touching his shoulder.
Reg gazed malevolently at him out of the corner of his eye. ‘Damn you,’ he said, his tone giving the impression that the words had been forced out by great pressure, much like a jet from a punctured hose.
‘What’s that?’ asked Stratton, in what he hoped was a slightly puzzled, but otherwise entirely neutral voice.
‘Damn you!’ Reg’s head swivelled round, and then, in a second distinct movement, returned to its usual position. His eyes widened, and he moistened his lips with his tongue. ‘You bastard.’
‘Reg . . .’
‘Bastard!’ Reg got to his feet stiffly, clutching the sword to his leg as if he was standing to attention. The hand holding it, Stratton saw, was trembling. He decided that it was best, for the moment, to remain seated. He didn’t want to make the situation worse, and the sword was so cumbersome that he could easily duck out of the way if Reg started swinging it about.
‘I know you’re upset, Reg,’ he said cautiously. ‘I’d feel the same way myself if it was Pete, but I don’t see how—’
‘You’re a shit!’ The last word came out in a projectile of spit, some of which hit Stratton’s cheek. ‘Interfering! You think being a policeman makes you superior to the rest of us, and you can come and take my son away as if he’s a criminal, and lock him up, and make me look bad.’
Stratton could see how this had been arrived at: no son of Reginald Booth could possibly be a criminal, therefore Stratton - standing for the entire police force - must have acted out of malice. Malice aimed not at Johnny, of course, but at Reg himself. ‘I didn’t take Johnny away,’ he said. ‘He’s at the local station, isn’t he? I don’t have any control over their activities.’
‘You spoke to him! You came to my house, without being asked, and—’
‘I spoke to him because Lilian asked me to,’ said Stratton, reasonably.
‘I didn’t ask you to! I’m the lad’s father, not you. I can look after my own family!’
‘I’m sorry, Reg,’ said Stratton, ‘I thought it would help, but now I see that it wasn’t a good idea. I had no intention of interfering.’
‘You barged into my house without my permission, and . . . and . . .’ Displaying his lower teeth like a bulldog, Reg made a sudden groaning noise, like an ancient piece of machinery grinding suddenly into action, and, lifting the sabre, swung it in front of him like a golf club. ‘How do you like it, eh? People barging into your house, taking—’
Stratton, who had leapt from his chair and was holding it in front of him like a shield, legs to the fore, retreated to the doorway. He lost the rest of the sentence in the smash of crockery as the edge of the camel sword hit the top of the teapot.
‘Let’s see how you like it,’ Reg screamed, brandishing the camel sword with an effort, ‘Come on! Come on, then!’
Before Stratton could reach him, Reg used both hands to swing the sabre over his head. It clanged against the light fitting as he brought it down on the table as if he meant to cleave it in two. The force with which this was done meant that the blade stuck a good inch into the wood. Reg, unable to remove it, was left red-faced and panting, grasping the handle as if caught in the middle of some strange suburban ritual of sacrifice. Stratton closed in and gently eased Reg’s hands from the hilt. Then he put one arm around his waist and lowered him, slumped and unresisting, into the nearest chair, where he burst into noisy, gulping tears.
SEVENTY-TWO
Jenny gasped at the sight of the smashed teapot and the sword sticking out of the table, but Stratton, standing beside Reg who was blowing his nose into a tea towel, put a warning finger to his lips and gestured towards the kettle, which was about to boil. Putting her hand across her mouth, Jenny nodded, took off her coat and put on her apron. Donald, contenting himself with raising his eyebrows so that they almost disappeared into his hair, set to work prising the blade out of the wood. Stratton, feeling awkward, remained next to Reg, one hand on his shoulder, while he carried on making snuffling, slurping noises. He didn’t look up until five minutes later when, with the sabre removed to the garden, the broken china swept up, the soggy tea leaves wiped away, and a cloth spread over the damage, Jenny served tea from the battered tin pot they kept for picnics. ‘Come on, Reg,’ said Stratton, ‘Drink this. It’ll do you good.’ He’d stirred three spoonfuls of sugar into it. Jenny had frowned slightly at this depletion of the ration, but said nothing.
‘Thank you,’ said Reg. He still didn’t sound quite like himself but he was clearly over the worst. Donald, who’d sat quietly, looking at Reg with great attention while he downed his tea, said gently, ‘That’s a bit better, isn’t it?’
‘I went to see him,’ said Reg, suddenly. ‘At the station. He told me to go away. He said . . .’ his eyes became moist again. ‘Said he hated me.’
‘I’m sure that’s not true,’ said Jenny. ‘He was upset, that’s all. People often say things they don’t mean when they’re upset.’ Reg looked at her, and then at Stratton and Donald, who nodded in silent confirmation.
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